Stella Mia by Rosanna Chiofalo Page A

not to work with us, you are still welcome to come by and eat with us anytime you wish.” Gianni stands up. “I must take a walk. I ate too much, and it is not sitting well with me.” He pats his belly and laughs. “Buonanotte!”
    â€œ Buonanotte, Gianni. Thank you for the fish. It was very good.”
    Gianni merely holds his hand up as if to say, “It was nothing,” and makes his way to the shore. He walks slowly, and every few steps bends over to pick up pebbles and toss them into the sea.
    â€œI should go, too. It is getting late.” I stand up to leave.
    â€œWhere have you been sleeping?” Tonio asks me.
    I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to say. I shouldn’t feel ashamed in front of gli zingari . They are accustomed to living on the road and doing whatever is necessary to survive. But while they live in tents on the beach, it is still more of a home than where I have been sleeping.
    Thankfully, Tonio does not pressure me to answer him and instead says, “It is always safe to sleep on the beach. We have plenty of sheets if you want one to sleep on.”
    â€œThank you. I will keep that in mind. It was nice meeting all of you. Thank you for your hospitality.” I wave to Tonio, Marco, and Felice. They nod their heads. I can feel their gazes on my back as I walk away.
    While I don’t want to see Maria for fear that she will try to convince me to stay with them for the night, I know it would be rude of me to leave without thanking her for dinner. I head over in the direction of where the women are still seated, but I don’t see Maria.
    â€œExcuse me, I was looking for Maria,” I ask a plump woman with graying hair. She is rubbing olive oil into the thick folds of her hands, which are quite large. Again, a memory of Mama comes rushing back to me as I remember she used to massage olive oil into her hands, which were severely chapped from all the washing and cleaning she did.
    â€œShe went to put Isabella to bed. I don’t know if she will return. She mentioned not feeling well tonight and that she might retire early.”
    Secretly, I’m relieved, since it looks like I will be able to leave without Maria’s asking me to stay. I don’t know if I can bear to see her look at me with worry yet again.
    â€œ Grazie, signora . Please tell her that Sarina was looking for her and that I’ll visit again soon.”
    â€œBe safe, my child.” The woman holds her hand up in front of me and makes the sign of the cross as if she is a priest giving me his benediction.
    â€œGrazie. Buonanotte.”
    â€œBuonanotte!” all the women chant back to me.
    It is quite dark now, and I still do not know my way around the beach area. When I was by the piazza in Taormina, I had been sleeping inside St. Augustine’s Church, crouched down beneath the pews as I did at the Duomo of Saint Sebastian in Barcellona the night of my escape. Fortunately, St. Augustine keeps their doors unlocked all hours of the day and night. And I feel safe there. I will have to sleep on the beach tonight, but I don’t want the gypsies to know. I still have some pride in me. Though I enjoyed the gypsies’ company, I also felt overwhelmed. I need to be alone tonight.
    I am about a hundred feet away from the gypsies’ tents when I hear their music start up again. Stopping, I look over my shoulder, but all I can see are shadows of their forms as they bounce back and forth in rhythm to their instruments and singing. Pulling my gaze away, I keep walking until I find a shed. Praying that it’s unlocked, I am relieved to see its door is slightly ajar. I open the door and step in. Something falls on me, causing me to yelp. I feel cold metal and fabric. I open the shed door wider, letting the light of the moon illuminate the object. A beach umbrella. I am then able to make out several beach umbrellas and folding chairs stacked up in the little shed. It is quite