Free The Miracles of Santo Fico by D. L. Smith

her and Franco, and maybe even Leo too. But there would be no show for their amusement today—not unless Leo Pizzola cost her business. Then she would pound him like a cheap steak and she didn’t care who saw.
    As for the English audience, they fully expected to hear about Duke Cosimo’s last moments on this earth, but it seemed he had another destiny . . .
    “Like everyone in’a those days, the Great Duke had heard the tales of the tiny monastery hidden somewhere on’a the coast of Toscana. This monastery was’a built because so many miracles happened on that spot, and according to legend, a certain, powerful miracle still lived there—along with a wonderful’a mystery. And Cosimo sensed that if he could’a only stay alive long enough to get to that blessed site, he might’a yet live.”
    Leo told his enthralled audience how a devoted squad of anxious soldiers rode for three days through the heat of the Toscana summer while the poor man’s life teetered between this world and the next. Finally they arrived at the blue Tyrrhenian and climbed the steep cliff crags to a tiny, almost inaccessible monastery perched on the farthest point of a sheer promontory.
    “When the humble Franciscan monks saw the Great Duke, of course they took’a him in and gently laid his’a weak body on a cot in front of their hallowed shrine—the Miracle of Santo Fico. But poor Duke Cosimo, even in his’a feverish state, he was able to look across the courtyard and’a there, shining out of the darkness, as if it had’a some Inner Light, was the Mystery of Santo Fico. And all through that long night, with the divine Miracle on’a one side and the beautiful Mystery of Santo Fico on’a the other, the holy friars held their vigils with prayers and secret medicines.
    “Can’a you even imagine,” Leo sighed, “how shocked those loyal soldiers must’a have been when they came into the church in’a the morning and found that their Duke’s fever was all gone and the infection of his wound was’a healed? He would live! Well, maybe that was’a miracle enough for his soldiers, but not for a Great’a Duke who had just returned from the brink of’a death with . . . a vision!” With a sense of quiet wonder and awe Leo told them how the blessed Saint Francis had come to Duke Cosimo in the night and gently kissed his fevered brow and touched the fatal wound. Leo allowed his voice to lift in exaltation as he told of the Duke’s resolve to create a town on that very spot . . .
    “. . . So weary pilgrims from around’a the world, like yourselves, could come and witness the shrine of the Miracle and the splendor of the Mystery of Santo Fico. And that was’a how Santo Fico came’a to be.”
    The room was silent for a long time. To Leo’s way of thinking, perhaps too long. After all, he hadn’t told the story in many years, and never in English. He may have lost his touch. But, at last, a universal sigh was expelled. Then someone was inspired to applaud (actually it was Topo) and the ovation quickly became enthusiastic. Leo smiled and offered a modest bow—quite pleased with how much he’d remembered of the original version and also how many poignant details he had been able to fabricate on the spot.
    There wasn’t a lot of time to bask in the afterglow. He caught a glimpse of Marta marching in his direction so he hurried back to the bar—away from his fans. Carmen was refilling his wineglass when suddenly her mother was at her shoulder, and it took only the slightest jerk of Marta’s head to make her daughter disappear.
    Marta looked Leo up and down—this would not be like their first meeting in the piazza six weeks ago when she’d been so shocked at seeing him. That day she hadn’t been prepared and her emotions had attacked her with a ferocity that she couldn’t control. This was different. This time Leo was in her hotel and this time she was in control.
    For the first time since his return, she had a chance to look closely