Free Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop by Rosanna Chiofalo

Papà let Luca and me choose the name. I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on my baby sister. She was born with a full head of black hair, just like mine. She was so sweet, and she only grew sweeter as she became older. Even little Cecilia did her part in Papà’s shop by dusting and sweeping. Luca had made a short broom for her.” Rosalia laughed. “Every time we watched her sweep, we giggled. She took her work seriously and was proud to do her part in our family.
    â€œSo the day this young man came into my father’s shop, I was alone at the counter while Papà went out to buy fabric. My father had taught me how to take measurements and pin clothes so that when he needed to leave the shop as he did that day, I could handle the customers. So this man came in. He looked to be in his early twenties. I found out later he was twenty-three. I asked him to step into the dressing room and try his pants on so that I could pin the hem. He kept staring at me, and at first I thought nothing of it since I had been accustomed to the boys in my village looking at me. But when I was pinning the hem of his pants, I glanced up to ask him if the length that I was taking in for the pants was fine, and he had this strange look in his eyes. Something about it sent shivers down my spine. I had to ask him twice if the hem length was fine before he answered me.
    â€œI was relieved when my father returned to the shop while the man was changing back into his street clothes. I remember when he stepped out of the dressing room, he seemed mad when he saw my father.
    â€œPapà told me I could go back to finishing my pressing. Though I was in the back of the shop, I could hear the young man give my father his name for his receipt. Marco Salerno. He was making small talk with Papà, asking him how long he’d had the shop and if his whole family helped him. My father answered him pleasantly, and I was relieved my father didn’t give him my name when he said his daughter helped him as well as my other siblings and mother. Marco then took his receipt and wished Papà a nice day.
    â€œI went to my father’s shop three to four times a week, and ever since the day Marco first came to the shop, he would walk by and look into our windows. And whenever Papà stepped out, Marco would come visit me. I could tell he was lurking around outside and waiting for my father to leave. The first time he came to visit me, I politely responded to his questions about how I was and agreed with him about the weather we were having. But I continued doing my work, hoping he would see I was busy and had no time or interest in talking to him. He asked me my name on that first visit. I didn’t want to tell him, but I didn’t want to be rude either.” Rosalia stopped talking and shook her head. “Sometimes being polite is the most dangerous thing one can do.” Rosalia paused a moment before continuing.
    â€œSo I told Marco my name. On his fourth visit, he asked me if I would take a walk with him in the piazza that was a few streets over from the tailor shop. I told him I couldn’t leave the shop unattended. He told me it would just be for a few minutes, and probably no one would even come by since it was almost time for midday dinner, and people would be preparing to eat rather than worrying about getting their clothes tailored. But I told him my father trusted me, and I must watch the shop. In an instant, the sweet expression Marco maintained whenever he talked to me changed into the same angry expression he had had when he’d seen my father had returned to the shop that first day he’d come by.
    â€œBut he must’ve noticed the alarmed look on my face, because then he laughed and said, ‘All right, Rosalia. You are a good daughter. How about I come by your house on Saturday, after siesta, and ask your father if you may accompany me to the cinema?’
    â€œ ‘I’m sorry,