Page 42 of Storm and Sea

“Oh, and I bet it’s her mom’s art in Galleria degli Uffizi.”

“Why yes, of course. Right next to the Michelangelo.”

They snickered again, heels clicking as they walked away. Marina trailed behind with her head hung low, wondering why she bothered coming at all.

Her mom really did have a fever while painting the ornate piece now cheaply printed on a t-shirt. She’d been so sick she could hardly hold the brush. Marina remembered it as if it were only a few days ago. But even if she shared those details, no one would believe her. Because there was no way Marina—with her simple clothes, fishmonger father, and quiet, unremarkable demeanor—was the daughter of the great Sofia Botticelli, the most celebrated painter of the modern era.

Of course, nobody knew that name was fake. That Sofia was Gabriella, and she liked tea over coffee. That she ate two pieces of toast every morning before work and loved to sing while braiding her auburn hair. That she had a daughter… one she’d kept secret from the world.

Marina shook away the memories of winter, centering herself in the sunshine and smell of briny air. Not for a moment was Marina Marcello going to let old hurts dampen her spirits. No sirree. Right now, Accademia di San Benedetto was far away on the mainland, and she was in Baia Vita. Her home.

She breathed in again, shaking off the cold memories.

“The sun is shining, the gulls are singing, and I’m going to have the best day⁠—”

“Hey, watch it!” A man holding a precarious stack of boxes hollered as she bumped into him, nearly knocking them over.

“Sorry!” she said, tripping out of his way.

He grumbled something as he stomped off.

Where was she? Oh yes.

“The sun is shining, the gulls are doing whatever it is gulls do, and I’m going to have the best day ever!”

She skipped to music only she could hear, red hair swaying in a world all her own. Because that is what Marina did. She smiled. She laughed. She brightened the room.

Her mother’s words echoed in some far-off memory.

“My happy little sunflower.”

City hall’s weathered steps sloped from decades of feet climbing up and down. The Greek Orthodox pillars were purely decorative, as the cracks and warped plaster rendered them incapable of bearing any load. At least, Marina hoped not as she quickly darted beneath them in case they decided to crumble then and there.

Mayor Gianfranchi had a single secretary managing the ever-silent phone and a librarian who wiped the dust off ancient shelves on the upper floors. City Hall also served as Sheriff Fanti’s police station for her and the island’s only two other officers.

And that was it. The entire government of the island. Marina wondered what the mayor actually did besides organizing a few festivals a year.

Marina rang the bell on the desk with a sharp ‘Ding!’ and twirled around, enjoying the mosaic windows before ringing it again.

“I’m coming!” The librarian, Signora Brambani, shuffled over, the beads from her round glasses swaying. “Oh, Marina, you made it safely, I hope? The weather didn’t slow you?”

Of course, everyone knew she was coming. Papà likely talked of nothing else for months, and it warmed her chest. “No problems at all, Signora Brambani. I’m here because the mayor sent me letters over the winter.”

The old woman waved a dismissive hand. “Do you really think Jeremias Gianfranchi has that kind of penmanship? With his sausage hands? No girl, I wrote the letters; he signed the bottom.”

“Oh, well, the letters said that you needed help?”

“Yes, my dear. Signora Marcialese just had a baby; it wasn’t an easy delivery. She will not be able to organize the Bayallon for the kids this year. With your writing skills, I thought a bright young lady like you could lend us a hand.”

Marina stood straighter. This is how responsible adults stood, right? She had to be grown up about this. If she got too excited, they’d think she wasn’t taking it seriously. She took a steadying breath.

“Yes, yes, yes! Oh my gosh, yes!” she squeaked, clapping as she jumped. “Yes, oh, I’d love to! I already have so many ideas.”

Signora Brambani hesitated, her smile tense. “Yes, well. Thank you for your… enthusiasm. Here is the route the kids will take this year. I trust you know how this goes.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” she said too fast. “I loved the Bayallon when I was a kid. I’ll make it extra special.”

“Regular special is fine.”