Under a Sardinian Sky. Sara Alexander

perfect summer dress—cool, alluring, and elegant.

      She turned back to face them, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I’m throwing a party next week, and nothing I’ve brought from London seems appropriate—too formal, too black tie. I’m looking for something light but suitable for evening. Decadent but understated. I know dear Carmela has magic hands—and eyes that cast spells.” She flashed Carmela a twinkling smile. “If your sewing creations are half as good as the lamb and fennel you made for lunch the other day, my dear, I’ll be belle of the ball!”

      Mrs. Curwin reached into her woven bag and pulled out some magazines. “Let me show you what I’m thinking.”

      “Caffè, Signora?” Yolanda asked.

      “Sì,” she replied, like a child in a pasticceria. “Latte poco, grazie.”

      “Macchiato,” Carmela explained to her godmother.

      Yolanda replied with a smile. Carmela could tell she was trying not to appear too desperate.

      Carmela pulled over a high-backed chair for Mrs. Curwin and sat on a small wooden stool beside her. Several pages of her magazines were dog-eared. “Now, Carmela, I adore this halter neck,” she said, flicking past the first few pages and pointing to a model on a Parisian street, “and doesn’t every woman feel irresistible in a pencil skirt? But I’m not sure I like the way they work together in this dress here, do you?”

      “We can do anything, Signora.”

      “A delicious dilemma!” She laughed, leafing through to the next dog-ear. “You see, I adore the off-the-shoulder—”

      “Signora, ecco il caffè,” Yolanda said, arriving with a wooden tray with the two-cup coffeepot she had set to rise just ahead of the appointment. She placed it on a low, wooden stool beside them. Carmela noticed that Yolanda used her best espresso cups, white bone china with fine, gold-painted trim. Yolanda placed one cup and saucer in the center of a square of embroidered linen and poured coffee into it from the metal pot. To this she added warm milk from a china jug. An oval plate lay beside it, painted with bright pictures of traditional Sardinian dancers, topped with fresh pastries from the pasticceria down the lane; copulette—paper-thin pastry cases filled with sweet almond paste, topped with smooth, white icing that looked like small diamonds of virgin snow. Alongside lay tiricche—pastry cut with delicate scalloped edges, filled with fig jam and rolled into horseshoes. Carmela breathed in their fruity sweetness as she lifted the plate to Mrs. Curwin.

      “Darling, how could I possibly refuse?” she said, reaching out a manicured hand for a copulette. Carmela noticed how the girls at the nearest stations eyed Mrs. Curwin. None of them ate sweets in the daytime. They were strictly for weddings or fiestas, not morning breaks.

      Mrs. Curwin took delicate bites with relish, careful not to spill any of the crumbling icing. Then she stirred some sugar from a ceramic caddy into the tiny cup. “Why, oh why, are the streets of London not lined with espresso bars?” She took a sip and moaned with pleasure. “I’ll talk to Marito about it. Soho would be the place, of that I’m certain.”

      Since the Curwins’ first visit to Sardinia five years ago, Mrs. Curwin had stolen sporadic words from Italian and peppered her English with them. She now referred to Mr. Curwin as Marito, Italian for husband. “If I could convince Marito to open the first one, I could bring a little bit of Sardinian paradise to the London drizzle—but only if you’ll come and prepare the sweets, Carmela! We’d have all those fashionable city boys queueing up to gawp at you besides.”

      Carmela smiled, flattered—the creamy, marsala-spiked zabaglione she made for the family last night had not gone unappreciated. Then she thought about Piera, at this moment likely returning from the market in the unforgiving heat, loaded with produce to prepare the Curwins’ dinner.

      Over the next hour Mrs. Curwin showed Carmela several other magazine spreads. Carmela took her sketchpad and a length of charcoal from the drawer underneath her desk and returned to the fitting area to begin a quick outline of some initial ideas. Her hand skimmed over the page at great speed. The other seamstresses began to tidy their stations for their three-hour lunch break. Carmela could feel them glancing over her shoulder at her sketch as they passed on their way out.

      She began with the outline of a pencil skirt but added some extra bounce just below the waist. A bodice rose up above it. The neckline was off the shoulder. Two sweeping curves overlaid one another to form a heart shape by the collar bone and extended slightly wider than the arms. The border was accentuated with a lighter fabric. On the side of the waist she drew a jeweled clasp. It was dramatic and imaginative. Exactly what Mrs. Curwin had hoped for.

      “I love it, darling!” she said. “Those sharp lines are stunning, coupled with the softness over the décolletage. It’s just beautiful. Yolanda!” she called, leaning toward her with a conspiratorial twinkle. “If I were you I would tell you to offer her partnership in a heartbeat—only make sure she keeps her summers free to carry on feeding my family to distraction!”

      “What does she say?” Yolanda asked Carmela, barely masking her panic.

      “She likes it.”

      Carmela walked along the only road out of town that led to the Curwins’ rented summer villa. Huddles of houses gave way to parched countryside. The town’s hills were dipped in the rusty hue of the fading sun, rising and falling in crags down toward the crystalline coast. Wild fennel sprouted in tufts along the side of the dusty, white road. Carmela yanked at one of them and chewed it; the refreshing taste of anise cooled the inside of her cheek.

      The road was punctuated with grand Victorian villas. Their porticos rose above Corinthian columns, with verandas wrapped around the width of the houses. High arched windows were framed with granite cornices and hung with heavy, dark green shutters. Several were now rented out to inquisitive tourists like the Curwins, who paid handsomely for their month stay and appeared to take pleasure in the faded majesty. The families who owned them were descendants of the island’s aristocrats. They took responsibility for arranging local staff to undertake all domestic duties.

      The Curwins’ villa belonged to Franco’s uncle, one of the reasons Carmela and Piera could rely on being hired each year. Domestic work was seen as the mainstay of orphans or immigrants, but working for the British held a certain cachet. The positions were sought and fought over.

      Carmela turned to the driveway and walked through the tall iron gates. She passed a fountain carved into the rock, which trickled with water from an underground spring. Beside it, wide lily pads floated upon the green surface of a pond. On the opposite side, a small stone chapel stood, where the original owners attended private masses, joined by neighboring families so as to avoid the necessity of traveling into town and mixing with folks of lower class. The four rows of pews were polished weekly, but outside, ivy threatened a coup and the wrought iron cross rising from the tiny steeple was fighting a losing battle against the elements.

      Carmela carried on past the high, wooden double doors of the entrance, terra-cotta pots of blooming geraniums lining the side of the house, and reached the side door of the kitchen. Piera had her hands deep in preparations for dinner. Carmela was greeted with an earthy whiff of sautéed garlic with warm spinach wilting in a skillet upon the stove.

      “Nice of you to stop by,” Piera huffed, grating a snowfall of nutmeg into the pan.

      “I’m sorry, I was cutting patterns. Mrs. Curwin came in today. She loved my design.”

      “Wonderful. Now work some magic here, please.” Piera moved to the floured surface of the marble counter; picked up a long, wooden rolling pin; and began thinning a sheet of pasta dough. “Sauce won’t cook itself, you know.”

      Carmela washed her hands under the iron faucet of the large ceramic sink. An enamel bowl next to the stove was already filled with tiny cubes of carrots, celery, and onion. Carmela placed another skillet on the stove top, drizzled some dark green olive oil into it, and lit the gas ring. She peeled the clove of garlic that Piera had left beside the bowl, crushed it with one