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Agatha’s Point of View
“I will lock your laptop away during meals if you don’t stop.”
Concetta wasn’t joking. I closed the lid and looked more than a little sheepish. Breakfast was almost ready. I had collected the bread from Paola — still warm, the crust crackling faintly as it cooled on the board — and a jar of strawberry jam from Signora Ricci, so named for her curly hair. I had no idea what her actual name was, but her strawberry blonde waves seemed to deserve the title, and her jam deserved the recognition.
The jar was heavy, with a handwritten label, the fruit visible in the glass — whole berries suspended in a syrup so dark it was almost wine-colored.
“Sorry.”
“You are being too efficient and not very effective, Agatha.”
I stared at her.
“Wow!”
“Wow, what?”