The Shoemaker's Wife(117)

“I think we should post a summons on the bulletin board regarding your wedding. There’s more whispering going on around here than there was when housekeeper Emmerson took a drunken tumble down the front stairs last New Year’s Eve.”

“You don’t have to answer for me,” Enza assured her.

“I don’t? Isn’t that what best friends are for?”

Enza put down her coffee cup and looked up at Laura. Laura had slept soundly through the night; she always did whenever she had been honest and cleared her conscience. Enza, however, was the opposite; she spent many nights wrestling with decisions, last night among the most difficult. She needed Laura and couldn’t imagine her life without her. “Are we still best friends?” Enza asked. She had hoped that Laura would not make her choose between her lifelong friendship and her lifelong love.

“Yes.” Laura sat down. “I’m just wondering what you’re going to tell your father when he gets here this afternoon. You’ve swapped out one groom for another. And that might make your dear old dad dizzy.”

“I’ll do what I’ve done my whole life. I’ll tell him the truth.”

“I’ve got to get to work. Anything you want me to say to the girls? They think you’re on your honeymoon.”

“Just tell them that I’m happy.”

“Can do.” Laura stood and drank the last sip of her coffee. She pulled on her gloves. “Should I tell Serafina that you’ll be back sooner than you had planned?”

“Don’t let her assign my machine to anyone else,” Enza said.

“Hallelujah!” Laura clapped her gloved hands together.

The clock over the mantel in the beau parlor at the Milbank House ticked loudly as Enza prepared a tray with tea. She folded the linen napkins, angled the china platter filled with delicate cookies and small sandwiches. She checked the sugar bowl and the cream pitcher. She lifted the silver tea ball out of the pot and placed it on the silver coaster.

The bell rang. Miss DeCoursey answered the door. Enza didn’t wait for her father; she sprang off the sofa and ran to him. Father and daughter held one another a long time.

Marco took a good look at Enza, and then stepped back to look at her surroundings. The Milbank House was beautifully appointed. Behind Enza in the foyer, the wide staircase that curved over the second floor had a polished mahogany railing and balusters. The pocket doors were open to the entrance to the living room and beau parlor. The library, with its lavish black marble fireplace and mantel, was lush by any standards. He had not seen opulence like this since he dropped a package at the cardinal’s residence in Brescia many years ago. It comforted him to know that his daughter lived in this stately brownstone.

Marco also noticed that his daughter had acquired a worldly sophistication since he left her with the Buffa family eight years ago. He wondered if that didn’t have something to do with her recent change of heart.

“Why did you call off your wedding? What did he do?” Marco asked, and made a fist. “I’ll take care of him if he hurt you.”

“No, Papa, I hurt him.”

“What happened?”

Marco was now in his late forties. He was not the robust man Enza remembered. He had the stoop of a stonecutter and the bronze skin that came from doing hard labor outdoors in a place where there was summer year-round. Now, at long last, the house in Schilpario had been built. He had fulfilled his contract to the California Department of Highways and was ready to return to the mountain for the rest of his life. Any spring in his step and smile upon his face were in anticipation of returning home to his wife and children; they no longer came from ambition, drive, or exuberance, but from the desire to see his home again.

“Papa, come and sit with me.” Enza led him into the beau parlor and motioned for him to sit on the chair before the game table in the window.

Marco took her hands into his. “Tell me everything.”

“Eliana wrote a long letter about the house. Vittorio painted it yellow like the sunflowers. He put in cabinets, and the doors are thick. There are many windows. The root cellar is filled with sweet potatoes and chestnuts. Mama put up peppers and cherries for the winter.”

“Enza, did you know that Battista made a deal with the Ardingos? He bartered free carriage rides down the mountain for all the prosciutto and sausage our family could eat.”

“Battista was always a schemer.” Enza laughed.

“And he always will be. I can’t wait to see my children. But mostly, I can’t wait to see your mother again,” Marco said. “Do you want to brave the ocean with me now that you’re not getting married?”

“I wish I could, Papa.”

“The old mountain can’t compete with Caruso’s opera house.”

“It’s not that.” Enza looked down at her hands, unsure of what to say.

“Are you going to give Signor Blazek another chance?”

“No. It’s done.”

“Then you’ll come home with me,” Marco said quietly.

“Papa, you know it’s not possible.”

Marco took his daughter’s hand. “ I know you got very ill on the way over,” he began.

“Papa, I almost died,” she said softly. The only person on earth who understood what had happened to her on the crossing would also understand why she could never make that trip again.