The Shoemaker's Wife(126)

Ciro had also bought a Singer sewing machine for Enza, with enough thread, needles, buttons, and trims to start her own business.

“Buon giorno! You look like you could use a hand,” Emilio Uncini said as he entered the front door of the shop. He leaned on the table and smiled at his new neighbor. Emilio was in his middle forties, with a thick thatch of gray hair, a small black mustache, and a winning smile. He placed his hands on his hips. “What is the wood for?” he continued in his rapid-fire dialect.

“I’m going to build shelves. I’m Ciro—”

“Lazzari. I heard all about you. Our prayers have been answered. We need a shoemaker.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a stonemason. I live one street over. I built the fieldstone wall around the library.”

“Very nice. So tell me about your town.” Ciro lifted the wood onto the pattern table, and Emilio helped him stack it.

“It’s a nice place. But watch your business. The Chisholm bank is solid, but avoid the third window and Mrs. Kripnick. She repeats figures at the bar at Tiburzi’s after work on Fridays, so if you don’t want everyone to know what you have, don’t let her see your deposits.”

“Va bene.” Ciro laughed.

Emilio continued, “The winters are harsh, but the spring and summer more than make up for it. You will love the cool breezes off the lakes when the weather turns warm. There are lots of italians here. Molte famiglie . . . we have the Maturi, Costanzi, Bonato, Falcone, Giaordanino, Enrico, Silvestri, Bonicelli, Valentini, Ongaro, oh, and the Falcone, Sentieri, and Sartori families. I don’t like to leave anyone out because they mind if I do! We also have Austrians from Trentino, who are as Italian as you and me.”

“I know all about them. I spent a few years on Mulberry Street in Little Italy.”

“So you know about the rest of the Middle Europeans. We have the Czechs, Hungarians, Romanians, Polish, Yugoslavians, Serbians, and Croatians. They just got here too. The Finlanders, the Scandinavians, this is their town. They got here first, and they act like it. They still are frosty with outsiders, but that’s because they opened the first iron ore mine and became the padrones. But most are nice, if you’re polite to them.”

“I build boots for all feet, including Finlanders,” Ciro assured him.

“Have you made a friend?” Enza asked from the doorway. Ciro introduced his wife to Emilio.

“My wife, Ida, will be happy to show you around,” Emilio told Enza.

“I’d like that. Grazie. Ciro, we need some things for the apartment. I’ll be back shortly.” Enza waved good-bye. Ciro had used Marco’s dowry to put a down payment on 5 West Lake Street. Enza had kept a firm hand on her savings and was happy to spend it on things that would bring the newlyweds comfort. She also liked the feeling of not having to ask her husband for money; it was that sense of independence that attracted Ciro, and it gave Enza a certain self-confidence.

Enza made her way up West Lake Street, taking in the storefronts. Chisholm was a prim, small town compared to New York City, but when she thought of Schilpario, Chisholm was a big city by comparison. It was interesting that her new married life had landed her somewhere in the middle, between the small alpine village of her childhood and the international city of her young adulthood.

Enza peered into the glass window of Leibovitz Jewelry and admired the pearls resting on a velvet display. She was mesmerized by the beautiful gold rings studded with clear blue aquamarines and diamond chips, the slim platinum chains dripping on velvet, and the enameled cuff bracelets stacked on a Lucite dowel. A town that had beautiful jewelry for sale must have a clientele that required them. This boded well for her custom clothing business. Enza passed the Valentini Supper Club, the Five and Dime, and several bars (the staple business of all mining towns), including the bustling Tiburzi’s, until she reached Raatamas Department Store.

The department store was owned by a Finnish couple who had lived in Chisholm all their lives. It was an enormous single-story room with a tin ceiling painted pale blue and the clean lines of Scandinavian design. The walls were painted oyster white, a cool backdrop for the variety of merchandise.

Unlike the chic stores in New York City, each filled with merchandise over several floors connected by escalators, Raatamas displayed all their goods on one level. The sections were cordoned off with sheer linen curtains. There was a fabric and notions section, another for furniture, and yet another with housewares. Glass cases were filled with gloves, purses, hats, and scarves. Enza walked up and down the aisles, surveying the inventory.

“May I help you?” The salesgirl was a young Nordic beauty, around sixteen years old, with a small nose and large blue eyes.

“I’m a new bride.” Enza smiled. “And we just moved to Chisholm.”

The salesgirl followed Enza as she chose a mattress and box spring, two lamps with yellow ceramic bowl bases, a white lacquered table with four chairs, and two comfortable reading chairs, covered in soft sage green chenille. Enza remembered the sage green and coral used for the interior decoration of the Milbank House, and chose the same colors for her new home, reminding her of happy times with Laura.

Enza intended to splurge on the best items she could afford. She had American money in her purse, but she had the Italian determination to purchase things that would last. She had a good head start, as she and Laura had packed a trunk with the basics for any proper home, including linens, sheets, towels, moppeens, napkins, and tablecloths, made in the costume shop of the Met. They filled another trunk with fabric—yardage of wool, silk, cotton, and corduroy—knowing that there were things that Enza might need once she arrived, and she would already have the material to sew whatever she needed.