The Shoemaker's Wife(130)

“You’re home,” Enza said.

“You’re awake?” Ciro asked. “Why did you leave the party?”

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I was in the barn.”

Enza’s voice caught. “What were you doing there?”

“Playing cards with a man named Orlich, a Polish fellow named Milenski, an old man named Zahrajsek, and another man I can’t remember.”

“What about the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The dancing girl.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” Ciro said. But he knew exactly who Enza was referring to. The girl had reminded him of the French girl he’d met during the war. She had the same gold braid and warm smile.

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to play cards.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“I had too much to drink,” Ciro said.

“Don’t make excuses.”

“But it’s true,” Ciro said, turning to face her in bed. “I drank too much, and nothing more.”

“Do you want me to be honest with you?” she asked.

He nodded.

“When Ida mentioned 1904, you looked wounded.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Ciro turned over in the bed, away from Enza. “What good would it do now?”

“If you accept what happened to your father, you’ll find peace.”

“I have peace,” Ciro said defensively.

“Well, I don’t. When you’re troubled, you withdraw. I came home hoping to find you here. When you weren’t, I had hours to think about what might have happened to you. I was afraid you went with the girl with the gold braid.” Enza shuddered to admit that she’d felt abandoned, but this night had brought up every insecurity she had ever known.

“Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

“Because you could. You could disappear from my life, just as you did in the past. It made me wonder, what do I really know about you?”

“You know everything,” Ciro assured her. Maybe it was his wife’s brutal honesty and clear-eyed observations about his behavior, but it made Ciro think, and he had an epiphany. He not only appreciated Enza’s point of view, it made him look at his own. The truth was, Ciro saw their romantic past as a series of near misses, the result of bad luck and poor timing. Once they were married, he forgot how close they had been to spending their lives without each other. Clearly, she hadn’t. Enza was complex in ways he could not yet decipher. They were from the same mountain, but their insecurities created chasms that they couldn’t fill.

Ciro turned over and placed his arm around Enza. “I’m sorry you couldn’t find me. I danced with her without thinking of your feelings. I didn’t know it would hurt you. It was just a dance. You’re my life.” He kissed her gently. He could feel the corner of her mouth turn into a smile as he kissed her.

“It can’t happen again, Ciro,” she said firmly.

“Please don’t turn into the wife that chases her husband with a broom.”

“I won’t chase you with a broom.” She returned his kiss with equal passion, then added, “I’ll pick up a shovel.”

Enza lay back and laced her fingers through his.

“We have a little money left over from my savings.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job furnishing our home. Buy yourself a hat.”

“I don’t need a hat. But you need something.”

“I have everything I want,” Ciro assured her.

“You need a wedding band,” Enza told him.

“Enza, I gave you the only ring I ever owned. It means everything to me to see you wear my mother’s ring.”

“And I’ll always wear it because it says that I’m yours. Now you need to wear a ring that says that you’re mine. Tomorrow we go to Leibovitz’s. We’re buying you a wedding ring. The thickest gold band I can find.”

Ciro laughed. “I don’t need a ring to prove that I’m yours. You have me, Enza.”

“I know that. But I want the rest of the world to know it too.”

Enza had done such a good job of decorating the Caterina Shoe Shop windows for Christmas that many women stopped in and asked to buy shoes. They were disappointed when they saw Ciro’s industrial machines, the garish overhead lights, and the stacks of miner’s work boots to be repaired. They realized it was a shop for men, with nothing to offer them, and they would depart as quickly as they had entered after Ciro apologized. Sometimes he would promise the ladies that one day, the window would be filled with fashionable shoes for them that he had designed and made. Then he’d send them up the street to Raatamas. He couldn’t count how many times he threw the department store business.

Enza was in the back of the shop, sewing a satin blanket for Pappina’s baby’s layette, when she overheard a female customer talking with Ciro. She snipped the threads from the blanket, and when she heard the bells signaling that the woman had left, she joined Ciro in the front of the shop.

“Why don’t we sell women’s shoes?”

“Because I don’t make them,” Ciro said as he measured a sheet of leather.