The Shoemaker's Wife(166)

It occurred to Laura as she looked at Angela’s reflection that she possessed the natural elegance that Enza Ravanelli always had, even in the tenements of Hoboken. Angela was graceful, she spoke well, directly and softly; she was helpful when called upon, yet assertive when she needed to be. Her second mother had taught her well.

Angela had been a delight in every way for Laura. With Henry now in college, Angela had filled the quiet as she rehearsed at the piano, singing scales and mastering phrases for her singing classes at the Institute. In Enza’s absence, Laura went to Angela’s recitals and rehearsals. She consulted with Angela’s professors and made sure she got extra attention when she needed it.

Colin had made sure Angela had a job in the ticket office and ushered during performances, so she might have exposure to the full menu of what it took to present an opera. Angela would never take the Chapins for granted, or their generosity.

Laura had exposed Angela to a world she would have never known had she stayed on the Iron Range. She took Angela shopping and to parties for the board of the Met. She introduced Angela to all the star points of a gracious life. Angela’s natural talent and regal bearing had only made her more humble and grateful for the opportunities Laura presented. Angela had been a good student.

The doorbell rang.

“Angela, will you get that?” Laura called out.

“Yes, Aunt Laura,” Angela called back. She took one last look in the mirror before she opened the door, smoothing her hair over her ear and adjusting the pearl on the drop necklace she wore with her gown.

Angela’s heart beat fast when she opened the door to see Antonio Lazzari standing in the doorway in his dress uniform. He pushed his hat off his forehead and then removed it. His dark good looks were dazzling against the bright white of his uniform.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Chapin,” he said, taking in the beautiful girl from the top of her head to the tips of her silk moiré shoes.

Angela put her hands on her hips. “Antonio,” she chided him. “It’s me.”

He heard her voice and remembered. He squinted. “Angela?”

“Who else?” She threw her arms around his neck.

“What happened to you?”

“I grew a foot and got into the Institute of Musical Art. And then I learned to sing high notes.” She laughed. “And hold them.”

“That’s just the beginning of what’s different about you.”

Laura rushed to the door to greet Antonio.

“Aunt Laura!” Antonio embraced her.

“Welcome to New York.”

“You didn’t tell Mama, did you?” Antonio asked.

“Not one word. But you have to call her. Right now.”

Enza went through the apartment, making sure all the skylights were snapped shut. A thunderstorm was raging outside. The lightning streaking through the sky cast an eerie green glow over Chisholm.

Enza wrapped her robe tightly around her. She’d had a bad feeling all day, convinced that Antonio had come into harm’s way in the Pacific. The more she tried to distract herself, the worse her anxiety became.

She heated milk on the stove, poured it into a cup, added some brandy and a pat of butter. She said a quick prayer for her mother, who used to make her the drink, then took the mug and went back to her room.

Sitting up in bed, she watched the storm through the skylight, slowly sipping the warm milk and brandy. Soon she became tired, put out the lamp, and placed the cup on the nightstand.

Enza dreamed of her family. She was fifty-one years old in the dream, the age she turned on her last birthday, but her brothers and sisters were small. Stella was in the dream, as were her mother and father.

Giacomina came through the door of the house on Via Scalina with a bouquet of white daisies and pink asters from the cliffs on the mountain. It was an enormous bunch of flowers, beautiful, fresh, fragrant.

“I will see you again, my Enza,” her mother said.

“Where are you going, Mama?”

“I have a place now, and I must go.”

“But you can’t leave me, Mama.”

“Keep these flowers and think of me.”

The phone rang on the nightstand. Enza sat up in bed, clutching her chest at the shock of the loud ring.

“Enza? It’s Eliana. Mama died this morning.”

Enza paced through the house alone, wishing that she were in Schilpario with her family, angry that she hadn’t braved the ocean and brought Antonio to the mountain as she had promised Ciro, and brokenhearted at the loss of her mother.

Life was changing again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The loss of one’s mother was devastating, and echoed in every chamber of her heart.

The phone rang. Enza leaped for it.

“Mama?”

“Antonio!” The only balm for Enza in this moment of loss was her son’s voice, and it had been sent to her.

“What’s wrong, Mama?”

“Your Nonna Ravanelli died, honey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She loved you, Antonio.”

Antonio swallowed. He had never met his grandmother and now he never would. He had been halfway around the world, and yet he had never been to the mountain.

“I’m in New York, Mama. I’m home. Stateside. Safe as can be.”

Waves of relief rushed over Enza. Every nerve within her released, and she had to sit down. “When will I see you?”