The Shoemaker's Wife(30)

Enza pulled away from his embrace. “You came to dig a grave, not to talk to me.”

“But I found you,” he said, took her into his arms, and kissed her. As his lips caressed hers, his mind rushed over the events of the day. He tried to remember when he had first seen her. Had he seen other girls in the crowd first and then found her, or was she the only girl he noticed? How did he get this far, how was she allowing him to kiss her when his hands were dirty and he was hardly at his best? Would there ever come a time when he would woo a girl pressed, polished, and as shiny as a glass button?

Enza felt her heart race as their lips touched, the sadness of the day quelled by the unexpected meeting with this boy from Vilminore. Maybe their kisses, breath exchanged for breath, could show her a way to live in the shadow of the sorrow of this day. Maybe her darkest moments had found some light; perhaps he could redeem her grief and replace it with connection. Maybe this boy was some kind of peculiar angel, tall and strong, with freckles from working in the sun and calluses on his hands, so unlike the soft hands of the wealthy and learned. After all, he had made Stella secure in the earth. Maybe he had been sent to place her sister in the mountain she knew and loved, making her an eternal part of it.

But it didn’t matter what he was, or where he came from. Enza was sure he had a good heart, raised as he had been by the sisters in the convent, and he filled a yearning within her. There would be time later to wonder why she had let a boy she hardly knew kiss her on Via Scalina. For her, there was no hesitancy, because there was no mystery. She understood him, though she wasn’t sure why.

In this small village, though, there were rules about courting. The thought of a neighbor seeing her, here in the open, kissing a boy quickly brought her to her senses. As usual, her practical nature won over her romantic heart.

“But you love someone else,” she said, making an excuse to step away from him, even though she didn’t want to.

“Sister Teresa says that when one girl breaks your heart, another comes along to mend it.”

Enza smiled. “I’m the best seamstress in Schilpario. Everyone says so. But I don’t know how to help you mend your broken heart. I have one of my own, you know.” Enza ran up the stairs of the rectory and rang the bell. Ciro bounded up after her.

Father Martinelli came to the door. He seemed so much smaller in the doorway than he had at the altar. His white vestment robes and gold sash had made him seem like a giant, but in his black cassock, he had shrunk to the size of an ink blotter.

“Your cloth, Don Martinelli.”

“Va bene. Buona sera.” Don Martinelli began to close the door. Ciro put his foot in the door frame to prevent the priest from closing it.

“Ignazio Farino says you’re to pay me two lire.”

“You’re an expensive grave digger.”

Father dug in his pocket and handed Ciro two lire. Ciro handed one lira back to Don Martinelli. “For the church.” Ciro said. Don Martinelli took the money, grunted, and closed the door.

“That was kind of you,” Enza said.

“Don’t think highly of me. That was the deal,” Ciro said.

Enza looked up at the night sky, an expanse of lavender with streaks of gold that looked like embroidered threads. A beautiful heaven had welcomed her sister’s soul tonight.

“Where did you stable your horse?” she asked.

“I walked.”

“From Vilminore? You can’t possibly walk over the pass when it’s dark. You could get trampled, or worse.”

Spruzzo wheezed.

“And what about your dog?”

“He’s not my dog.”

“But he follows you everywhere.”

“Because I couldn’t get rid of him. He followed me up here over the pass. I made the mistake of feeding him.”

“He chose you.” Enza knelt down to pet Spruzzo.

Ciro knelt down next to her. “I’d rather you chose me.”

Enza looked into Ciro’s eyes, and couldn’t decide if this young man was the type who said pretty things to all the girls, or if he really liked her. He wouldn’t be the first boy to take advantage of a sad girl, but Enza decided that she had to trust what she saw in him instead of thinking the worst.

“You know this church is named for Sant’Antonio di Padova, the saint of lost things. That’s a sign. Spruzzo was lost, he found you, and he meant to. You have to keep him.”

“Or what?”

“Or Sant’Antonio will forget you. And when you need him most, when you’re lost, he won’t help you find your way.”

When Enza spoke of the saints, Ciro almost wanted to believe in them. He couldn’t imagine such a personal faith, where saints were at the ready to do the bidding of those on earth. Ciro had buffed every statue at San Nicola, and never once felt the power behind the plaster images. How did this mountain girl know with certainty that the heavenly hosts were watching over her?

“Come with me,” she said. “I’ll take you home.”

“You can drive a carriage?”

“Since I was eleven,” Enza said proudly.

“This I have to see.”

Enza and Ciro walked up Via Scalina together, following Spruzzo, who trotted ahead as though he’d been officially adopted. Oil lamps lit the path to the entrance of the Ravanellis’ old stone house. The yard was filled with small groups of visitors who had come to be with the family. Inside, the house overflowed with more neighbors and friends, who had brought food and comfort to the family.