The Shoemaker's Wife(31)

“Let me talk to my father,” she said. “I need his permission.”

Ciro followed Enza into the Ravanelli home while Spruzzo waited outside on the grass.

Ciro’s mouth watered as he looked at the table, filled with an array of homemade breads and rolls, fresh cheese, prosciutto, cold polenta, and platters of tortellini, small purses of pasta filled with sausage. On the mantel over the hearth, he saw several cakes in tin pans, reminding him of the holiday baking at the convent. Ciro delivered Sister Teresa’s rum cakes throughout Vilminore every December. An enamel pot of coffee rested on a trivet, and a pitcher of cream was set nearby. Every bench and chair was filled with company from the village.

There were children everywhere, climbing the ladder to the loft, running under the table, playing tag as they ran through the house to the outdoors. It occurred to him that a terrible day had been made whole by the laughter of children after the loss of one of their own.

Ciro felt the sudden sting of regret for all that he had missed in his own home, with family and friends filling rooms and making a life. The simply furnished house was clean and welcoming, and the friends seemed devoted. What more does a man need to be happy? Ciro wondered.

A woman around the same age as Giacomina poured her coffee, while Marco stood in a circle with several men who tried to keep his mind off his grief with stories from the mines. Ciro remembered them at the foot of the altar that morning , a lump forming in his throat.

Enza made her way to her father. She whispered in Marco’s ear, and he nodded and looked over at Ciro, sizing him up, as Enza went to her mother and knelt before her. She patted her mother’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.

Enza collected two pears, several small sandwiches, and a cavazune pie filled with ricotta and honey, placing them in a starched moppeen. She joined Ciro at the door. “Papa said we can take the carriage.”

“Before we go, may I pay my respects to your parents?” Ciro asked.

Every feeling Enza had in her heart had been expanded that day. She was surprised by Ciro’s grace and also moved by it. “Of course,” she said quietly.

Enza tied a knot in the moppeen and placed the food on the table. She took Ciro to meet her father. Ciro shook his hand and offered his condolences. Then Enza took Ciro to meet her mother. Ciro repeated his kind sympathies and remembered to bow his head to the lady of the house.

Ciro followed Enza down a stone path to the stable as Spruzzo barked outside the stable door. Enza grabbed a small oil lamp and went into the barn, where the light turned everything inside a milky gold—the hay, the walls, the trough, the horse. Cipi stood in his stall, covered by a blanket.

“You can pull the muslin cover off the carriage,” Enza said, lifting the blanket off Cipi. The horse nuzzled her neck.

“You want me to hitch the carriage?” Ciro asked.

“I can do it.” Enza led Cipi out of his stall to the carriage hitch. “You can feed him.”

Ciro lifted a bucket of oats from the feeder trough and positioned it where Cipi could gobble it down.

Enza opened the stable doors and attached the oil lamp to the hook on the carriage. She went to the water pump outside the doors and pumped fresh water for Spruzzo, who lapped it up hungrily. Then she washed her hands and face, wiping her face on her apron. Ciro did the same, wiping his own face on his bandana.

She climbed up onto the carriage bench. “Don’t forget supper.” Ciro picked up the food and climbed next to Enza, who picked up the reins as Spruzzo jumped up on to the seat and sat between them.

Enza snapped the reins; Cipi trotted out of the barn and onto the main road that weaved through Schilpario. The heart of the village, a corridor of buildings that lined either side of the road, was drenched in pale blue moonlight. The carriage passed through the narrow stone street until the walls of the town gave way to the entrance of the Passo Presolana.

The road unspooled down the mountain before them like a black velvet ribbon, the carriage lamp throwing a strong beam of white light into the darkness to guide them. Ciro watched as Enza deftly controlled the reins. She sat up high, with perfect posture, guiding Cipi through the night.

“Tell me about your ring,” Enza said.

Ciro twisted the gold signet ring on his smallest finger. “I’m afraid I’m going to outgrow it altogether.”

“Have you had it very long?”

“Since my mother left. It belonged to her.”

“It suits you.”

“It’s all I have from my family.”

“That’s not true,” Enza said. “I’ll bet you have her eyes, or her smile, or her coloring.”

“No, I look like my father.” Whenever anyone else asked about his mother, Ciro changed the subject, but Enza asked about Caterina in a manner that didn’t feel like prying. “My brother looks like our mother.” He added, “I’m not at all like her, really.”

“You should eat,” Enza said. “You must be starving.”

Ciro took a bite of the bread and cheese. “I’m always hungry.”

“What’s it like, living in the convent? When I was a little girl, I thought about becoming a nun.”

Ciro draped his arm over the back of the carriage seat around Enza. “You shouldn’t kiss boys, then.”

“Don’t look so smug.”

“How can you tell how I look? It’s dark out here.”