The Shoemaker's Wife(32)

“I can see just fine. The lamp is loaded with oil.” Enza loosened the reins on Cipi, who slowed to a more leisurely jog.

“You don’t even have to direct him. He knows the way,” Ciro observed.

“Papa takes this route when business is good.”

“And how is business?”

“Terrible. But the summer is coming, and it’s always better then.”

“Will I see you this summer?” Ciro asked.

“We go up to Lake Endine.”

Ciro sat up. “You do?”

“We stay with our cousins. You could come with us,” Enza offered.

“I would never impose,” Ciro said.

“My brothers would love the company. They go fishing. They hike and go in caves. Battista says that there are caves with blue sand up on the mountain.”

“I’ve heard of those caves! Do you go fishing?” Ciro asked.

“No, I cook and clean and help my aunt with her babies. Just like your nuns. A lot of work, and I’m paid in fresh figs,” Enza joked.

Enza took the turn onto the piazza in Vilminore. A few of the townspeople were out after la passeggiata. Old men played cards on small tables on the colonnade as a mother pushed a pram, soothing her baby. Cipi’s hooves clicked across the piazza as Ciro took the reins and guided the carriage to the entrance of the convent.

“Thank you for the ride,” Ciro said. “I wish you didn’t have to go back alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. Cipi knows the road. Remember?”

“I’d better go,” Ciro said, yet he didn’t move. He wasn’t ready to get out of the carriage, or for this night to end.

“I’m not going to kiss you again,” Enza said gently.

“But . . . ,” Ciro said.

Enza gave him the moppeen with the food.

“Good night, Ciro. Remember, Sant’Antonio will take good care of you if you take care of Spruzzo.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Whenever you want. You know where I live.”

“The yellow house on Via Scalina,” Ciro said.

He climbed down from the carriage, his arms full of Spruzzo and the remnants of supper. He turned to say something more to Enza, but Cipi had trotted out into the piazza and was heading for the road.

Enza’s dark hair flew behind her like a veil. How small she looked, high on the driver’s bench! As the carriage turned off onto the pass, the lamplight threw a sheen on the wooden side of the carriage. “Wait!” Ciro called out, but she was gone.

I know that carriage, he thought.

It looked like the carriage that had taken his mother away. Could it be the same one? Ciro had felt there was something fated about meeting Enza, and now he knew. He couldn’t wait to tell Eduardo, who might remember the carriage in more detail than he. Or maybe he was just imagining things on this day of grave-digging and tears.

The smattering of clouds over the moon floated away, leaving a gold coin in the sky. Lucky moon. Tonight, Ciro thought, life was pretty good. If he were the praying kind, he might even thank God for his good fortune. He had a lira in his pocket. He had met a pretty girl, and he’d kissed her. It wasn’t like any of the other kisses he’d ever had, nor was she like any of the other girls who had come before her. Enza listened to him, and this was a gift sweeter than any kiss. But it would take Ciro many years to realize it.

Ciro pushed the convent door open and entered the vestibule. Eduardo jumped up from the bench. “You’re back. Grazie Dio.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What is that?” Eduardo looked down at the dog.

“This is Spruzzo.”

“You can’t have a dog in the convent.”

“He’s for Sister Teresa. She says there’s a rat in the kitchen.”

Ciro turned to head out to the workhouse. Eduardo stopped him. “They’re waiting for us in the kitchen.”

“They?”

“The nuns.”

Ciro followed Eduardo. “What’s going on?” he asked. A sense of unease displaced the contentment he had felt moments before.

The kitchen door was closed, but light spilled through the cracks in the doorjamb. Ciro told Spruzzo to stay outside as Eduardo pushed it open.

The nuns had gathered around Sister Teresa’s worktable. Some sat on stools, while others stood. Sister Teresa stood off to the side, a look of worry on her face.

“Are we taking a vote?” Ciro asked. “Because if we are, I vote to plant more olives next year than grapes.”

The nuns, who usually appreciated Ciro’s jokes, were in no mood for them tonight.

“Okay, before you punish me, for whatever I’ve done—” Ciro took the lira from his pocket. “For you.” He handed it to Sister Domenica, whose white hair stuck out of her wimple, a sure sign she’d been in a rush to get to this meeting.

“Thank you,” she said. The sisters murmured their gratitude.

“We have a very serious problem,” Sister Ercolina said as she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and stood tall and reedy, like a palm frond on Easter Sunday. She crossed her arms across her chest inside her sleeves. “We have loved having you boys here. Eduardo, you have been a wonderful student, and Ciro, we don’t know how we would have handled the garden and the chickens and the maintenance of the convent and the church without you—”