The Shoemaker's Wife(54)

Felicitá was thinking how lucky she was as she brushed Ciro’s hair off his face and studied his profile as he napped. Her parents worked long hours in the business, and she had their apartment to herself during the day. An only child, she cooked and cleaned for her parents in exchange for everything a girl of sixteen desires.

Felicitá found Ciro more impressive than the compact Sicilian boys, who were attractive enough with their thick eyebrows and Roman noses, but only a couple inches taller than she. They were also too eager to please for her taste. She liked that Ciro didn’t fawn over her; he was remote, yet warm, and Felicitá saw those attributes as signs of maturity. Ciro was so tall he barely fit in her small bed. Her shoes, resting nearby, could easily hide inside his.

Ciro stirred and opened his eyes. She once had a party dress the exact blue-green color of his eyes.

“You should go,” she said.

“Why?” He pulled her close and rested his face in her neck.

“I don’t want you to get caught.” She sat up and pulled a small crystal bowl filled with her jewelry off the nightstand. She slid delicate rings—thin, embossed gold bands, others inlaid with round opals and shimmering chips of citrine—onto her fingers.

“Maybe I want to get caught,” Ciro teased.

“Maybe you ought to get dressed.” Felicitá fluttered her fingers, now sparkling with metal and stones. She flipped her long hair to the side and snapped on a necklace with a holy medal. “Hurry up. Papa will kill you,” she said without the slightest urgency.

Ciro pulled on his pants and then his shirt.

Felicitá grabbed Ciro’s hand. “I want that ring.”

“You can’t have it.” He pulled his hand away, laughing. They’d played this game before. “Your name doesn’t begin with a C.”

“I’ve always wanted a signet ring. They can scrape off the C at the jeweler on Carmine Street. Then they can size it and carve an F on it. It looks like good gold. 24K?”

“I’m not giving you the ring.” Ciro put his hands in his pockets.

“You don’t love me.” She pulled the bedsheet around her body as she kneeled on the bed.

“I’ll buy you a different ring.”

“I want that one. Why won’t you give it to me?”

“It belonged to my mother.”

Felicitá softened. Ciro had never mentioned this detail before. “She died?”

“I don’t know,” Ciro answered honestly.

“You don’t know where your mother is?”

“Where’s yours?” Ciro shot back.

“On the corner of Sixth Avenue, selling bananas.”

Ciro reached down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll buy you something nice at Mingione’s.”

“I don’t want another cameo.”

“I thought you liked the cameo.”

“It’s all right. I’d rather have something with shine.”

“Let your fiancé buy you a stone with shine,” Ciro said.

“I’m not ready to get married.”

“Your parents made a match.” Ciro slipped into his shoes. “You’re obligated.”

“I don’t always do what they say. After all, you’re here—” As Felicitá stood, the sheet fell away.

Ciro took in her golden skin, soft curves, and sleek lines. She resembled the statues in the church of San Nicola. He pulled her close and buried his face in her thick hair, with its scent of sweet vanilla. “You know I’m a lost soul.”

“Don’t say that.” Felicitá kissed his cheek. “I found you. Remember?”

Felicitá pulled on her robe and walked Ciro to the front door of the apartment. She lifted a blood orange from the bowl on the table and gave it to him, along with a good-bye kiss. Ciro slipped out of Felicitá’s building and walked back to Mulberry Street.

He peeled the orange and ate it as he walked through Little Italy. The orange was sweet, the September air cool, and the sky teal blue. The seasons were changing, and so was Ciro’s point of view. It was after making love, when he felt satisfied, that Ciro did his best thinking.

He thought about Felicitá. She had been good to him. Felicitá had taught him English, as she spoke both English and Italian. She mended his clothes and replaced buttons on his coat. He imagined he was in love with her, but his feelings did not consume him, and not just because she was betrothed to another. He had always believed true love would overwhelm, capture, and guide him to the safe shores of fidelity like a boat made of fine wood, varnished against the elements. But it hadn’t, not yet anyway, and not with Felicitá. He was waiting to feel that deep attachment take hold within his heart. He knew for sure it existed. He remembered it on the mountain. He remembered his mother and father.

The wind whistled through the trees as Enza made her way up Via Scalina toward home. She heard the hinges on the gate as she passed the old house they used to rent, the light of a new family pouring out of its front windows. The Arduinis had turned around and rented it to another family as soon as the Ravanellis moved out. Next door, her father’s stable was dark, the windows latched, the doors chained, and had been so since Cipi died. The night air had the scent of oncoming snow, but in October, it was early for the storms.