The Good Left Undone(103)

“We have company, bella,” Cabrelli said as Domenica walked past him to the back room to hang her coat on a hook.

Silvio Birtolini stood up from his seat on the bench under the window. He wore his best suit and tie. Silvio pushed a stubborn curl off his forehead before giving Domenica a kiss on both cheeks. “How are you, old friend?”

“Old.” She laughed.

“I don’t want to hear it! You’re still a baby,” her father said. “Look at that face.” Cabrelli pinched his daughter’s cheek before going to the front room.

Silvio, like all Italian men, was thin after the war. His black hair remained unruly. His face had matured, bringing out the angles of his cheekbones. “I’m happy to see you made it through the war,” Silvio said.

“I’m happy you did too.” Domenica felt something she had never felt in Silvio’s presence: awkward. She attempted small talk. “Do you need a gift? I don’t know what’s left.” She pulled an apron on over her nursing uniform. “Choose something and I’ll wrap it for you.”

Silvio put his hands in his pockets. He looked down at his polished shoes. “I’m not here to buy a gift.”

Cabrelli returned to the workroom with a gift that needed to be wrapped. He gave it to Domenica. “I just hired Silvio to cut for me. Would you wrap this for me, Nica?” Cabrelli went back into the showroom.

Domenica opened the box. She pinned the delicate gold chain to the cotton batting. “You finished your apprenticeship?”

“I did. I worked in Firenze until I was drafted into the army. At first, I was a guard at the prison camp in Friuli. Horrible place.”

“Where did they send you after the camp?”

“They didn’t. I left the army because my country left me. I was in the mountains north of Bergamo in the resistance.”

Domenica thought of John McVicars, who would not have left active service regardless of his own beliefs. She wrapped the box in gold paper and twine.

“There were many Italians who believed there were some good qualities at play with the Fascisti, but I’m not one of them.”

“I’m not either,” Domenica agreed.

Silvio smiled. “So you don’t judge me.”

“No, I don’t.” Domenica patted his hand. “I can’t judge anyone who fought for the good. It was a terrible time, but in the midst of it, there was some joy. I was married to a Scotsman, a very proud one. He was killed on the Arandora Star five years ago. We have a daughter.”

“That’s wonderful. She must be a comfort to you.”

“She is. She’s my heartbeat. She’s almost six years old. Do you have a child close in age?”

“I don’t have children.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe now that the war is over, you and your wife will have them.”

“I’m not married.”

Isabella poked her head into the workroom. “Signore? Maria Pipino called to say dinner is on the table.”

“Thank you,” Silvio said as he reached for his hat and coat. “I took a room at Signora Pipino’s.”

“On the Via Fiume? Go, go. Signora Pipino is a good cook. We’ll chat another time.”

“I hope so.” Silvio kissed Domenica on both cheeks. “I’ll see you soon.” He placed his hat on his head. “Your father is a wise man, but he’s wrong about one thing. You’re not a baby anymore. Sei una donna magnifica.”

Before she could thank him for the compliment, Silvio was in the front room shaking Cabrelli’s hand. Wait until she told Amelia LeDonne about the Birtolini boy. Surely, she would remember him.



* * *





Domenica buried her hands in the pockets of her coat as she walked home. Instead of taking the shortcut, she climbed up to the boardwalk. The moon lit a path on the surface of the sea, rippling the waves like ruffles of black satin. She strolled along the pier guided by the blue lights installed by the Italian navy. From the roof of Villa Cabrelli, the boardwalk below sparkled like a sapphire bracelet. Besides Matelda, the blue lights were the only good thing that came out of the war.

Christmas Eve felt like a new start, even though she and Matelda had been back for a few months. Holidays and the feast days of the saints helped Domenica fold back into family life as if she had never left. Matelda was slowly making friends—it helped that she was surrounded by cousins who welcomed her and did not tease her about her funny accent.

When Domenica lived at the convent in Dumbarton, she had brought the custom of La Passeggiata with her from Italy. She took nightly walks after supper on the river Clyde and imagined the Atlantic Ocean as it heaved in the far distance, miles away, with its whitecaps and dark green surf, a reminder of what had been taken from her off the coast of Ireland. Domenica talked to John McVicars on those walks, hopeful he was listening on the other side. She shared stories about Matelda and her work. But mostly she longed for him. Over time, those walks gave her perspective. She learned how to walk with her grief.

The one-sided conversations she had with her husband stopped when she returned to Viareggio. Occasionally she still called his name, or he came to mind when Matelda said something funny, but she could no longer feel him listening. When McVicars died, his love covered her like the heat of the sun; years later, that warm connection had all but faded. She was more alone than she had ever been. “Love changes over time, but so does grief,” the old widows in the village promised her.