The Good Left Undone(105)

“As long as he stays that way and as long as that’s all he is to them, I am fine with it.”

“Netta, you are such a romantic.” Cabrelli took his wife in his arms, pulled her close, and smothered her with kisses. She beat off his advances with her spatula. “Let me go, old man.”

Cabrelli released her.

“My daughter didn’t lose her first husband, a decorated sea captain, to wind up with an apprentice.” Netta straightened her apron.

“He won’t be an apprentice for long.”



* * *





Silvio dried the last of the dinner dishes and placed it on the shelf with the others. Netta Cabrelli’s kitchen was pristine and orderly once more. Silvio made sure to put every platter and plate away where they belonged.

Domenica joined him in the kitchen.

“That was fast,” Silvio said.

“Matelda couldn’t stop talking about the carriage ride. All that fresh air was good for her. She went right to sleep.”

“Or was it your mother’s Christmas cake?”

“Maybe a little of both.” Domenica laughed.

“What did you think?”

She whispered, “The cake was a little dry.”

“I meant the carriage ride.”

“When my daughter’s happy, so am I.”

“You’ve done a good job with Matelda. She’s very sweet and polite.”

“Thank you.” Domenica picked up the mopeen and placed it on the hook to dry. “Why did you do the dishes?”

“To impress your mother.”

“Let me know if you’re successful.”

“Signora has a long memory. She thinks of me as the fat little boy that went around town stealing maps. Now she’ll think of me as the dinner guest who washed the dishes, I hope. Do you feel like a walk?”

Domenica and Silvio tiptoed past Netta, who had fallen asleep in her chair by the fire. Cabrelli, reading a book, looked up at them and smiled. They pulled on their coats and went outside.

“The cold air feels good,” Silvio said.

“After you were up to your elbows in hot water. Let me see your hands.”

Silvio placed his hands in hers; Domenica turned them over. “Put on your gloves.”

He held onto her hands. “You’re bossy.”

“Part of being a mother.” She reached into his coat pocket, removed the gloves, and helped him into them.

“Don’t blame Matelda. You were born that way. When we were children, I knew what you would become when we grew up.”

“How did I do?”

“You’re not a general. Yet.”

“I thought of you a lot.” Domenica slipped her arm through his. “The last time I saw you, you were engaged. Why didn’t you get married?”

“Barbara was a good girl, but she was not from an understanding family. I know disappointment, and I ended up being one to her. After I saw you at Carnevale, I went back to Parma and decided I needed to be honest with her. You never treated me poorly because of my family situation, and it gave me the courage to tell Barbara the truth. Everybody in Viareggio knew I was il bastardo, but no one in Parma did. She was going to be my wife, and there shouldn’t be any surprises about her family or mine. In order to tell her the truth, I had to find it.”

“Did you ever meet your father?”

“Yes. He’s a good man who did a stupid thing. He has regrets. Well, he had them. He died last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My mother met my father and fell in love with him when she was nineteen and he was thirty-three. After she found out she was having me, he told her that he was married. It was an impossible situation for my mother.”

“She must have been scared.”

“She decided not to go to her family for help. That’s how she came to Viareggio. She heard of a job through the church and moved here.”

“The ladies at San Paolino still complain that the church is not as nice now as it was when Signora Vietro kept it.”

“My mother made wonderful friends, until they found out about me. It wouldn’t take long. They disappeared. But even Barbara liked my mother and stepfather. Barbara decided not to tell her parents about my status, and I didn’t think it was my place to tell them. When her father went through the proper channels to find out about me, as parents will do when their daughter is in love with a young man without means, he was furious. Her father had gone to the priest to look for the Birtolinis of Parma, and he could not, in any of the church records, find me. This led to an exhaustive hunt for the fanciful tribe of one that I belonged to—which unearthed the truth, which ended the engagement. Signore Bevilacqua told me that he could not give the dowry for his daughter to a bastard, so he forbade our marriage. Barbara begged him to reconsider but he refused. The rich man looks after his money first, before his heart, his children, and your interests.”

“My husband had a philosophy about the rich too. John would say, ‘No matter how grand, every boat stinks of seawater and piss.’?”

Silvio laughed. “I would have liked your husband.”

“You would have. Very much. But you know, it’s been nearly six years, and it’s almost like our marriage happened to someone else. I prayed when he died that I would never forget him, but he has left me. I don’t feel his spirit any longer.”