The Good Left Undone(54)

“Here you go. I hope you like it.” McVicars served her.

“Looks delicious.”

McVicars took the seat across from her. “Go ahead, try it.” She took a bite of the buttered brioche filled with thin slices of ham.

“Do you like it?”

She nodded. He poured a glass of wine for her and one for himself. He held up his glass. “They make the wine here on the farm.To you.” He sipped the wine.

Domenica also took a sip. “We make our own wine too, you know.”

“Is this as good?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s risky to present a table wine to an Italian.”

“I was four years old when I had my first taste. Naturally, it was cut with a lot of water. Wine, the harvesting then mashing of the grapes, and the sleeping barrels that ferment it, is part of life for us.”

“They don’t give us liquor in Scotland until we are old enough to sneak it. And then some of us sneak it for the rest of our lives. The Italians and the French have it right. Drink from the start and kill the craving.”

“And now the Italians are sworn enemies of the French. How did that happen?”

“The enemy next door is always the most dangerous,” he said. “I wish I could stop them.”

“You’ll get your chance.”

“Am I overdressed?” He took a bite of his sandwich.

“I don’t think so. I had to change when I saw you in the suit.”

“You didn’t go upstairs to spiffy up to please me? If you did, you were too late. I was already pleased.”

John McVicars leaned across the table and kissed her. The kiss was a surprise. She tasted the wine on his lips. He kissed her again with tenderness. When she opened her eyes, she felt the warm sun on her skin, while the breeze that washed over them was cool. The temperature of the world was just right for them.

“I should have asked for that kiss,” he said. “Forgive me.”

Domenica leaned over and kissed him. “You’re forgiven.”

“Come with me,” he said as he stood. He took her hand.

Domenica followed the captain down a narrow path into the woods behind the farmhouse. The forest was dark. The trees were gigantic on either side of the path, the sun barely peeked through the foliage. She heard a rush of water and turned to the source. She looked over the ravine for a river, but there was none.

The captain led Domenica to the sound. A glacial waterfall began at the top of the mountain and crested over a cliff, where it cascaded in clear ribbons of water past them to the depths below.

“Here’s a thought,” he said over the sound. “They should bring every general of every country here before they drop their bombs.”

The waterfall was a wonder. Domenica stood behind the captain, placed her arms around him, and rested her head on his back. He pulled her arms tightly around him and wove his fingers through hers. They stayed there until the sun was the color of a ripe peach.

Domenica Cabrelli had spent many hours of her life in prayer. The rituals of her faith had brought her comfort, but none of them compared to the serenity of this moment. Even home, where she had found solace, did not come close to the peace she found in his arms. Maybe John McVicars would show her the world in ways that would help her forget all she had lost. Maybe he was the compass who would show her the way forward.

McVicars wanted to make Domenica happy, a desire that had eluded him in the past romantic entanglements whereby he slipped the knot and escaped so graciously, a young lady barely knew he had left before he was gone for good. But Mademoiselle Cabrelli was different. He, too, wanted to forget the past and wondered if the Italian nurse could give him his highest dream: a happy life that seemed to come so easily to other men.





CHAPTER 20



Domenica looked down at her white work shoes. She had been too tired the night before to polish them, but they needed it. She shook the bottle of white polish, poured a bit onto a cloth, and dabbed over the scuff marks on her shoes.

“Hey. Cabrelli. Mail.” Mary Gay Mahoney handed Domenica a package. “Looks like you have a sweetie in Scotland.”

“Grazie.”

“Prego. One month in a cloister in Bologna and this Scottish lass can speak Italian.”

“I’d like to learn more about your people.”

“Ask me anything. I was born and raised in Drimsynie. We were the only Catholic family in the village. That’s how the nuns found me. Next to a loch. They look for the marooned.”

“How do you tell if a man fancies you in Scotland?”

“The only proof of a man’s love is how he cares for the family cow.”

“What if he doesn’t have a cow?”

“You’re out of luck.”

Domenica opened the package and read the letter.


9 April 1939


Dear Signorina Cabrelli,

I wish you a glorious Easter Sunday. I am most grateful for your bandages and care. My own mum marveled at my hands, as she was the first to hold the wee ham fists when I was born. Your honey salve spared me the scars of the burn—my manual extremities no longer look like boiled pig knuckles, but the fine fingers of a duke, just as they were before the trauma. I have shared the vat of honey serum you gifted me with the men of the Boidoin. They have nothing but compliments for the Sisters and their pageant of fine nurses, “each a perfect rose”—their words, not mine.