A Heart Most Worthy (10 page)

13

Eventually, Mauro walked Julietta up to her apartment. And came in when it was made clear that Mama wouldn’t let him leave. But that didn’t bother Julietta any. The men and boys talked among themselves while the women tended to their own affairs, Mauro being one of them.

“Mama.”

She turned from the stove where she was cooking a soup for the next day’s supper.

“Mauro said you told him that he could walk out with me.”

She smiled, nodding her head as if Julietta were thanking her for the favor. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s an
old
man.”

“Old!” Her older sister Josephine’s eyes had snapped wide open. “You don’t know old from a boot!”

Mama joined with her eldest daughter. “He’s not too old to know how to be nice to a girl.”

“Ma!”

“He comes from a very fine family.”

“In Avellino. But we’re in
America
.”

Mama pointed her spoon at Julietta. “I want you to be nice to him.”

“Why?”

“Be nice.” After two shakes of the spoon, Mama put it back in the pot and used it to stir the soup.

“I’ll be nice to him.” She had to, didn’t she? “But I’m not going to marry him.”

“And why not?”

“You
want
me to marry him?!”

“I want you to marry a nice man from a good family. He’s a doctor. He owns his house.”

“I am sick to death of everybody telling me what I should do!” The men were looking over at them from their side of the room, so Julietta took a step nearer her mother so she could speak in relative privacy. “When I want to marry a man, it will be a man that I choose. That
I
want!”

“Oh, it will, will it?”

“Sì!”

“Why can’t you be a good Avellino girl like your sister, Josephine?’

“Because we’re not in Avellino anymore, Ma. We’re in America!” She didn’t care at that moment who heard her. Why was it so difficult for everyone to understand? They were in America.

And what was the use of being in America if you couldn’t act like an American?

“You’ll marry whom I tell you to marry. And you’ll be glad for it!”

Julietta’s reply was the slamming of the tenement door.

Annamaria only wished she could talk to her own mama the way Julietta spoke to hers. Today was the day. Mama was going to make her cross the street.

“You got the basket?” Mama asked the question for the third time.

“I have the basket.” Annamaria’s fingers were clenched tight around its handle.

“You got the money?”

“I have the money.”

“Remember. You don’t have to speak. You just have to get the tomatoes.”

Just get the tomatoes. Annamaria took a deep breath, nodded, and then walked out of the apartment. Down the stairs. Out into the evening. She paused as she stepped down onto the sidewalk. She felt as if everyone were watching her. And she was right. Everyone was. All along the sidewalk. The nonne in their chairs, the children playing hopscotch. Above the street, the housewives pulling in their wash, and more nonne watching out their windows. All along North Street, everyone stopped what they were doing and watched Annamaria Rossi cross the street.

Some of them even hurriedly made the sign of the cross.

She ducked under the green awning that had been spread above the door. Slipped inside. She felt as if she were entering a foreign and hostile country, but quite soon, as her eyes took in the tidy bins of onions and stacks of eggplants, she loosed her grip on the basket and felt her shoulders relax. It was just like Maglione’s. Cleaner perhaps. And brighter.

Zanfini’s son was standing behind a display of tomatoes, wiping his hands on his apron. He was a slim lad with a square jaw and eyebrows that lifted from the bridge of his nose in a shallow diagonal. Had you been there with Annamaria, you might have been tempted to reach out and grab a few of those rosy tomatoes sitting in the pyramid before him. And you might have been surprised that Annamaria didn’t. They were so impossibly red, so impossibly shiny. But those fat tomatoes, the pungent onions, and the plump eggplants might have been little bright-eyed, fat-cheeked children. Annamaria knew that the more those cheeks were pinched and pulled and poked, the more their spirits faded. And so she kept her hands to herself, though she admired the produce just the same.

Crossing her arms around the handle of the basket, she walked up to that pyramid of tomatoes and raised her eyes to meet those of Zanfini’s son.

His words caught in his throat. He swallowed. He’d never seen her before or he would have remembered. She wasn’t Sicilian . . . which meant that she’d probably want nothing to do with him, let alone speak to him. But he’d never seen such a beautiful face or such delicate features. That other girl, the one who slunk by on her way to work of a morning, she was striking, but this girl?

This girl was an angel.

For her part, Annamaria was simply and completely . . . amazed. There was an expansiveness in her breast. A new resonance to the beat of her heart. A sudden clarity in her mind. As if, finally, she understood what her purpose was. As if, in crossing the threshold of that Sicilian frutta e verdura, she had stepped into her life.

But how could that be?

They both asked themselves that very question. How could it be that such beauty existed? How could it be that the entire world had fallen away in an instant? And resolved itself into something new and fresh and vibrant? They searched for the answers, for one long moment, in each other’s eyes.

And then Zanfini’s son spoke. His words came out soft. And hoarse. “What do I get for you?” He would have given her anything, everything she wanted.

Annamaria opened her mouth to speak and then remembered that she couldn’t. Shouldn’t. She pointed to the tomatoes instead.

“Tomatoes?”

She nodded.

“How many?”

She inclined her head. She didn’t know. She hadn’t thought to ask.

Such loveliness, such grace in her gesture. And in it he read both the beginning and the end of every lover’s poem, every romantic’s dream, every fairy tale that had ever been written.

“You want two? Four?”

She lifted a single, frail shoulder. Shrugged.

He wanted to take her by it, enclose her in his embrace and hide her from the world forever, but he had no right to do any of those things, so he held up another tomato instead. “Five?”

She nodded.

“Six?”

She was just about to shake her head when she realized that doing so would end their conversation. It would only speed her home. So she nodded.

He held up another.

She nodded again.

By the time Annamaria left Zanfini’s frutta e verdura, she was carrying twelve tomatoes in her basket. But more than that, she was carrying new thoughts and new vistas in her mind. She may have walked into the store the eldest daughter of the Rossi family, but when she walked out the door, she did so as a woman.

“Twelve tomatoes? You brought me twelve tomatoes? What am I going to do with twelve tomatoes?” Mama was putting them back into the basket one by one, recounting them just to make sure.

“Did you talk to him? You didn’t speak to him, did you?” Papa Rossi had watched from the window the whole time, but still, he had no way of knowing what had taken place inside that shop.

Annamaria heard her parents speaking, saw her brothers and younger sister watching. Indeed, they all saw her listening and watching. They just couldn’t make her speak. She was pondering all that she had heard and seen in Zanfini’s shop. And she was feeling, with newfound wonder and tremulous delight, the stretching and growing of her heart.

“Annamaria!”

She blinked. “Sì, Mama?”

“Twelve tomatoes?”

“Sì, Mama.”

“Just like a Sicilian. I suppose you asked for three and he forced twelve on you instead.”

“No, Mama. He was very nice. But I didn’t talk to him.”

Papa walked up to her and clasped her by the arm. “You didn’t speak to those people?”

“No, Papa.” But she smiled as she said it.

“So . . . he didn’t force them on you?” Mama was still trying to work out how it was that she’d ended up with twelve tomatoes.

“No.”

“But he gave you twelve.”

“Sì.”

Clearly, something had happened. But since it didn’t have anything to do with talking or tomatoes, Mama and Papa looked at each other and shrugged. What did it matter what happened, as long as she was safe, back home on the right side of the street?

14

The next morning at the shop, Madame’s fingers closed around Mrs. Quinn’s bag, pulling the jewels from the safe.
Grazie a Dio
, they were still there! She shook her head. Nearly made the sign of the cross. She’d never dealt with such a thing: a treasure chest’s worth of priceless gems from a client. She refrained from peeking inside, not wanting to tempt fate. What was the woman thinking? That she was a jeweler now, as well as a gown maker? That she could advise on gemstones and marriages as well as patterns and fabrics?

At least they had already been drilled – they were meant to be strung or wired. At least she would not have to worry about that. But, really, she shouldn’t have to worry about them at all. What had the woman been thinking, to commend such costly treasures to her care? Madame didn’t like the responsibility such a trust brought with it. She cast a longing glance toward the drawer of her desk, but decided it would be foolish to waste such precious drops of liquor on the thought of that witch . . . when soon enough the woman would be appearing, once more, in person.

She muttered vague pronouncements and rather specific curses under her breath as she climbed the back stairs to the third-floor workshop.

All three of the girls looked up at her appearance.

Madame walked to Luciana and then placed the pouch on the table before the girl. “These are the jewels that Mrs. Quinn left. We might as well see what she’s given us so that I’ll be able to place an order for what else will be needed.”

Julietta gasped as Luciana shook them out onto the table. “
Bontà mia!
” She’d never before seen such a bounty of riches. “What are they?” Her fingers itched to touch the lovely, glittering stones.

Annamaria’s eyes had gone wide at their sparkling brilliance.

Madame shrugged. Picked up several. “Besides the sapphires, these look like . . . garnets.”

“Rubies.” At least the two that Madame had chosen were. Luciana had corrected her without any thought or hesitation. Only a ruby could exhibit such a deep bloodred color. Garnets tended toward the brown.

Madame handed them to Luciana.

She took them and put them back among the others, proceeding to separate them out by stone and then by size. As she thought back to the gown the strega had ordered, a pattern began to take shape in her mind. A simple Florentine pattern of blossoms and scrollwork. Perhaps, if she placed the design on the vertical, like so . . . her hands worked to shape a line as if it were decorating one half of a collar. And then, another line on the other side. Soon, two lines had blossomed on the table in front of her.

Sì. Like that. Just like that.

Madame looked at Luciana’s idea for a long moment. Measured off the length and width of the bodice in her mind. Imagined the collar. She reached down and shortened the line a bit by pushing the jewels closer together. “Sì. That will work.”

Luciana nodded. “With some jet beads in addition.”

Madame cocked her head as she looked at the pattern. Reached down to draw on the table with one long finger. “Here. Like this?” She traced a design through the bottoms of the blossoms.

“Sì.”

Madame nodded. “I’ll place the order. The beads and fabric should come in next week. And I’ll put these back into the safe until then.” She swept the jewels into the bag and then proceeded toward the door, leaving Julietta and Annamaria to marvel at the magnificence they had just witnessed. And Luciana to remember, with regret, all the treasures she had left at the estate when she had fled. All the jewelry she’d had to sell once she came to America. She wished she’d kept some; she could use the money. But the lavaliere she’d given Julietta in exchange for altering the gowns was the last piece she’d had.

Madame hefted the bag as she descended, imagining what she might do with the small fortune the bag represented. She could expand the shop’s offerings into . . . shoes. Or hats. She could buy out the shop next door. Or import some of the more notable designs from Paris herself. A small fortune. What a foolish woman the strega was! Perhaps she
should
increase her insurance. To protect the shop.

Which reminded her!

She halted her descent, turned around, and started back up the stairs.

“Julietta.”

The three girls turned in unison at the sound of Madame’s voice.

“I need to speak to you.”

Annamaria and Julietta exchanged glances. When Madame made a point of coming up to the third floor, it had always been to speak to both of them about the detailing of some gown or the work that would soon be sent up from the second floor.

Julietta shrugged and set her embroidery down. Madame beckoned as she turned toward the stairs. Julietta followed her all the way down to her office and remained standing as Madame took a seat behind the desk.

“My business is growing, Julietta.”

The girl nodded.

“Growth is good. But new clients create new work.”

Julietta nodded once more.

“It is possible that at some point in the future, I will need to take on a partner.”

“A partner?”

“Someone to share my business. Someone who can run the shop while I am out. Someone who knows gowns but who also knows people.”

Julietta could hardly believe her ears. She had known Madame would need an assistant; she had envisioned herself many times in that role. But a partner? With a share in the business?

“I would consider you for such a venture if you prove that you are worthy of the work.”

Work? How could it be work? Work was making ruffles and flounces and sewing them onto skirts. Work was embroidering endless vines and flowers onto a collar. A partner? In the shop? That meant being downstairs. That meant waiting for clients to come for their appointments. Flipping through the sample books. Choosing fabrics. Why, that was no work at all!

“It would mean spending extra hours with me at the end of the normal workday. And it would mean learning to speak English. Extremely well. Do you know English?”

Julietta inclined her head. She used to. Long ago, when she had gone to school at the Settlement House. But she hadn’t really used it since she’d left. “Some.”

“I would need you to speak English with only the faintest of accents.”

“I could take a class. At the Settlement House. I could start tonight.”

Madame permitted herself a smile. “If you are that eager in wishing to learn, and if you show me that you are worthy of my trust, then I will increase your pay commensurately.”

Julietta’s eyes widened. Papa would like that! Shame she wouldn’t be able to keep any of it, for paychecks were always handed over to him on Fridays, still sealed within their envelopes. If she just had access to some of that money, think of all that she could do with it!

Julietta returned to the workshop, dreams of fortunes dancing in her head.

Annamaria wasn’t going to ask what had transpired. Julietta would tell them sooner or later. Luciana, however, didn’t want to wait to find out. In Roma she’d felt no shame in asking any of her maids to tell her exactly what she wanted to know. “What did she say?”

“She says she needs a partner in the shop. And she’s chosen me.”

Annamaria slid a glance at Julietta. A partner? Julietta was moving up, moving on, while she was stuck in the same position as always, doing the same things she always did. She jabbed her needle so forcefully into the material that it came out the other side, straight into her finger.

Mannaggia!

She stuck her finger into her mouth, but not before a drop of blood had stained the fabric. What was wrong with her? Why had good news for someone else become bad news for her? What had happened to the kind and meek Annamaria who had nothing but good words and a helping hand for everyone?

Poor Annamaria. Thoughts of the grocer’s son had filled her head and haunted her dreams ever since she’d come back from Zanfini’s with all those tomatoes in her basket. What she wanted more than anything was to go back and buy some more. But she couldn’t. Not until Mama told her to. She couldn’t do anything unless Mama told her to. She’d spent her entire life doing what Mama told her to. And Papa. And Theresa. And the boys.

Indignation colored her cheeks as she thought about just how many years she’d spent doing things that other people wanted her to do. She ought to be doing things that she wanted to do, shouldn’t she? Just like everyone else? So, what did she want?

Here it must be said that Annamaria faltered. Oh, she wanted something grand! She wanted the thing that had made her heart beat faster standing there in Zanfini’s store. She wanted to go back and see the grocer’s son. But it wasn’t her place to reach out for what she wanted. It was her duty to reach for what others wanted to give her. And so duty and desire warred within her breast.

What was wrong with thinking about a man?

He was a Sicilian, that’s what was wrong with it.

What was wrong in wanting something for herself?

She was born to serve others.

But what was wrong in wanting something . . . more?

Because a person was supposed to be grateful for what she had.

With that thought, Annamaria turned her eyes from the desires of her heart and back to the tasks that needed to be accomplished. So close she’d been to peering over the side of her family’s nest . . . only to slide back down and settle once more inside it. But it takes great courage to stand at the edge of a nest and greater courage still to fly. I’m sure at this moment you feel quite as disappointed as I do. But we must strive to remind ourselves that eventually, all birds learn to fly. It’s what birds, after all, are meant to do.

Sometimes all that’s needed is a bit of wind beneath those fledgling wings.