The Miner's Lady (11 page)

“Well, you're here now. Go get cleaned up and then we can eat.”

He moved past her and through the warm kitchen. The succulent aroma of his mother's and sisters' cooking followed him through the house. Maybe a good meal would put the alcohol out of his mind. Maybe time with his family would
help to ease his guilty conscience and bring him peace. But once again he pictured Lamb lying dead on the floor, his blood soaking into the rough wood planks. Peace seemed impossible.

Near noon on Christmas Day, Chantel gathered her family in the front room and announced that she had gifts from Italy to give to each of her family. “I could hardly restrain myself,” she explained, handing out the presents. “I was so tempted to give them to you when I returned.”

Mama looked at the square gift a moment. “This is such a surprise.” She unwrapped the paper to reveal a photograph— nearly forty family members gathered for the occasion. Tears welled and Mama clutched the photo to her breast. “It's wonderful.”

“I'm glad you like it,” Chantel said. She turned to her father. “Open yours, Papa.”

He did so and held up the framed picture of his parents. “Oh, Chantelly Rosa, this is a precious gift.” He looked at the woman and man a moment and then handed the portrait to his wife. “They look so old.”

Mama nodded. “Oh, how I miss them.” With her own parents now passed on, Mama considered the Panettas to be her mother and father.

Isabella had already unwrapped her gift and was quite excited at the sight of the brush and mirror set. “Oh, they're lovely and so beautiful.” She turned them first one way and then another to catch the light.

“The mosaic pattern on the back is made with pieces of broken stained glass. I thought of you the moment I saw it.”

“I'll cherish it always.” She leaned over to kiss Chantel's cheek. “Thank you so much.” There was a knock on the front door and, as if expecting someone, Isabella jumped to her feet. “I'll get it.”

Marco and Alfredo had unwrapped their gifts by this time to reveal two beautiful marble shaving mugs, complete with marble-handled brushes. “A bit fancy for an iron miner, isn't it?” Marco asked with a grin.

“Nonno said it was the perfect gift for you boys, and who was I to say otherwise?” She smiled and motioned to their scraggly looking faces. “Maybe you could use them right away.”

Isabella cleared her throat. “Ah . . . everyone, I hope you don't mind, but I invited Orlando to join us for the noon meal,” Isabella announced from the hallway. Orlando Calarco stepped around from the entryway and took his place at Isabella's side.

The room fell awkwardly silent and for several moments all anyone did was stare at the young couple. They were all surprised to see a Calarco in their home, but it was Papa who welcomed the young man first. “Glad to have you. Merry Christmas.”

Orlando stepped forward and shook hands with the older man. “Thank you, and Merry Christmas.”

Chantel could see that her brothers were rather apprehensive, but they said nothing. They were well aware of their sister's interest in Orlando, even if they didn't yet approve of it.

“We were just enjoying Chantel's gifts,” Mama said, holding up the pictures. “It's almost like having family from the old country here with us.”

“And now we can feast and enjoy the day,” Isabella said, taking hold of Orlando's arm. “I've already told Orlando what a wonderful cook you are, Mama.”

Their mother blushed and put the photographs aside. Getting to her feet, she motioned to her daughters. “Come and help me, and then he will see what wonderful cooks you are, as well.”

Isabella laughed and dropped her hold. “I'm not the best,” she admitted, “but I'm learning.”

Chantel could tell by the way Orlando looked at her sister that he didn't care whether or not she could cook. It was true love between them. No matter that their families had been at odds for generations. Their feelings for each other easily surpassed that obstacle
. I wonder if it will be enough when Mr. Calarco disowns his son.

She said very little as they worked to set dinner on the table. She said even less as they joined together for the meal. As the minutes slipped by, she found herself more and more withdrawn. How was it that love had come so easily to Isabella and not to her?

After a while it seemed as if Orlando had always been a part of their family. Even Marco and Alfredo had forgotten their earlier hesitation. They now laughed and shared stories with Orlando as if he were part of the family. Mama and Papa seemed to enjoy his company, as well. It might have been one of the most pleasant dinners Chantel had ever enjoyed had it not been for her own frustrations and longings.

It's silly,
she told herself.
Silly to fret over something that cannot be helped. In time, I will find love.

She couldn't help but think of Dante. His dark eyes and
piercing gaze flooded her memories. She could see something of him in Orlando, but where Dante was more serious and intense, his brother was easygoing and lighthearted.

“The food this holiday has been the best we've ever had,” Papa declared. “You ladies have outdone yourselves. You have my undying gratitude.”

Without warning there was a heavy pounding on the front door. Marco was closest and got up to answer it without hesitation. Chantel heard him say hello, but then Dante Calarco stormed into the room and grabbed Orlando by the shirt and yanked him to his feet.

“What are you doing here? You know that our father has forbid you to see her.” He glanced around the table. “And yet you come here to celebrate Christmas? What of your own family? What of Nonna? She's wondered all this time where you were.”

“I'm sorry,” Orlando said, pulling away from his brother's hold. “I can't abide by what Papa wants. I love Isabella, and we intend to marry. No one is going to come between us. The Panettas want peace, and so do I. If Papa can't accept that, then he'll have to disown me.”

“You think he won't? And if he disowns you, that means we all must, or don't you realize that?” Dante questioned. He threw a glance at Chantel and shook his head. “Did any of you stop to think that this might only serve to make matters worse?”

“How can love ever make matters worse?” Chantel asked without thinking.

Dante scowled. “You and your foolish notions. Love has been the cause of nations going to war.”

“Son,” Papa said, getting to his feet, “why don't you calm down and join us. There's still plenty of good food to share.”

For a moment Chantel thought Dante might consider it. He looked around the room and at the table as if contemplating the various dishes there. Finally he shook his head. “You've all gone mad. Especially you,” he said, turning back to his brother. “You think you can dance to this tune, but you've not yet paid the piper. Now I'm taking you home and that's the final word on it.” He reached out again to take hold of his brother, but without so much as a word, Orlando put his fist into Dante's nose.

Chantel couldn't help but cry out. Dante turned his stunned face to her only momentarily before his eyes rolled back and he sank to the floor. Orlando had knocked him out with a single blow.

To Dante it seemed as if he were rising up out of mist. Darkness clouded his vision and yet he could hear voices. The words made little sense, however. He opened his eyes and fought against the gray veil until he could make out the faces of two women. Chantel and Mrs. Panetta hovered over him. But why?

“Rest a moment,” Mrs. Panetta commanded. “You took quite a blow. Your brother, he packs a wallop, no?”

His brother. Orlando. Dante closed his eyes tightly and pain shot across his face. Orlando had hit him. Hit him hard. Opening his eyes again, Dante could see he was lying atop a bed.

“What happened?” he couldn't help but ask.

Chantel reached up with a cloth and gave a shrug. “You thought he needed to leave. He didn't want to leave.” She put the cool cloth over the bridge of his nose. It felt good, but Dante wasn't inclined to tell her that. “So he hit you.”

“You need to learn to let bygones be bygones,” Mrs. Panetta told him. “The past needs to be put aside. It's Christmas,
after all. If we cannot get along on the day of our Lord's birth, then when can we?”

“That's just my point,” Dante said, trying to sit up. “We can't get along. Our families will never get along.”

Mrs. Panetta pushed him back down. “They can't so long as people say they can't. Now you rest. You may have a broken nose. You bled a good bit. Rest and let your body regain its strength.”

Dante nodded, fighting against the dizziness that caused his vision to waver. “Our father will come looking for us if we don't get home soon. He sent me to find Orlando.”

“Why would he come looking at our house? Did you suggest Orlando had come here?” Chantel asked.

“Ever since your father told him that Orlando was involved with your family, I know he's been suspicious. It seems likely he would consider the possibility.”

Mrs. Panetta nodded. “Your papa, he seems suspicious of everything. My Giovanni went to make the peace with him and still he would not shake hands. He believes the worst about everyone, and for that I am sorry. Sorry for him.”

Dante closed his eyes for a moment. It had been a long time since anyone had hit him that hard in the face. Maybe Mrs. Panetta was right. Maybe he just needed to rest for a moment. He tried to wriggle his nose just to test it out, but pain shot through his face like a white-hot fire.

“I'll get some ice,” Mrs. Panetta declared. “He's starting to swell.”

She was gone by the time Dante reopened his eyes. Chantel sat watching him carefully as if he might fall off the bed. He shook his head in a short, brief manner. “This isn't going to work.”

“What?” Chantel asked.

“Orlando and your sister. I know you think it terribly romantic, but it's not.”

She shrugged. “And what would you know of such things? I figure my sister and your brother are old enough to know their own hearts. Who am I to say otherwise? Who are you?”

“I'm the man who doesn't want to have to shun his brother,” Dante replied in a matter-of-fact manner. “My father has already made it clear that he will have nothing to do with Orlando if he marries your sister. If he disowns him, we will all have to follow suit, or Father won't have anything to do with any of us.”

“But in time, perhaps your father will see reason.”

“What my father sees is his son dishonoring him by disobeying. I would think even the Panetta family could understand that. The Bible does say that children are to honor their mothers and fathers. Orlando is clearly dishonoring our father.”

“But he's no longer a child,” Chantel countered. She took the cloth from Dante's face and rinsed it in the basin. “He's a man full grown, and as such, he must decide for himself what is right and wrong.” Placing the cloth on his face again, she added, “And even so, his love for my sister does not equal dishonor toward his papa.”

“Tell that to our father,” Dante said, meeting her studious gaze. “You don't know how this has hurt him.”

“I'm sorry that anyone should be hurt because two people hold a deep love for each other. I'm even sorry your brother hit you, although I can definitely understand why he did it.” A small smile grazed her lips.

“Smile all you like, but if you won't listen to reason regarding the problems between our families,” Dante said, trying to win her support, “then at least consider the fact that they are both very young. Too young to be embarking on something as important as marriage.”

Chantel looked at him as if he'd spoken a strange language. “People marry this young all the time. Most women are wed by the time they reach Isabella's age.”

“Here's some ice,” Mama declared as she returned to the room. “I tied it into a dishcloth so it shouldn't be so cold against your skin. You know, you will probably have bruising. Your papa will want to know what happened.”

“I'll tell him I fell,” Dante muttered and added, “against Orlando's fist.”

Mrs. Panetta chuckled as if she were dealing with nothing more difficult than patching up one of her own boys. “Brothers will fight. Your father will understand that.”

“Yes, but he won't understand our absence,” Dante said. He pushed aside the ice and sat up. The entire room began to spin, but he fought the urge to lie back down. “My nonna had already begun to set the table for our noon meal when my father realized Orlando was gone. I think Father thought he had just gone off for a brief walk, but I knew in my heart that this was where he would come.”

“And so he did,” Mrs. Panetta replied. “You are a smart young man. Seems a pity that you can't use that intelligence to resolve this matter without it coming to blows.”

“He's the one who struck first. Not me.”

“Well, then, that makes it all right,” Mrs. Panetta said with a rather jolly expression on her face.

Dante knew she was being sarcastic. He might have smiled himself at one time, but he couldn't find the will within him. Struggling to his feet, Dante again had to wait for the room to stop tilting before he could find Orlando.

“Thank you for tending to me,” he told Mrs. Panetta. He gave a quick, sidelong glance at Chantel. “You are both very gracious, Christian women. I appreciate that you want peace between our families. I appreciate that you would feed and care for your enemy . . . that you are willing to forgive.”

“You are not my enemy,” Mrs. Panetta replied, sounding almost miffed. “And neither is your father. The devil alone is my enemy.” She moved to the door. “Chantel, if he passes out, let him fall to the ground. Maybe he'll hit his head again and knock some sense into it this time.”

Chantel chuckled, and Dante fixed her with a frown. “So you find that amusing.”

She got to her feet and shrugged. “I've simply never met a more stubborn, senseless person in my twenty-two years.”

Dante's head was already throbbing from the added pressure of standing. There was no chance he was going to stand by and let this young woman berate him, however. He pointed a finger at her and narrowed his eyes. “Then you should take a good long look in the mirror—and at your family.”

He went to the open bedroom door and took hold of the jamb just before another wave of dizziness washed over him.
Orlando should take up boxing,
he thought, but said nothing. When the wave calmed once again, he stepped into the hallway and went in search of his brother.

Orlando looked up rather sheepishly when Dante entered the front sitting room. “You doing all right?” he asked.

“No thanks to you.” Dante took hold of the chair back and steadied himself. The pain in his face made him wish he could go and lie back down. “Let's go home.”

To his surprise Orlando still seemed disinclined. “Dante, I do love her. We will marry. Father might not approve, but I don't care. I will always care deeply about him—you and Nonna, too—but I can't walk away from what I know is right.”

Dante got a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You haven't . . . you didn't take advantage of her . . . did you?”

Orlando jumped to his feet. “No! I would never do something like that!”

This time it was a wave of relief that washed over Dante's worried mind. “Good. For a second there I thought you were implying you had to marry her.”

“Hardly that. I would never feel that I had to marry Isabella. I only know that I want to marry her—that without her I'm nothing.”

“Stop it. You sound like one of those silly play actors on the stage. In time you'll find someone appropriate and forget about her.”

This only served to anger his brother more, and when Orlando charged at him, Dante was pretty confident another blow was coming his way. This time he was ready and blocked Orlando's advance.

“Get out of my way,” his brother declared. He moved past Dante and into the foyer, where Isabella Panetta now stood.

“I'm sorry to be the cause of problems between you,” Isabella told Orlando.

“My brother is the cause of problems. My father is the cause of problems. You are not.” He reached out and touched her cheek in a tender manner. “You are my heart.”

Dante came to where they stood. “This has to end,” he said, looking first at Orlando and then to Isabella. “You have to know that our father will never allow for this. He will move his entire family as far away as is necessary before he will allow you to marry her.”

“Then I won't go with him—with any of you,” Orlando replied. “Isabella will be my family. I don't need anyone else.” His anger grew more apparent with each word. “If my family cannot love and accept the woman I love—then they are not my family.” He looked to Isabella. “I'm sorry. I have to go deal with my father, but I will return.” He left the Panetta house without another word to his brother.

Dante looked at Isabella. “This is your fault. If you weren't enticing him, demanding he forget his name and family, none of this would be happening. I hope you're happy.”

To his surprise, the young woman burst into tears and fled the foyer.

Stepping outside before any of the Panettas could come to take issue with his comments, Dante scanned the street but saw nothing of Orlando. The dismal gray skies had begun to unleash snow, however.

“You are such a bully.”

Dante cringed at the sound of Chantel Panetta's voice. He truly had no desire to deal with her just now. His head hurt, and he was already angry at himself for having made Isabella cry. He turned to face her, nevertheless.

“I only said what had to be said,” he replied. “I am sorry
for having hurt your sister's feelings, but she needs to see reason. You all need to see reason.”

“And you think you're the one to show us?” she questioned. “Why, I seriously doubt you know anything about love.”

Dante bristled. “And I suppose you think you can teach me all about it?”

To his surprise Chantel gave a harsh laugh. “Mr. Calarco, I'm only a woman—not a miracle worker.”

Chantel returned to the house and slammed the door closed behind her. Something had happened to her while tending Dante's unconscious form, and she couldn't yet reconcile it in her mind. The frustration and anger she felt toward him now was much easier to understand than the tenderness she had felt for him then.

She tried hard to put those thoughts from her mind. Dante Calarco was an ill-tempered bully whose only purpose in life was to cause others misery. Her sister's sobbing was proof enough.

Gathering up the dinner platters and empty bowls, Chantel sighed. The joy of Christmas that had filled their home earlier had disappeared. The thought of a father disowning his son at any time was heartbreaking, but at Christmas it was even worse.

Father,
Chantel silently prayed as she moved around the table,
this seems so impossible, yet I know that you are God over all things. You set the world into motion. You can change the heart of one man—or of many.