The Miner's Lady (9 page)

“Marilla's letter says that she could use as much tatting and Chantilly lace as we have to sell,” Mama said, looking up from the missive as the family enjoyed a quiet evening in the warm sitting room. Outside the wind howled, but the house was a perfect refuge.

Marco poked at the fire and added another log to keep the room toasty. Isabella worked feverishly on her sewing, and Chantel couldn't help but wonder just how soon the young couple would elope. She hadn't had a chance to really speak to her sister on the matter since the accident last week.

Papa rocked quietly, a warm wrap tucked around his legs. He'd only been home a day, but Chantel could tell that he
was feeling much better. He said there was something about being among his loved ones that made him heal all the faster.

Mama continued. “She also says that she will be sending a Christmas package soon, although she wishes we could join her for the holidays in Duluth.”

“Aunt Marilla always sends such wonderful gifts,” Chantel replied. Her wealthy widowed aunt was most generous with her dead husband's money. Uncle Gaetan Faverau had made a small fortune and never failed to spoil his childless wife, and she in turn had learned to do likewise with her family.

“It would be wonderful to see her again,” Isabella surprised Chantel by adding. “Maybe Christmas in Duluth would be possible, Papa?”

“We can't leave our jobs to go gallivanting off like that,” Marco said before their father could speak. “The mine captain has already been complaining that production is behind. Quotas have to be met.”

“I heard them say we'll be going to twelve-hour shifts before Christmas,” Alfredo added.

“That's hardly fair,” Isabella pouted.

“Fairness never figured into iron mining,” Marco countered.

“I've been thinking,” Papa began, “that God has given me a second chance to live a better life.”

His sudden declaration immediately caught the attention of his family. Mama smiled and nodded as if she knew what he would say next. “I think,” Papa continued, “that it is time for us to put our affairs in order. To set our lives right before God.”

Chantel saw Marco frown. “And what do you mean by
that, Papa?” he asked. “I suppose you'll want us all confessing our sins and attending church regularly.” Marco sounded sarcastic and unimpressed.

“What I want . . . is an end to the fighting,” Papa replied. “I want to make peace with the Calarcos.”

As Christmas neared, the mine owners mandated twelve-hour shifts for their workers to meet their promised quotas. It seemed the entire nation, possibly the world, was hungry for Minnesota's very pure Bessemer iron ore.

Dante knew the hours were hard on his father, whose age often seemed more apparent in the cold months of winter. The damp cold of the north was only exacerbated by time spent deep in the mine. There the dampness was aggravated by seepage from the ground water and occasional unearthed springs. The pumps ran regularly to keep the mine shafts dry, but it did nothing to help the heaviness of the air. Most of the men who worked underground had a perpetual cough, and Dante's father was no exception.

These circumstances made Dante consider moving a natural solution. Of course, if they continued mining work, it would be damp and cold no matter where they went. But surely a warmer location would give his father's lungs time to dry out. And there were a great many states where mining jobs could be had, especially for men who were skilled in handling explosives.

Of course, his father really hadn't given any serious consideration to the idea. Dante had talked to him on several occasions, reminding his father that there were better places to live—places that would be easier on Nonna. Since first mentioning the idea of moving south, Dante couldn't help but think it would solve all of their problems. If he could just get Orlando away from Ely and Isabella Panetta, he would surely forget about his idea of marriage. Didn't the saying go, “Out of sight, out of mind?”

Making a careful check of his explosive supplies, Dante was surprised when he looked up to find the Panetta men coming his way. He closed the wooden lid on a crate of dynamite and turned to face them. Marco and Alfredo walked on either side of their father. Their soft mining caps were aglow from the small candle affixed to the canvas rim. Mining was dirty, dark work, and the candles were standard operating equipment. Even so, it wasn't something he wanted close to the explosives. Holding up his hand, Dante hoped they wouldn't take offense.

“I've got dynamite here.”

The younger men stopped, but Mr. Panetta reached up to extinguish his candle, then slowly stepped forward. “I wonder if your father is nearby.”

Dante looked around. “He was here a moment ago.” He felt apprehensive and narrowed his gaze. “Is there a problem?”

“Hasn't there always been a problem between our families?” Panetta replied. “I've come to make peace.”

“Peace?” Dante wasn't at all sure he'd heard right. “You want to make peace between our families? Here? Now?”

“I do.” Panetta's dark-eyed gaze pierced deep into Dante's soul. They were eyes that reminded him much of Chantel's.
Dante forced the thought away. He couldn't allow himself to think about her.

“I think it's well past time,” the older man added. In Panetta's expression was a look that suggested true regret.

Dante was about to speak when his father came up from behind him. “What are you doing here?” he asked Panetta. Stepping between his son and the older man, Calarco pointed his finger. “We do our jobs; now go do yours.”

Mr. Panetta squared his shoulders. “I've come in peace, Vittorio.”

Dante's father spit on the ground in disgust. “There can be no peace between us. Our ancestors cry out from the grave that you would even suggest such a thing.”

“That's just my point,” Panetta said, his expression softening. “I was nearly one of those ancestors. That accident,” he said, stressing the word, “opened my eyes to the futility and stupidity of our feud.”

Dante's father raised his fist. His face reddened. “You would dare to say my people were stupid. I should cut out your tongue. I should kill you for saying such a thing.”

Dante feared his father's words would only serve to rile the Panetta brothers, but they stood back and said nothing.

“I'm suggesting that both of our families were mistaken,” Panetta replied. “God calls us to peace, and I'm here to extend that peace to you and your sons.”

Again Dante's father spit, and this time he swore, as well. Dante kept his gaze fixed on the three Panetta men, fearful that his father's anger would cause one of them to start trouble. They did nothing, however.
Maybe they are just as tired of this nonsense as their father
, he thought.

“Vittorio, we can make peace and put an end to this,” Panetta said, limping forward.

Dante wondered if the cold damp of the mine caused the man's pain to increase. It seemed he hadn't limped quite so much when they'd first approached. Calarco pulled back and held out his fist.

“I make no peace with you. Calarcos have nothing to do with Panettas! Nothing except death!”

Giovanni Panetta halted and crossed his arms. “Then perhaps you should tell that to your son.”

Calarco looked to Dante with an unspoken question in his expression. Dante didn't have a chance to say a word, however.

“Not that one. I'm speaking of your youngest—Orlando. It would seem he's quite content to have something to do with Panettas. Particularly my daughter Isabella.”

“It's a lie!” Calarco raged. “A Panetta lie! My boys—they do not touch your daughters. They would not dishonor their ancestors and family that way. They know better.”

“And I say otherwise. You should maybe ask Dante. My daughter tells me he knows all about it.”

Dante felt as if the man had sent him a hard blow to the midsection. He stiffened as his father turned accusing eyes on him. How could he admit to knowing about this ordeal without causing his father even greater shame?

“
E'colpa mia
, Papa. All my fault. I've tried my best to put a stop to it,” Dante found himself explaining. “It's the biggest reason I suggested we leave Ely.” By now several additional miners had gathered to see what the raised voices were all about.

“You knew, but you say nothing to me about it?” His father's eyes narrowed in anger. “I will deal with you later. I will deal with you both, but for now, I say no more.” He turned back to Panetta. “I will put an end to this thing myself.”

“Wouldn't it just be better to make peace between us?” Panetta again tried. “Nearly dying gave me a great deal to think about. I spoke to Father Buh, and he helped me to see that sometimes God gives us a second chance to make things right. He believes that God is calling us to make the peace.”

Dante's father opened his mouth to speak, then closed it just as quickly. No one would speak out against the local priest. The man was loved by everyone, whether they attended St. Anthony's or elsewhere. Calarco looked at the gathering of fellow miners and muttered several expletives under his breath.

“I do not believe God tells us to make this peace. I believe God would tell me, if this were true. I will honor my people . . . the pledges of my father and his father before him. I am a Calarco, and there can be no peace with you.” He turned and proudly stalked away.

Dante was left to face the Panettas. He understood his father's frustration. He was embarrassed by not knowing what was happening under his own nose. For his son to disrespect him in such a way was a humiliating thing. For his enemy to point it out made matters even worse.

Mr. Panetta looked to Dante. “I am sorry. I do want an end to this fighting. I tell you here and now, this feud will not continue because of us. It is finished.”

The Panettas turned to go back to their tasks. Dante said nothing to stop them and nothing to agree with them. He
couldn't very well do either one without causing his father further shame.

Chantel giggled like a schoolgirl. It was nearly Christmas, and the festive spirit was upon her. With the holiday just days away, Chantel found herself caught up in the joy of the occasion. She thought of the hidden presents she'd brought back from Italy. She had something for each member of the family and knew they would be quite happy with the gifts. Especially Mama.

Then there were the parties; informal, but well-attended gatherings of family and friends. Every night it seemed someone held open their home for visitation and refreshments. It might have been exhausting had it not been for the happiness the season brought.

Of late, Chantel had been kept quite busy at home with baking and creating little bags of goodies for the neighborhood children. She had brought home many of her father's family recipes and was anxious to try them all. Already she had compared some of the dishes with recipes from her mother's family. Mama was French-Italian, while Papa's ancestors had originally come from farther south of Rome, eventually resettling in the northern wine country. The recipes they cherished were often similar, but sometimes very different.

With her list of needed ingredients in hand, Chantel found herself perusing the shelves of one store and then another in order to find everything they would need. It was helpful that additional stores had come to Ely in her absence. Helpful, too, that with the growing population sporting so many
Italians, the storekeepers had started paying more attention to that culture's culinary needs.

The clerk stepped forward to help her and smiled. “What can I do for you today, miss?”

She checked her list again and drew out two small glass jars. “I need a quarter cup of cinnamon and a quarter cup of anise.”

The clerk took her jars and turned to the labeled spices behind him. Rows of bottled spices were filed alphabetically and set at a level that was easy to access. Some of the other stores used drawers or tins, but Mama preferred the spices to be kept in glass.

As the man began to measure out the anise, Chantel was surprised by a friendly greeting.

“Buon giorno!” Mrs. Barbato said with a smile. The old woman seemed quite jolly. She wore a bright red bonnet and scarf that very nearly matched the hue of her cheeks.

“Good . . . morning,” Chantel replied rather hesitantly.

“You are well, yes?”

“Sí.” Chantel felt rather awkward.
“E tu?”

“Sí, I am well. I came to town with friends.” She nodded toward Chantel's basket. “I see you are shopping to make your Christmas goodies.” She motioned to her own basket. “As am I.”

Chantel relaxed. There was nothing wrong in having a conversation with Mrs. Barbato, even if she was Dante's grandmother. “We've been getting ready for the holidays. My brothers are quite fond of sweets, but my sister Isabella is even worse. For such a tiny girl, you wouldn't think she could eat so much candy without getting fat.”

Then the old woman laughed and patted her waist. “I am fond of it, too. Especially
Torrone
. You will make some, sí?”

The traditional Italian Christmas candy was a favorite of Chantel's brothers. “Sí. Mama has been shelling almonds and hazelnuts for days. My brother Marco could eat his weight in Torrone.”

Mrs. Barbato chuckled. “Ah, so could my Dante and Orlando. They are spoiled, but I love them so.”

“My Nonna Panetta taught me to make
struffoli
a little different from my mama's recipe, so I'm anxious to try that, as well.” Chantel tried not to show her discomfort at the mention of the woman's grandsons.

“There are many ways to make it. I like the dough to have lemon and orange zest,” the old woman declared. “Then I make the honey mixture with just a hint of clove.”

“So does Nonna Panetta.”

The woman laughed. “Sí, we sometimes shared our recipes when we could. Now for the candied fruit—does your nonna still include candied melon rind?”

Chantel had known the two women had grown up in the same town, but hadn't realized that Nonna Panetta and Mrs. Barbato had ever spoken, much less exchanged recipes. “You know my nonna?”

Mrs. Barbato's smile dimmed only a bit. “Sí, but our families . . . they did not like us to be friends, so we didn't speak of it.”

“I can well imagine,” Chantel replied. She glanced around all of a sudden, almost fearful that someone might have overheard. “I suppose I'm surprised that you're even speaking to me.” She gave a nervous laugh to ease her own embarrassment at the situation.