Catarina's Ring

by Lisa McGuinness

  She let go of him and stood back, suddenly remembering that she hardly knew him, and a sense of formality overcame her sense of relief.

  “Buon giorno, Franco.”

  “Buon giorno, Catarina. It’s good to see you again.” His eyes were smiling with warmth and happiness.

  “Grazie.” While they spoke, she took in his face. It was nice-looking, but she couldn’t stop herself from comparing it to Gregorio’s. Franco’s face, instead, was narrow and his nose was a classic Italian nose. His eyes were a rich deep brown, instead of the light green of Gregorio’s, and his hair was straight and dark. He wore brown pants and a white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a hat to keep the sun out of his eyes.

  It’s ok, though, she told herself. It’s a kind face.

  And then she remembered Maria and looked around once again for her.

  Franco noticed an almost frantic look crossing her face.

  “Tutto a posto? Hai perso qualcosa?” Is everything all right? Did you lose something?

  “Maria. I have to find her. She’s the girl who shared my berth for the crossing. It was perfect, Franco, because she also came here to get married. We became fast friends.”

  “Si, don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

  “We stayed together though immigration, but then we got separated at the end and I couldn’t find her. I can’t leave her. I need to know that she made it through and say goodbye.”

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her again.

  “Her fidanzato’s first name is Roberto,” Catarina said, opening her purse. “Let me find where I have his surname,” she searched through her purse until she found the name and address Maria had given her before. “Penachi,” she said and handed Franco the note with his name.

  “Roberto Penachi!” Franco yelled into the crowd. And then louder, “ROBERTO PENACHI!”

  “Qui!” a man yelled back. “Here!”

  A stocky, homely man came forward and Catarina smiled with relief, because she could tell, just by looking at him, that he was nice. His face was sympathetic and open.

  “Buon giorno, Signor Penachi. My name is Catarina Pensebene and I made the crossing with your fiancée, Maria. We got separated at the end of our time going through immigration, and I’m looking for her. I wanted to make sure she made it through. I don’t know what could have kept her.” She spoke rapidly, as if she needed to get the whole story out at once. “We went in to the examination rooms at the same time, and then when I was done, I couldn’t find her again.”

  A look of concern crossed his face as he considered the different things that could have gone wrong. People were turned away all the time for many different reasons.

  The three stood awkwardly for some time, staring at the doors, willing Maria to walk through them. Each time someone emerged they would look up hopefully. At least forty-five minutes passed while they made painful small talk and waited. Catarina told them an abbreviated version of their trip and about how much they enjoyed each other’s company. And then finally, behind a large family, came Maria. Her face held the same tentative expression that Catarina’s had when she walked through the doors, and then she saw her friend. They ran to each other and threw their arms around each other.

  “What happened to you?” they said simultaneously.

  “I couldn’t find you after the examination,” Catarina said. “When I got out, I tried to wait, and then other people in line pushed me forward until I was in the other room and I couldn’t find you!”

  “When I went in to get my exam, there was a large family still inside and I had to wait, and wait. I’m so glad to see you!”

  “I was so worried when you didn’t come out. I couldn’t think of any reason they would turn you back, but when it was so long, I was sure there was trouble.”

  Finally the girls slowed down enough for Roberto to graciously clear his throat, so he could meet his future wife.

  “Excuse me,” he said quietly, then moved forward a step and took off his hat. “Maria, may I present myself? I am Roberto Penachi.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, looking down shyly. “I’m sorry I am so dirty. I wish I could have looked better to meet you.”

  He smiled at her kindly. “You look beautiful to me,” he said shyly. “Besides, we know what it’s like, don’t we, friend?” he said to Franco. “I am eager to bring you home to meet my family.”

  “Yes, we should be going, too,” Franco agreed.

  “Promise to write to me,” Maria said, hugging Catarina once again.

  “I will. And you write to me, too. Si? And thank you for everything,” Catarina gave her a meaningful look, knowing she would understand that she meant.

  Maria smiled back at her. “You’re welcome. Be happy.”

  “You, too.”

  The August day was humid and sweltering. Catarina’s clothes stuck to her and she was desperate to rest after a night on the hard floor. Franco led her to the shade of a tree where he left her to arrange accommodations for the next ferry. He soon returned with a porter, who took her trunk and suitcase and delivered them to the dock. Once on board, they sat together along the rail of the boat, so she could see the city as they approached.

  “It’s strange,” she said as they got closer.” It’s big. Much larger than I imagined.”

  “It is,” he smiled, remembering how he felt when he first arrived. “I got rooms for us at a hotel for the next two nights, so you can rest and we can see New York, and then we’ll take a train to San Francisco.”

  “Rooms?” she said, her tone unsure and nervous.

  “Yes, separate rooms, so don’t worry,” he reassured her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And guess what?” he asked her, as excited as a child showing off a new toy. “The hotel where we’re staying has a water closet. Water comes out of pipes and you can have a bath in a bathtub right in your room.”

  “I don’t understand,” Catarina said. A vision of the water pump in the square at home coming to mind.

  “You’ll see.” Franco recalled the first time he seen indoor plumbing and had a hot bath in a bathtub. He could fully submerge himself in the claw-foot tub at home. It was so different than the customary sponge baths when he visited family in Italy.

  He turned towards Catarina. Her face was pink from the breeze coming off the water. She was as lovely as he’d known she’d be.

  “Before we get there though,” he said. “I have something to give you. It’s something I made myself. It represents the fact that I will be good to you. I will always take care of you. It’s a way to say thank you for taking this risk, and agreeing to be my wife.”

  Catarina looked up at him. His face was so serious and hopeful. Franco reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out a box, and then carefully opened the lid. Inside was the most exquisite ring she had ever seen. It was diamonds in a platinum setting. The center stone had a line of three baguettes on each side and then those diamonds were surrounded in three fleur de lys of small diamonds.

  Her hands were shaking, but he took her left hand and slid it onto her wedding-ring finger.

  “It’s bellismo, Franco. More than I could ever imagine.”

  “Each stone is flawless, like you.”

  Catarina choked back a small laugh. “I am not flawless,” she said and guiltily thought back to throwing the handkerchief she’d made for Franco into the sea just two days before. And now, she was accepting this ring, which felt disingenuous.

  But her mother’s voice was in her mind. “Choose happiness,” it said. Catarina had left home to find a better life. She had given up family and Gregorio and now here she was being presented with a flawless gift. She resolved to make sure she would live up to her wedding vows. She would embrace her life and her husband.

  “Grazie, Franco. I don’t know what to say. It’s a work of art.”

  Franco smiled, obviously pleased.

  “And this way, with a ring on your finger, no one
will question us traveling together before we’re married. I don’t want any appearance of impropriety. My brother would have come as a chaperone to avoid any risk of gossip but we’re so busy at the store, it was even difficult for me to get away. But be assured,” he said, “I will behave honorably.”

  For the first time since she and Gregorio had parted, Catarina laughed. “I’m sure you will be honorable, or my babbo will skin you alive. All the way from Italy.”

  Franco laughed as well. “Yes, he would.”

  Chapter 14

  JULIETTE, SINKING INTO ROMAN’S MESSY APARTMENT WITH STACKS OF COOKBOOKS AND WROUGHT IRON RAILINGS

  Over the next weeks Juliette knew she was falling hard. There were many things that attracted her to Roman: his wit, his sophistication, his Italianness. The time she spent with him felt supercharged, intense and exhilarating, like she was a more exciting version of herself with him.

  Roman was generous with praise, listened to her thoughts and dreams, was a gentleman about little things like opening the door, following her up the stairs, and standing up when she returned to the table when they went out to dinner. He was a class act and she appreciated it. Completely aside from feelings of attraction, she adored him and he seemed to feel the same. They spent hours upon hours together and their interest in each other never seemed to wane. The fact that she was due to leave at the end of the class session loomed in her mind.

  She had been falling in love with Italy as well. Not just the Italy she was in, but also with the Italy described in Catarina’s letters. She poured over the correspondence during her downtime and was surprised by what she was learning about her grandmother and her life growing up. She’d had no idea that she had been the victim of an attempted rape until she discussed it in her letter to her friend Maria. And even then, she only talked about it to encourage her friend to find the good in her circumstances. She wanted her to search for happiness with her husband in spite of her homesickness. To see that good could come from something difficult in the same way she felt that the happiness she had found had been born from the terror of her experience, which prompted her to accept the marriage proposal instead of staying in Italy.

  “She was such a strong woman,” Juliette told Gina when they talked.

  “Interesting that Nonna fled from Italy to get away from a terrible situation and you fled to Italy for the same reason.”

  “Hardly the same reason,” Juliette countered.

  “Not exactly the same, but interesting coincidence nonetheless.”

  “Yeah, I guess I can see that. So maybe I should ask myself what Nonna would do if she were me.”

  “I know exactly what she would tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To use the money Mom left you to open your café when you get home.”

  Juliette sighed. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she could see her sister’s point. Then again, maybe she wasn’t ready to go home yet.

  Juliette had been spending almost as much time at Roman’s apartment as at her own. It was on the second floor, just off the square, with stone walls and multiple twisted wrought-iron balconies. His furniture was luxurious and comfy—grays and dark browns. His couch was something she sank into and never wanted to get out of. But the best part was the mess. There were stacks of cookbooks, old newspapers piled up, and herbs drying along the window (something most American men would never do). It was the perfect combination of old and new world and she liked having some of her things strewn here and there amidst his stuff.

  She couldn’t get enough of his kitchen. There were copper pots and pans hanging above the stove and rustic wooden countertops. She wanted to live and die in his kitchen.

  She often sat at his counter in the evenings after class with a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta, making notes on the iPad she bought once she realized her folder was getting bloated with too many scraps of paper.

  Roman was full of ideas and often gave suggestions about what she could do if she opened a café. He talked about teaching techniques and his favorite recipes, produce, cheese, and equipment.

  He often came behind her while she typed in her notes, lifting her hair and kissing her neck. Then he’d move away and pick up a book. He had thick black-rimmed reading glasses that somehow made his face even sexier.

  Juliette sighed. “I’m starting to get confused,” she said, turning to Roman and switching off her iPad.

  “About what?” he asked, folding the newspaper and looking at her.

  “My mom left me some money and I could use it to open my café, but I don’t think using the money would be right. I mean,” she clarified, “I don’t think I could stand to use the money.”

  “Why not?”

  Juliette put her head in her hands. She hadn’t elaborated about the circumstances of her mom’s death since the abbreviated explanation she’d initially given Roman. Her plan of deep denial had been working and she was loathe to rock her newly-acquired boat of contentment. It had been a relief to keep it to herself, but now she needed to talk it through with him.

  “Because I don’t want the money. I want my mom back. I know that sounds juvenile. I just want to undo the whole terrible thing. I want to relive the moment and shove her out of the way of the car. Just to shove her out of the way and undo it.”

  Roman scooted next to her and took her hand.

  “You told me your mother was hit by a car in front of you. Maybe you should tell me exactly what happened. Therapy, no? Aren’t you Americans fond of telling everything?” He smiled and nudged her with his shoulder in an attempt to cajole her into talking about it.

  So she did talk to him about everything that had happened—including the nightmares, finding the letters and plane ticket her mom had given her the day she was killed, escaping to Italy, and finally the inheritance that was emotionally ripping her apart.

  When she was done she smiled, “That actually was therapeutic. Grazie.”

  “Si, American through and through.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I can see how painful this has been, but unfortunately there’s nothing to be done, mia cara. That’s the terrible tragedy about life, no? It moves forward solamente and we can’t change our mistakes.”

  “I know. I mean, I know that intellectually, but I’m having trouble coming to terms with it.”

  “Clearly,” he smiled sympathetically at her. “What would your mother want you to do?”

  “Use the money.” Juliette said without hesitation.

  “Then, perhaps that’s what you should do,” he said gently.

  “That’s what my dad and sister think, and sometimes lately I’ve been thinking the same. But then, my mind switches gears. I think about the guilt I feel, and I think about you and about how much I love it here. I can’t even imagine leaving. How can I be so at odds with myself? I feel like a ping-pong ball.”

  Roman rubbed her arm and touched her face.

  Juliette looked at his face and knew that she had fallen in love with this kind-hearted man: he was opinionated and funny, shared his dreams and details about his family and friends.

  So how could she leave in another couple of months whether she wanted to open a café or not? But then again, how could she not leave? She knew her dad and sister wanted her home.

  She snuggled next to Roman.

  “What am I going to do?” she asked him.

  “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, bella. You’re going to learn everything there is to learn while you’re here and stop worrying about the future. It will take care of itself. Stop being a—what did you call it? Ping-pong ball?”

  “That’s easier said than done,” she kissed his cheek. “But I’ll try.”

  “Esatamente, that’s good.” Roman put his arms around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her until her mind was on to new thoughts entirely.

  In the spirit of enjoying her time in Italy instead of ruminating, Juliette decided to plan the dinner she had s
poken about with Odessa ages before. It had slipped her mind in the intensity of her relationship with Roman, but she finally set a date to cook for her friends.

  She envisioned an extension of the dinner she, Odessa, and Antonello had at her now-favorite restaurant. She splurged on a couple of bottles of exceptional wine and cooked pici con salsa alle noci, thick handmade egg noodles with walnut sauce. They had learned to make the rustic noodles in class, but it was the first time Juliette tried to craft them on her own. The creamy walnut sauce was one of her favorites and she knew it would be delicious and worth the hours the meal took to prepare.

  She set her small table and added flowers and candles as a centerpiece. It looked inviting. Roman arrived first, which was perfect. She wanted to have a few minutes alone with him before Odessa and Antonello came.

  “Welcome,” she said and handed him a glass of wine. He stood at the counter while she finished grinding white pepper into the sauce.

  The noodles caught his attention.

  “Pici?” he asked, and picked up a noodle from the batch that was set out on a cloth.

  “I thought I would give them a try. What do you think?” Juliette was proud of them.

  “They’re quite good, Juliette. For someone who isn’t a native Italian you pick up on our culinary arts quickly. You’re one of the best students I’ve ever had.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

  “I’m not just saying it.”

  “Thank you,” she pressed her lips to his. “Hopefully you’ll like the sauce, too.”

  “I’m sure I will,” he said, and wrapped her in his arms.

  “You know, I could get used to this. Maybe I’ll never go home,” she tried out tentatively. “Maybe I’ll stay here with you.” Juliette tilted her head back and looked at him.

  “Voresti restare? You would stay?” he asked. “But what about getting back to your father and sister? And maybe opening your café?”

  “You don’t like the idea of me staying?”

  “It’s not that at all,” he said, smoothing her hair back and kissing her forehead, then looking away with an expression that seemed almost furtive to Juliette.