“And yet it’s you who does all the work.”
Julietta had never thought about it like that. But it was true. In a way.
“She owns the shop, she’s undoubtedly rich, and she becomes richer off your labor. She’s a parasite. She’s making all of her money from your hard work.”
He made it sound as if she deserved more money. Imagine asking Madame for a raise! There were at least three girls down on the second floor who aspired to her position. Asking for more money would be the same as telling Madame to let her go! But then, he’d just come over from the old country, hadn’t he? Perhaps he didn’t yet understand how America worked. “Perhaps she is. But what’s wrong with a pretty gown?”
Nothing. He liked seeing a pretty girl in a pretty gown just as well as any other man. He’d like Julietta’s better, of course, if her neckline were lower. And the skirt even a bit higher. “I just hate to see a girl like you deceived by all that propaganda.”
“And what am I supposed to do if I don’t work?” She couldn’t imagine such a thing.
“You could ride along in the truck with me.”
All day? Much as she liked Angelo, much as she hoped her future would include him, she knew that none of her best assets would be showcased sitting beside him all day in a truck. “Maybe I could. But I’d have to ride in one first to see if I’d like it, wouldn’t I?” She threw the nectarine pit into the litter-strewn water, then turned on a heel and began walking away.
“But – where are you going?”
She turned, but continued to walk, one dainty foot, one slender ankle behind the other. “Home.” She smiled and gave a little wave.
“Meet me tomorrow. Here.”
She nodded and then she disappeared from view around the corner.
Tomorrow! He’d asked her to meet him tomorrow. Of course . . . she’d told Madame she’d work on her English. She almost turned around and went back to tell Angelo she couldn’t see him. But . . . wouldn’t he think her a child to be so unsure of what she wanted? To keep changing her mind? She was old enough to do what she wanted. Isn’t that what she’d told Mama? And that’s exactly what she planned to keep on doing! As far as she’d seen, America was about doing what you wanted.
16
While Julietta was talking with Angelo, Luciana was back on Beacon Hill. She’d been sent to retrieve the sample books from Mrs. Quinn. And this time, Billy wasn’t going out to The Tennis and Racquet Club, he was coming back. He jogged up the steps behind her and opened the door for her. What good fortune! What great luck!
She was wearing the same gown she’d worn the day before, an ivory color, in a fabric so insubstantial it seemed to float in the air around her. It was done up with a sash that let him know that underneath all those layers she was as slender as she was lithe. He wondered anew what country she was from. Had he had the advantage of a classical education, he would have known how to speak Italian. Proper Italian. Her Italian. As it was, his mother had never let him learn it. It was the one point from which his father could never sway her.
“For what purpose?” she had always asked. “So that he can speak to those filthy, destitute immigrants? Why should he have to learn to speak to them? They ought to be learning to speak to him.”
His father would always sigh and shake his head. Protest that not all Italians were like that, while his mother argued that of course they were, a peculiar sort of triumph lighting her eyes.
Billy had learned a different language instead. And he could speak it quite well, though he hadn’t kept up with those studies since the war had started. German wasn’t something that anyone wanted to admit to speaking. Not anymore.
While Luciana was waiting to be given the sample books, Billy slipped outside and dismissed her waiting car. Then he asked for the Packard Twin to be brought around instead. He wanted to speak to her again. Or at least try to. He knew it probably wasn’t the most proper thing to do, but how many more times could he expect her to show up on his doorstep? When he was home? And in any case, he couldn’t ask her permission to drive her home. She didn’t understand him. He had to present it as a fait accompli.
She came out the door and made it down one step before she realized her motorcar had gone. She stepped back up onto the porch. Looked up the street. Put a hand up to shield her eyes from the slanting sun. Looked down the street. Her motorcar was nowhere to be seen. “Mannaggia!” She’d had to endure the strega’s sharp looks and the diatribe the woman had given, and now her motorcar had gone.
There was no help for it. She’d have to walk back to Madame’s. And then she’d still have to walk home. She sighed. Looked down toward her throbbing feet. She’d finally set aside enough money to buy new shoes, but she hadn’t been able to afford the best quality. The leather was too stiff. They had been biting into her heels the entire day.
“Hey!”
She looked toward the sound and saw a man waving at her. The strega’s son. She lifted a hand and waved back.
“I can drive you.”
She smiled. Waved again. Pressed the heavy books to her chest and started down the steps. Porca miseria. Of all the miserable luck. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, turned east, and started the trek toward downtown.
What? She was going to – “Wait. Stop!” Billy lifted his voice so that it would follow her.
Luciana heard Billy’s cries and threw a glance back over her shoulder. He’d opened the door of the car.
“I can drive you.”
Was he asking her to get in? He’d been nice enough the day before, though she hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
“Really. I can drive you. It’s not a problem.” He’d opened the door even wider, gesturing for her to get in.
No. She’d had quite enough of handsome, charming young men. She clutched the books more tightly to her chest and continued on down the sidewalk.
He watched as she turned her back and walked away from him. Rats! She didn’t understand. He slammed the door shut, ran to the driver’s side, and got into the car. Started the engine as she kept walking farther down the street.
He pulled up beside her. Raised his voice to be heard above the engine. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”
She sent a look of alarm in his direction. Began to walk faster.
“Hey – just – ” He left the car idling, got out, and sprinted to the sidewalk. “Would you just – ”
She dodged him and continued walking.
He skipped two steps to catch up. Tried to take the books from her.
She wrenched them free.
“Look, I just want to – ”
She’d started walking again.
He grabbed her by the arm to stop her.
Luciana was frightened now. Should she shout? Should she yell? She wrested herself free, terror dictating her motions, fear flashing in her eyes.
Billy saw tremors shake her shoulders. He stopped. Held up his hands. He hadn’t meant to cause such fear. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
She took one slow step backward. Then another.
“I want to help you.”
She didn’t know what to do. Should she knock on the door of one of those dignified houses and beg for help? But how would she make anyone understand?
“I don’t – I just – ” He’d completely botched it. But he was too polite to use the word he wanted to say in the presence of a woman, so he settled on satisfying sounding syllables instead. And he spoke them in German. “Verflixt!” Ran a hand through his hair as he turned away.
Behind him, Luciana blinked. Had he – “What is the matter with you?” Out of reflex she had responded in kind. In German.
He stopped and turned around. “What did you say?” Billy’s German accent had gone a bit flat from disuse, but Luciana understood him well enough.
“I said, what’s the matter with you? Accosting me like that!” His ability to speak German had cured her muteness. And it had restored her indignation and backbone too. Luciana the Immigrant had n
o idea how to fend off an unwanted advance. But Luciana Conti, schooled in the ballrooms of Europe, could quite handily wield every weapon in a woman’s arsenal.
A smile lit his lips, giving birth to a dimple in one cheek. “You’re German!” He would never have guessed it. She didn’t have the fair features or light-colored hair he associated with that race of people.
“German?”
“May I offer you a ride?”
His questions were coming too fast and were too confusing. A ride? “Where?”
“Back to the shop.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have one.”
She frowned. “I know it. I don’t understand what happened! The motorcar was supposed to wait for me.”
“I sent it away.”
“You – you what? Why?”
“Because I wanted to take you myself.”
“What for?”
He blinked. His intentions had never before been questioned, let alone his person scrutinized. At least not that directly. He found it rather awkward and more than a bit uncomfortable. But he fell back on his Irish charm. “How else am I to spend time with such a beautiful young woman as you?”
She wondered if all Americans were as charmlessly blunt. Now that he had explained himself, it all seemed rather innocuous. And there could be no deceit hiding within him. Not when he looked at her with such clear green eyes. She had the impression of being able to see straight through to his soul. “Then I forgive you.” She nodded and continued on her way.
She? – forgave him? Billy Quinn? Unbelievable! She’d had him practically on his knees, admitting to all kinds of private thoughts and secret hopes, and now she was going to walk away? Well . . . he wasn’t going to chase after her. There were some things a man just wouldn’t do. “The offer’s still good. For a ride back.” The foreign words, uncomfortable on his tongue, paralleled his emotions.
“I don’t need it.” What’s more, she didn’t want it. She turned, determined once more to walk away.
But he couldn’t just let her go. “One thing more. Before you leave, could I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”
She didn’t see any harm in giving it to him. At least not the first part. “It’s Luciana.”
“Luciana.” It fairly danced off the tip of his tongue.
The way he said her name made her remember . . . things that she shouldn’t. And so she didn’t reply and she didn’t stop. She kept on walking.
“Luciana.”
Did he have to keep saying her name! “What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I – ” Bleeding? “Where?” Her foot. It had to be. She lifted her heel up to the side so she could see it. Verflucht! He was right. She’d walked a hole right through one of her stockings and a gash right into her heel. And now that she’d seen it, her foot throbbed even more.
He drew the passenger door open. “May I offer you a ride?
If that wouldn’t be improper?”
Oh . . . bene. She’d accept his offer, but only because she was afraid she’d soon wear her heel to the bone. She approached the motorcar, and did what she’d always done in Roma. She climbed, not onto the front bench as Billy was hoping but past it, toward the backseat, leaving him to play chauffeur.
And he couldn’t help laughing out loud. Once again, she’d outfoxed him.
It wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. But he had sent her car away and he had nearly frightened her to death, so he supposed that he deserved it. Billy Quinn playing servant to an immigrant girl? Wouldn’t his mother be scandalized?
17
That Saturday, Julietta was completely regretting accepting an offer of her own. It was the night of Mauro’s dance and she wished – how she wished! – she had not been so overcome by the pageantry of the war concert. If she’d had her right mind about her, she would have said no.
“No.” She said it to her reflection in the mirror. And then she stuck out her tongue for good measure. But in truth, no did not come easily to Julietta. Not when it came to men. For there was always some task they could perform, some use they could fulfill. Even if it did not produce the result for which they were hoping.
She sighed.
There was nothing else to do. If the dance at the Sons of Avellino Hall was as close as she could get to a ball, then she might as well get on with the getting ready for it. She carefully parted her hair on one side and then spent the next hour coaxing her thick tresses into waves around her face. And then, once they had been pinned into position, she gathered up the rest of her hair and pulled it into a knot at her nape.
“How do I look?”
Josephine, passing behind Julietta, a pile of laundry in hand, paused. How did she look? Like a goddess. Like an angel. She bent to place the clothes on a stool, licked a finger, and put it to one of Julietta’s curls, pressing a stray lock back into place. “Perfetto.”
Perfetto.
She wished it were Angelo she was looking so perfetto for, but Mauro would have to do.
“So, are you planning on eating or are you just going to stand there, admiring yourself in that mirror?”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Timpano di peperoni. And a bit of soup.”
Julietta wrinkled her nose. Peppers and garlic and anchovies?
Right before a dance? “I still need to press my gown. No need to wait for me.”
“No need to wait? Well, thank you very much, Your Majesty!”
Julietta rolled her eyes and then forgot completely about Josephine and her comments, about anchovies and soup, as she considered what to wear.
The dress she usually wore to the dances or the new messaline?
She reached out a hand to stroke the pink and white silk. Oh, how she’d love to wear it. She longed to wear it! But . . . no. The messaline was worthy of so much more than Mauro and a dance at the Sons of Avellino Hall.
She’d save it for something truly special.
She took a percale from its peg instead. She had convinced herself that the weave was so thin, it looked like a voile. But between you and me, her aspirations fell somewhat short of reality. In fact, it was a cheap percale that looked exactly like what it was. Although Julietta had altered the silhouette and embellished the trimmings to such an extent that if one didn’t look too closely, the gown appeared quite acceptable. And rather fashionable as well.
As she stepped into it, she remembered once more the smile that had lit Mauro’s face when she had accepted his invitation. And again, she almost wished she could wear the messaline for him. But that would defeat the whole purpose of saving it for something special, wouldn’t it? She turned away from the pegs so that she couldn’t see it. But still the memory of Mauro’s delight flickered in her mind. She’d go a bit early to the dance and take a flower off one of the tables. Push it into her hair behind an ear. Sì. That would have to do.
An hour later, Julietta was standing – still! – against the wall of the Hall. The gardenia she’d pushed behind her ear enveloped her in a sweet perfume, which completely belied the look of irritation on her face. She’d been standing there for nearly an hour. By herself.
Mauro was late.
At last she saw him enter the room, his form framed in the doorway. He pulled his hat from his head, pressing it to his chest, and stood there for a long moment, eyes searching the dance floor. Then he turned toward the people standing around the refreshment table.
Resisting an urge to wave, she tucked her hands behind her and pushed her back to the wall. Let him look. Let him wonder. Let him worry that she had gone.
It only took a moment more. Relief relaxed his features and a smile lit his face. He stepped around signora Sardo and signora Riccio. Walked around a cluster of giggling young girls and a knot of young men. Then nearly got trapped between two couples as they did the Castle Walk across the dance floor.
He halted in front of her. Made a quaint, rather gallant bow. “I’m sorry. I meant to be here bef
ore now, but signora Matullo had one of her fits.”
Signora Matullo? The fish-seller’s wife? Julietta came away from the wall, alarm sharpening her features. “Is she all right?”
Mauro sighed. “Who can say? At least she’s sleeping now.” He set his bag down with his hat atop it and flexed his shoulder blades, hoping to drive out some of the tension. He hadn’t been able to stop signora Matullo’s fit. He’d never been able to stop them. In spite of all the new cures and all the advances of modern science, he had nothing with which to combat a simple seizure. Oh, he could try to keep her from hurting herself and send her into sleep afterward, but he couldn’t prevent them from coming and he couldn’t stop them once they had grabbed hold of her limbs. It vexed a man, especially a man who was a physician as gifted, as competent, as Mauro Vitali. There he was at a Saturday night dance with Julietta Giordano and all he wanted to do was go home and pore through his books, try to find the one bit of information, the one clue that he had missed. That everyone – every doctor in America – had missed.
He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to clear his mind of the memory of signora Matullo convulsing on the floor. He opened them to find Julietta looking up at him, a gardenia glowing from her hair. Mauro put a trembling hand to the back of his neck mostly because he wanted so badly to press it to hers.
He had meant to be there early. He had meant to return home first. To wash. And change his clothes. He hadn’t wanted to show up at the dance with the smell of his patient still on his hands and the reek of tenements still on his shirt. At least he’d had the foresight to eat a peppermint on the way. “I’m sorry.”
Julietta reached out a hand and touched his arm. “It wasn’t a problem.” And indeed, it hadn’t been. At least not much of one. Being able to tell the other men that she already had an escort seemed to increase her value in their eyes. And now that Mauro had taken up her hand and led her onto the dance floor, she could see the rest of the bachelors sizing him up.
For a moment, as they waited for a mattchiche to begin, she sized him up as well. There, among the greater community of Sheafe Street, he had ceased to be just her brother’s friend. Had taken on an identity of his own: Dr. Mauro Vitali. And Dr. Vitali was more than a little bit handsome. He wore his age well. It made him seem almost . . . dapper. And really, thirty wasn’t so very old, was it?
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