“And it wasn’t for an older woman.”
Julietta’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”
“It was more . . . youthful. Not staid. Or matronly.”
Julietta conceded. She’d thought the very same thing, though she couldn’t have said why.
“Madame spent quite a bit of time on it.”
Surprised to hear Annamaria’s voice, Julietta turned her gaze toward her. “Why would you say that?”
“From all the seaming.”
“And all those flounces and gores.” Sì. Julietta had to agree.
“So it was a wedding that had been planned for some time, then.”
Annamaria and Julietta, having sewn gowns for a number of such weddings, knew exactly how it would have gone. The bride would have come in for an initial consultation. Madame would have sat her down in the chair behind the screen. Would have filled her lap with book after book, pointing out fabrics and flipping through pages. She would have paid special attention to the styles she thought would enhance the bride’s figure . . . and paged quickly past those she thought would not. She would have talked the bride out of too much lace and too many ruffles. She would have listened to the bride’s mother speak, but she would have paid more attention to the bride’s face. She would have watched the girl’s eyes intently, noticing when they lingered on a certain style and when they lit up at a particular fabric. And somehow, through suggestion and persuasion, she would have persuaded the bride to settle on a design that was exactly what Madame thought the bride had dreamed of.
And usually it was.
Knowing that, understanding how Madame worked, Julietta began to imagine the bride that had caused Madame to imagine the gown. She would have been . . . tall, wouldn’t she have? And slender for Madame to have made a gown that defined the waist so clearly. Had there been beading on the gown? Julietta closed her eyes, trying to remember. Sì. There had been. But only on the bodice where it would be seen. The bride hadn’t been wealthy, then. She had wanted beads, but they had been placed where they would be most noticed. Which fit with the style of the gown. There had been no train. So either the wedding was meant to be small or the bride hadn’t the money. “She was poor.”
“What?” Annamaria and Luciana both looked up at Julietta’s words.
“She was poor. The gown didn’t have a train. It didn’t have much beading on – ”
“Of course it did. There were some right here.” Luciana touched her own chest.
“Sì. But that’s the only place they were. A bride with money would have had them sewn all over. Even in places where they wouldn’t have been noticed.”
Luciana nodded, for it was true. In Roma she’d had closets filled with gowns that had been beaded all over. She’d never thought twice about it.
“I wonder what happened.” Even Annamaria had been caught up in the mystery of it all. “Maybe she died. . . .”
They all crossed themselves as they contemplated such tragic misfortune.
“But then . . . wouldn’t they have buried her in it?” Isn’t that what people normally did? That’s what Julietta had always seen done.
But . . . would they or wouldn’t they have? She hadn’t actually gotten married, that’s what Madame had said. But the gown was finished. Which meant that if she’d died, it would have been quite close to her wedding day.
“Maybe he died.” Luciana’s eyes widened even as she spoke the words.
They crossed themselves again. Even more tragic! To have come within sight of the altar, only to have the marriage denied by the grave? “Then wouldn’t she have wanted to keep it? As a memory of her beloved?” Poor, tragic bride.
“Maybe . . . the parents forbade it.” Julietta could quite vividly imagine that happening.
“Which?” Luciana wasn’t quite sure she could.
“His. She’d had the gown made, hadn’t she?” Obviously hers had approved.
They considered that possibility for several minutes.
“She must have thought they’d approve. Otherwise they would have eloped, wouldn’t they? If they thought there’d be a problem?” That’s what Julietta would have done.
Well, that was true. Why go to the bother to plan a wedding if you weren’t sure there was going to be one?
Julietta was itching to see the gown, to touch the gown. She was sure that if she could get her hands on it, she could coax its story from the threads. “Maybe . . . he left her standing at the altar.” She had hit closer to the truth than any of them had that day. And very nearly uncovered Madame’s secret sorrow.
They thought about that possibility too. And Julietta was the first to discard it. She could almost see the woman intended for the gown. Tall, graceful. Elegant. Slim-waisted. What man would desert a woman like that?
No man that she knew. And she knew quite a few of them.
No. Somehow that didn’t quite fit.
“Maybe she couldn’t pay.” Annamaria had always been a practical sort.
Couldn’t pay?
“She was poor, wasn’t she? Isn’t that what you’d decided?”
Couldn’t pay? For a gown that she’d ordered and Madame had made? Couldn’t pay for a wedding gown? That wasn’t romantic!
No. That couldn’t be the reason.
And so they sat that afternoon, working, thinking about Madame’s wedding gown. Just as Madame herself was thinking about it down in her office.
What would those girls have thought had they known the truth? Would they have liked Madame any more? Or thought of her any less? And what of Madame? What would she have thought of their knowing? Their guessing?
She would have cursed the events that had led her to make the gown.
But why had she kept it? Why had she held on to the gown?
She had let the man go, hadn’t she? Long ago?
The man, perhaps.
But not the gown.
There are hopes and dreams contained in a wedding gown. And all kinds of vanity and pride. It was that knowledge that had become Madame’s special gift. It was the legacy of that gown that had allowed her an unparalleled success among Boston’s elite. She didn’t dress her clients for events. She dressed them for their hopes. And their dreams. She dressed them as the people they wished to be, not the people they were.
If Madame had held on to the gown, then that was why. She hadn’t wanted to give up the fantasy. She’d had a dream and she’d let it go. Why should she surrender the memory too?
34
That evening after work, Annamaria was sent back to Zanfini’s for tomatoes. And for some onions and a few zucchini too.
Rafaello hadn’t seen her coming. When he looked up from stacking nectarines to see her standing in the door, he felt – literally felt – his heart cease beating. He was struck dumb by her beauty. He gripped a nectarine with such force that his knuckles went white, bruising the fruit beyond redemption.
Annamaria walked across the floor, weaving between crates of grapes and boxes of plums.
She was – an angel! And he wanted to give her something. He wanted to offer her up a token of his heart. So he looked out on that vast display of nature’s bounty. Chose the reddest, the most perfectly conical sweet red pepper he could find. And as she approached, he reached out over the box and offered it to her.
So many gifts he had given her. She hesitated.
“Sì.” He nodded. Offered it up to her once more. “For you.”
She reached up and took it from him. Cradled it in her hand. She could still feel the warmth that his palm had left on its flesh. “Grazie.” Then she looked up at him – into his eyes – and she smiled at him.
“Please. What is your name?” Until that evening he’d simply thought of her as the most beautiful girl in the world.
She cast her gaze down as she considered his question. She knew his name. It was Rafaello. His mother and father had called it out whenever she had visited. Rafaello, fetch me this. Rafaello, bring me that. How was it fair that he should not k
now hers?
“Annamaria.”
“Annamaria.” The way he said it, the way he drew out the syllables and savored them made her plain name sound like the loveliest one in all the world. He bowed his head, placing a hand to his chest. “Annamaria, I am Rafaello.”
She smiled back. “I know.”
“You know?”
She nodded. “Your – ”
His mama came through the curtained door at that moment. “Rafaello! There you – ” She stopped as she saw her son and a customer share a laugh, then shook her head and returned behind the curtain to stir the pot of soup she had constantly simmering on the stove.
Annamaria had laughed! He had never heard her laugh. He put the sound of it away in the same place he stored the picture of her long, elegant fingers and the sway of her shoulders when she walked. He leaned forward, spoke in a low tone. “Could you . . . would you mind very much . . . could you say my name too?” He just wanted to hear it in her voice, wanted to know what it would sound like when she said it. He had the feeling that if she would just speak his name, that something magical, something enduring, would be called forth between them.
A flush lit the tops of her cheeks, and her gaze dropped to her toes, but she did it. “Rafaello.”
Oh! He could live for months on the ecstasy that one word had kindled in his heart. Their tongues had exchanged names; their hearts had exchanged eternities.
If Mama Rossi had known of it, she would have taken up crossing the street for the tomatoes herself.
To Rafaello, Annamaria was more beautiful than the ripest red pepper. Though we might find the comparison an odd one, to the son of a greengrocer, a red pepper was a thing of great beauty. For all the world is contained within a red pepper. The smooth and shiny skin hides the kernels of life that grow inside. When peeled, the flesh is revealed and spreads a sweet and pleasing goodness that flavors the taste of everything it touches. Sì. Annamaria was a great beauty indeed.
Though he knew he did not deserve her, though he knew that she would probably never consider a Sicilian for her hand, he determined that he had to try.
As Annamaria and Luciana watched Julietta leave the workshop the next evening, they couldn’t know that she was not returning home. That she would not, in fact, arrive at her apartment within the hour. She was believed to be taking English lessons. By Madame. And working late at the shop. By her family. And she would do both those things. Soon. Once she had gotten Angelo to return the jewels.
And so, after leaving work, she determined to look for him in the North End, near the wharves. Once she dodged the carts and cars on Cross Street, she tugged her skirt down, pulled the scarf from her neck and tied it over her head . . . making sure to cover the last remnants of the bruise that Angelo had given her.
She was going to stay away from him today. She wasn’t going to let him kiss her. She’d decided that he took too many liberties when he did.
She found him near the rickety shed, where he met his friends to argue about politics. But before she even had a chance to speak, he had taken her by the elbow and pulled her inside where a meeting appeared to be well under way.
Tyranny and oppression!
Anarchy and revolution!
As the meeting progressed, it became clear that they were no longer talking in generalities. They were planning something in particular. Something that had to do with a bomb.
Her scalp began to prickle as she glanced around the room. She’d thought these people were just overly enthusiastic – and rather rude. But never before had she realized they were crazy! She’d made a big mistake. She knew that now. Bombs and revolution? Murders and assassinations? Didn’t her papa curse people like these? People who gave the rest of their countrymen a bad name?
Oh, how she wished her papa were there right now! To take her away from such madness.
She meant to wait until the meeting was over to speak to Angelo, but she decided she wanted to hear no more. She grabbed his hand and pulled him with her toward the door. She wanted nothing more than to be done with him and all of his friends.
All she had to do was get Madame’s jewels back, and then she would never have to see him again. Why had she ignored that dangerous glint in his eyes? And what was it that she had found so appealing in his smile?
The air outside was just as hot as the air inside the shed, but a breeze blowing in from the harbor stirred it, offering the relief of movement and the scent of the sea.
“Why did you do that? We’re in the middle of planning – I have to get back in there!”
“Those aren’t good people, Angelo. You shouldn’t associate with them.”
He flashed a grin. “I’m not associating myself with them.
They’re associating with me.”
“They’re talking about bombs. And – and hurting people.”
“Of course they’re talking about hurting people. How else can we free ourselves from the government’s oppression? How else will we make people listen?”
“You wouldn’t really hurt someone, though.” Would he?
“I’d rather not have to, of course. It’s as dangerous for me as it is for them.”
Not have to? As if anyone would ever ask to be hurt.
“But I have. When I had to. I killed a man once.”
A chill crept up her spine, in spite of the fact that she was perspiring from the heat. He said the word as if he would have liked to have said twice or three times.
“On accident . . . ?” Please, God . . .
He shrugged. He’d done what was necessary. “He was in Parliament. He campaigned for industry and was a supporter of the king. Against the people. And quite influential. They asked me to find a way to silence him.”
Silence him? What – ?
“He came home one night from a party, and boom!” His eyes reflected the light of that glowing fire, the zeal of the cause, and the satisfaction of a man who had accomplished his purpose. But there was also, deep within his soul, a sliver of guilt. A tiny shred left of his conscience.
“You killed a man. . . .” Without realizing, she had pulled herself away from his side.
“But I didn’t kill his family.” He said it with profound regret.
“They escaped.”
“To where?” She asked the question in horrified fascination.
“Here. Somewhere. And when I find them, I’ll do to them what I did to him.” He saw that she had moved away from him.
“What is it? What was it you wanted to say?”
What kind of a man would plan to kill someone? And then actually do it? It was one thing if that man had harmed him. Or one of his family. Such prices were enacted for revenge all the time. But to kill a man he didn’t know? To search him out and take his life?
Angelo walked to where she stood. Filled with the enthusiasm of a zealot and drunk with the power of death, he caught her up by the waist, craving her admiration, anticipating her acclaim. “Come here. Kiss me.”
When Angelo finally released her, Julietta ran down the street, shoes slapping against the sidewalk, trying to drive the thought of his confession from her mind.
O God . . . O God . . . She didn’t have the nerve to finish her prayer. She didn’t know what to ask. She didn’t know what she wanted. She only knew that –
She pitched herself against a wall and vomited onto the sidewalk.
Afraid to refuse him, afraid to contradict him, she’d allowed him to kiss her. But she’d imagined herself far away in a crowded fifth-floor tenement. Safely hidden inside.
She vomited again.
O God, how can I ever – how can you ever – ?
She felt so . . . so vile. So dirty. She rubbed her lips against the sleeve of her blouse. Pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and scrubbed at them. Narrowly avoided retching again by taking in long, deep breaths through her nose.
When she arrived at her building, she didn’t have to enter the apartment to know that they had already started eating. She could hear
the clinking of utensils and smell the scents of garlic and oregano through the door.
“Julietta, you’re late!” Mama Giordano never missed anything, even though she could be found perennially at the stove, back turned toward the door.
“Papa wouldn’t wait for you,” Little Matteo whispered as she passed by.
She had the good sense to recognize that Papa Giordano could usually be talked out of a foul mood. Especially when he was eating. Anger tended to sour a stomach, and what was the point of that? Not wanting to talk about where she’d been or what she’d done, about the horror of – no. She would not think about it. Not right now. She squeezed behind the chairs lining the table and approached her father. Kissed him on top of the head, right where age had pressed its thumbprint into his hair. “I’m sorry, Papa! Madame asked us all to work late. There’s a big dance coming up next month. It seems no one wants to wear a gown they already own.” True. All of it. Most of it.
He reached up to pat her cheek at the same time that he pointed a fork in Little Matteo’s direction. “That’s fine, cara mia. Go eat your dinner. And tell that young giovane that he whispers much louder than he thinks he does.”
Julietta brought her plate to the stove, enduring a glare from Mama as she did so. She smiled as she waited for her plate to be filled, or tried to. And then she made a show of breathing in the aroma as it wafted up from the plate. “The best in the North End, Mama!”
Mama Giordano gave a halfhearted shake of her head as Julietta sat at the table. And then a puzzled frown. There was something about that girl . . . something . . . not right. There was something about the way she had smiled. Something that would bear pondering. The eyes had been too bright while the smile had been too sharp. Sì. She would have to do some pondering.
35
Luciana, too, had had a change of heart. And now she was ready to talk. But would Billy listen to her? Would he even agree to see her? She knew, of course, where he lived. But she also knew that she couldn’t just march up to that formidable mansion and knock on the door. Request to speak with him. She might have lurked on the sidewalk by the gate, but feared that sooner or later she would be shooed away. And she did not want the attention.
A Heart Most Worthy Page 23
