“We don’t have to get this dress, Mamma,” Anabella said in a soft voice, much to Eloisa’s dismay.
“Do you like the dress, Anabella?” Eloisa hoped the girl would not cower once more to her mother. She’d seen this before with other mothers who came in with their daughters, but never to the extreme that she was witnessing now with Signora Ferraro and Anabella.
“It is nice.” Anabella looked at herself admiringly in the full-length mirror.
“Don’t forget you still have the lemon dress to try on. You can decide which dress you like the best after seeing how that one fits.”
Eloisa’s emphasis on “you” was not lost on Signora Ferraro. She crossed her arms. Who did this young woman think she was, challenging her tastes? She was after all Anabella’s mother and would know better than anyone what her daughter liked. But Signora Ferraro remained silent. Anabella would come to her own conclusion that these last two dresses were not right for her. They always agreed on everything. Why should that change now?
Anabella stepped into the lemon chiffon dress. She shivered with excitement as she felt the whisper-light chiffon against her skin. She waited to look up in the mirror as Eloisa zippered the dress to the top. When Anabella did finally glance up and saw her image in the mirror, she couldn’t help but let out a small gasp.
“Dio mio! You look absolutely breathtaking in this dress. It’s as if it were made just for you.” Eloisa clasped her hands in excitement.
Anabella smiled as she turned around, taking in the view of the dress from the back. She felt . . . the words were escaping her . . . grown-up? Yes, the dress made her feel and look like a woman. She liked what she saw. None of the dresses Mamma had chosen had this effect on her. Anabella truly felt transformed in this dress, almost like Cinderella. She glanced at her mother, who was staring at her, but her mother’s face was unreadable. Anabella’s elated spirits quickly plummeted, as she knew her mother would not approve.
“Signora Ferraro? What do you think?” Eloisa held her breath as she waited for Signora Ferraro’s response. Like Anabella, Eloisa held little hope that the stubborn woman would agree to this dress.
“It is beautiful. I cannot deny that, even if this one also seems too tight in the bosom.”
“It’s not too tight, Mamma. I can still take a deep breath in it.” Anabella inhaled deeply as she puffed out her chest.
Eloisa’s and Signora Ferraro’s gazes met as they realized it had gone over Anabella’s head why her mother didn’t want attention to be drawn to her bust. But Signora Ferraro wasn’t surprised. Her daughter was innocent, and that was how she intended her to remain, unlike many of the corrupted girls she’d seen in town.
“I don’t know if this is the dress.” Signora Ferraro turned around and walked over to a rack of dresses, resting her hands on top of it as her gaze grew distant.
“Is this the dress you want, Anabella?” Eloisa asked, knowing the answer.
“I do like it very much, but Mamma is paying for the dress. I must defer to her wishes.”
Signora Ferraro closed her eyes for a second. She couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful, obedient, and respectful child than Anabella. Rarely did she question her mother’s judgment. She’d seen how her daughter’s eyes had lit up the moment she saw herself in the dress. Signora Ferraro had almost fainted when she saw her—for in that moment, she saw a flash of herself when she was her daughter’s age. But unlike Anabella, Signora Ferraro had exuded an overly confident demeanor when she was a teenager. She had been far more mature than her daughter was. She’d been accustomed to having to assert her own identity among the all-male household of her family. And later, when she’d met Anabella’s father and had begun a new life, her assertiveness and independence had increased. But if she’d only known then what she knew now. As she’d learned painfully, being a fighter and daring to challenge others had only proven to have dire consequences.
She sighed. This was merely a dress. What harm could it do? She did want her daughter to be happy, even if it didn’t always appear that way, especially when she needed to exercise discipline.
Walking back to Anabella’s side, she said, “This is the dress. Let’s buy it.”
“Oh, Mamma! You like it, too?”
“Si.”
Anabella threw her arms around her mother, hugging her tightly. Tears came to Signora Ferraro’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them back.
“Va bene, va bene. We must be on our way, so hurry and change back into your clothes while I pay Eloisa. We’ve taken up enough of her time.”
“No worries, signora. I am only too happy to have helped you and Anabella. You made the right decision. She will be the best-dressed girl in church on Easter!”
Anabella smiled as she remembered Eloisa’s prediction. She was shaken out of her thoughts by the voice of her mother.
“Where is your cardigan?” Signora Ferraro narrowed her gaze, letting it rest on her daughter’s bosom.
Anabella knew her mother was still thinking the dress was too tight in her bust. She crossed her arms to hide her chest. “I was warm in the car. I’m sure it’ll be warm in church as it always is, so I don’t need it.” She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, praying her mother would not make her go back to the car to get her sweater. But Mamma didn’t utter a word.
“Buona Pasqua, Signora Ferraro, Anabella!”
Anabella turned to see who was greeting them. It was Signora Mazzeo and her two daughters, Domenica and Concetta. Anabella’s stomach grew queasy. She had never felt comfortable around the sisters when she and her mother ran into them. Though they were always polite, she sensed they were quietly assessing her. And sure enough, the moment they reached Anabella and her mother, their eyes scanned Anabella from head to foot.
“Buona Pasqua, Signora Mazzeo, Domenica, Concetta,” Signora Ferraro greeted them.
Anabella hoped her mother would quicken her step as she often did when she ran into the villagers before they could engage her in small talk or inquisitive questions about their life on the farm. But sometimes, she was forced to talk to them at greater length, especially if they were customers of the farm.
“Anabella, you look lovely!” Signora Mazzeo said, turning to her daughters. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
Domenica and Concetta remained silent.
“I wasn’t sure about the dress, but Anabella had her heart set on it. I’m afraid it might be too fancy for church.” Signora Ferraro’s voice shook, just a tiny bit.
It was enough for Anabella to notice, though she didn’t think Signora Mazzeo or her daughters had detected the nervousness in her mother’s voice. Anabella was surprised, for her mother never came across as nervous about anything. Was she worried about what they thought? Anabella had always heard her mother profess that she didn’t care what anyone thought of them.
“Nonsense! It is Easter, after all. The dress looks similar to the dresses Domenica and Concetta wore to Easter Mass last year.”
“Si, these dresses were very popular then,” Domenica, the older of the sisters, said.
Anabella thought her comment was odd, since she’d seen the dresses featured in the magazines Chiara had been bringing her. But then she noticed their dresses. The dresses had a straighter fit. Gone were the voluminous skirts, and the waists were slightly relaxed. Domenica’s dress was a striking cornflower-blue color and featured a belt made out of the same fabric as the dress that was tied in an elaborate bow centered on her waist. Concetta’s dress was a pale green color and sported a similar belt, but her bow wasn’t as elaborate as Domenica’s, and it rested on the side of her waist.
Anabella looked over to where more villagers were making their way to the church. She noticed a few women were also wearing dresses with full skirts. She relaxed, but then she realized they were older, closer to her mother’s age. The teenagers, on the other hand, were wearing fitted dresses that were similar to Domenica’s and Concetta’s.
“Did you make this dress, Signora Ferra
ro?” Concetta asked. Her lips spread into a slight smirk.
“No, I did not. Anabella and I went to—”
“La Donna Fiorentina?” Domenica and Concetta echoed as they interrupted her.
“Si. How did you know?” Signora Ferraro looked mildly irritated. Her daughter would never so rudely interrupt her elders.
“They are the only shop that is still carrying older styles. The other two dress shops in town are beginning to carry more dresses from Rome and Milan. We bought our dresses at La Moda d’Oggi. Mamma thinks La Donna Fiorentina is having financial problems, and they cannot afford to update their selection with the newest dresses that are coming from the big cities,” Domenica offered.
Signora Ferraro looked at Signora Mazzeo, who nodded. Her voice lowered to a whisper as she drew in closer and said, “The husband has a gambling problem. Povera Rita.”
Rita and her husband, Salvatore Garofalo, were the owners of La Donna Fiorentina and the parents of Eloisa, the shopgirl who had helped Anabella. Signora Ferraro detested gossip and refused to be a part of it.
“We should be on our way. Mass is about to start. Buona Pasqua, Signora Mazzeo.” Signora Ferraro didn’t bother addressing Domenica and Concetta.
As Anabella and her mother made their way up the steps to the church, Anabella sensed the Mazzeo sisters’ eyes boring into her back. She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, they were staring at her. But their gazes were fixed on her dress, and they hadn’t noticed her turn around. She heard them whispering, but could not make out what they were saying among the throngs of parishioners talking excitedly and hurrying to get inside before Mass started. But once they entered the church and the crowds thinned a bit, she was able to hear Concetta whisper, “She needs to do something with her hair. We’re not in the Renaissance era anymore.”
Domenica giggled.
Anabella felt a blush rising up her neck and spreading to her face. Pools of sweat quickly formed under her arms and beneath her bosom. Mamma had been right. She shouldn’t have bought this dress. Still, it was more contemporary than the shirtwaist dresses Mamma would’ve preferred she wore. If Domenica and Concetta thought her hair was outdated, surely they would think the same of the dresses her mother loved so much that harkened back to the forties. She ran a hand over her hair as tears stung her eyes. Everyone at the farm had always told her how beautiful her hair was. Even the shopgirl Eloisa had marveled at it. True, long hair wasn’t in fashion now, as she’d seen in the magazines. But she had always liked her hair, and besides, she didn’t think Mamma would approve of her getting a short hairstyle. It was a miracle, after all, that Mamma had not only relented and bought Anabella’s dress this year for Easter, but also that she had let her pick the lemon dress.
As she and her mother found a seat in the very first row in church, Anabella scanned the crowd. Again, she could not spot any of the young women wearing a dress with a full skirt like hers. A few sported two-piece ensembles. A flash of pink caught her peripheral vision. She turned and saw Graziella Montana enter the row of pews to the right. Graziella was the daughter of the local butcher. For some reason, she was alone. Anabella wondered why her parents had not accompanied her to Mass, especially on such an important holy day. Her dress had a pleated full skirt, and, like Anabella, Graziella still wore her hair long, but hers was always pinned up into a bun. Graziella had beautiful blond hair and dazzling green eyes. But all anyone seemed to notice was that she was overweight.
Instead of feeling comforted that she wasn’t the only girl in church to have a voluminous skirt, Anabella felt worse. A few times when Mamma and she went into town to buy their meat at Graziella’s father’s meat shop, Signora Montana had told them that her daughter was mercilessly teased in school. Anabella had felt bad for the girl and couldn’t understand why the children made fun of her simply because she was overweight. But then she had remembered the incident when she was a child and the boy from the school yard next door had thrown rocks at her for no reason. What had the boy seen in Anabella that he didn’t like? She wasn’t overweight like Graziella. Maybe he had thought she was ugly? Or maybe he’d sensed she was different from him and the rest of the kids since she wasn’t in school like them?
Graziella turned toward Anabella and smiled warmly when she saw her. Anabella froze and quickly looked away. Instead of feeling compassion for Graziella as she always had, she was mortified to be wearing a similar style dress to hers. Domenica and Concetta were seated in the pew behind Anabella. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than she already had.
Anabella tried to shut out the thoughts entering her mind, but it was no use. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way toward Graziella. Hadn’t Mamma always taught her to be kind to others and show compassion above all? Guilt washed over her. She turned back toward Graziella to try to catch her attention so she could say hi, but Graziella’s face was now buried behind the pages of one of the prayer books that the church placed in every pew. Anabella could tell that instead of reading Graziella was using the book to shield her face.
“Mamma, would it be all right if I invited Graziella to sit with us? She’s alone.”
Signora Ferraro tilted her head and looked to where Graziella was sitting. “Why didn’t Signore and Signora Montana come to church today?” She frowned. “Of course, ask the poor girl to join us.”
Anabella stood up, and, as she did so, she noticed Domenica and Concetta look up. Willing herself to forget about them, she walked over to Graziella.
“Ciao, Graziella.”
Graziella looked up, surprise etched across her features. But, instead of returning Anabella’s greeting, she glanced down into her lap, where her prayer book now lay.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say hi to you before. I was upset about something. Mamma and I would like to know if you want to sit with us. There’s still room in the pew, but we had better hurry up. The priest is about to make his procession down the aisle.”
Anabella saw the altar boys and lectors lining up in front of Father D’Onofrio, who caught Anabella’s gaze and smiled. She returned his smile, but quickly glanced away. Though she’d known Father D’Onofrio since she was a little girl, she still felt shy around him—and even a little fearful. Something about his demeanor had always instilled fear in her, even though he had never uttered a cross word to her.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to ask me just because your mother made you.” Graziella shot Anabella an angry look.
Anabella was stunned for a moment. It was rare she was the receiver of anyone’s scorn. But she knew Graziella had every right to be mad at her for the way she’d ignored her earlier.
“It was my idea to invite you, not Mamma’s. Please, Graziella. Don’t stay mad at me.” Anabella reached out and placed her hand on Graziella’s arm.
“All right, but you must tell me what upset you so much that you couldn’t even return my smile.”
“Fair enough. I’ll tell you after Mass. Now let’s go before Father D’Onofrio kicks us both out.”
Graziella softly giggled as she picked up her pocketbook, which looked like a child’s pocketbook and only served to emphasize her larger size. As they entered the pew and took their place alongside Signora Ferraro, Anabella saw Domenica and Concetta staring at them with an expression of disdain. They really were the meanest people Anabella had ever encountered. Then again, Anabella didn’t come into contact with many people. She wondered if there were many more people out there like the Mazzeo sisters. If so, she was relieved to rarely venture outside of her rose farm. Except for the time when Mamma had been mad at Chiara for giving Anabella the sunflowers, she’d always witnessed her mother and the other workers treating one another with respect and kindness. Maybe that was why Mamma didn’t have friends outside of the farm and why when she ran into the villagers she kept the conversations to a minimum. Mamma knew how mean people could be. Anabella would have to ask her mother about this sometime.
Later that evening when Anab
ella was alone in her bedroom, she walked over to her night table and picked up the most recent magazine Chiara had given her. She must have missed seeing the newer style of dresses that the other young women were wearing in church. But as she quickly flipped the pages, scanning each of the photos, she couldn’t find any of the newer dresses. But when she closed the magazine, her eyes zeroed in on its issue date. March, 1960. The magazine was now more than a year old. She had always just assumed the magazines were new. No wonder she hadn’t known that her A-line, full-skirted dress was going out of style. Eloisa must’ve known. Now that Anabella thought more about it, she remembered Eloisa had been wearing a fitted two-piece suit. But Anabella wasn’t mad at her. After all, as Signora Mazzeo and her daughters had pointed out, La Donna Fiorentina was not carrying the latest fashions from Milan and Rome. So it wasn’t as if Eloisa could’ve suggested Anabella buy one of the newer style of dresses.
Anabella picked up her hair and twisted it into a bun, securing it with a clip. She then pulled out a few strands in the front and tried to shape her hair to look like one of the styles the models in the magazine and the Mazzeo sisters sported. She didn’t recognize the face staring back at her. No, the style was not for her—even if it was in vogue. Releasing her hair, she took one last look at herself in the dress before reaching behind to undo the zipper. Sadness slowly seeped in at the thought that she would have to remove what had now become her favorite garment. If only she could wear it every week. Though it had hurt at first to hear Domenica and Concetta say her dress was no longer in fashion, Anabella still loved it. The dress had made her feel for the first time like a grown woman. And for that reason alone, she knew it was a very special dress.
CHAPTER 9
Dante
Siena, 1970
Dante had been working feverishly since the weekend, creating several smaller-scale paintings so he would have more to sell at the piazza this week. He’d thought of not making Anabella the subject in these paintings so that it would be less painful for him to part with them, but when he had tried to do so, he just found himself staring off into space and struggling to put paint to canvas. So once again Anabella was the star of his works, which he now had on display at Piazza del Campo. He had even done a few drawings of her last night so that he wouldn’t have to wait for the paint to dry and would have more to sell.
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