“She’s Italian?”
He nodded.
“You want to marry an Italian?!”
We’ll forgive him for not reading his mother’s face more closely, for most men aren’t adept at such things. But we’ll cringe for him all the same. Poor lad! He didn’t understand her objection. He didn’t want to marry an Italian. He hadn’t set out to, in any case. He wanted to marry Luciana, and she turned out to be Italian, and that’s just how it happened to be.
“No son of mine is going to marry some rude, filthy Italian peasant.”
He dropped her hand. “She’s not rude or filthy. Or even a peasant, for that matter. She’s the daughter of – ”
“Is she pregnant? Is that why you think you have to marry her?”
He felt the blood drain from his face. “What?”
“Did you get her pregnant?”
His mother had done many things over the years to embarrass him, but this was the first time that he realized just how often she had embarrassed herself as well. “I’m not going to answer that.”
“You did, didn’t you? We’ll talk to your father about this. He’ll know just what to do.” She left him standing in the hall, sat down behind the desk in her sitting room, and went back to her work.
But she didn’t work for long. Before she had even completed one letter, there came an insistent knocking on the front door. She sighed. Put down her pen. Expected that the knocking would stop once the doorman answered it.
It did.
But then the shouting started.
Mrs. Quinn rose and stalked into the hall. “What is the meaning of this!”
The doorman was trying to shut the door on whoever it was that was yelling. Some woman, from the sounds of it.
“I can’t understand a word that’s being said!”
“Bee-lee!”
The doorman was trying to bat the woman’s arm away as he leaned against the door.
“Bee-lee!”
“Remove her from the premises. At once.” Mrs. Quinn went back into her sitting room and closed the door. Stopped her ears to the noise and got on with her work.
The doorman had almost succeeded in shutting the door when Billy, alerted by the clamor, came down the stairs. “What is it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Bee-lee!”
Was that – ? Billy pushed the doorman out of the way and opened wide the door, causing Luciana to fall into his arms. “What is it?!”
“I saw him.”
There was no need to ask to whom she was referring. Her pallor and fear-filled eyes told him what he needed to know. He pulled her close, trying to stanch her trembling. “Where?”
“On the street. On my street.”
“Is your grandmother all right?”
“I don’t – I’m not sure. I just ran.”
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t – ” She lapsed into Italian.
If only he knew what she was saying! He motioned for the doorman to shut the door and then took Luciana into the kitchen. Had one of the servants bring her some tea, asked another to get a shawl from his mother’s wardrobe. Luciana’s hands felt like ice, and night was fast descending.
As he placed the shawl over her shoulders, she was still muttering in Italian, rocking back and forth, though some of the panic had gone out of her eyes.
“Luciana.” He placed his hand over hers.
She stopped speaking. Looked up at him.
“It’s not safe for you to go back to your building.” He spoke slowly and in German.
“Nein.”
“We’re going to drive back to get your grandmother, and then I’m going to take you to The Lenox.”
“What is this . . . Lenox?”
“A hotel.” The finest one in the city.
“What if he sees us?”
“You’ll stay in the car. I’ll go up and get your grandmother.”
“I’m afraid.”
He stood and pulled her into his arms. “And so am I. But if he’s here in the city, that means the police can catch him.”
It didn’t take long to reach the North End. And Billy didn’t have to say much to convince the contessa to come with him. He simply extended his hand.
She took it.
He looked for some clothes to take with him, but he only found a few gowns, and those didn’t seem worth taking. He’d get them what they needed in the morning. But his plan hit a snag when he tried to register Luciana and her grandmother for a room.
The clerk coughed. “I don’t believe there are any rooms available.”
“I don’t want a room. I want a suite.”
“Our suites aren’t available either.”
“You’ve no suites at all?”
“Our suites aren’t available to people like them.” He indicated Luciana and her grandmother with a nod and a sour expression.
“People like them. You mean the Contessa of Rome and her granddaughter?”
“They could be the Holy Father himself for all I care. We don’t take Italians.”
“You can send the bill to Congressman Quinn at the United Bank Building.”
“This is highly irregular, sir. I know the congressman wouldn’t take up with Italians. I voted for him myself.”
“And I know the congressman as well. I’m his son.”
Billy and Mrs. Quinn were waiting, the both of them, in Mr. Quinn’s study when he finally came home that night. He didn’t like the looks of the faces which greeted him. Not the rage in his wife’s eyes, nor the stubborn resolve in his son’s. So he pretended they were angry constituents that he had an obligation to appease.
He sat down behind his desk and folded his hands in front of him. It was his signature gesture, and it made him look both patient and wise. It also kept him from reaching out to strangle people’s necks. He tried charm first. And his brogue. He smiled. “It’s not every night a man comes home to the warm embrace of his closest kin.”
Mrs. Quinn had been fixed upon the thought of the debasement of her family’s reputation for the entire day. And she was not about to be persuaded from her position. She knew battles were often won by those who fired their weapons first. “You’ve let your son get drafted and now he wants to marry some Italian girl!”
He looked from his wife to his son. But the boy didn’t look away. He squared his shoulders and met his father’s gaze straight on. Patrick cleared his throat. “You’ve already spoken to your mother about this, then.”
“I have.”
“And you want to get married.”
“I do.”
If he’d given his heart away, then Patrick Quinn had to trust that it was to someone who loved him in return. “If Billy loves this girl, then he should marry her.”
Mrs. Quinn blinked. Raised her brow. Bellowed, “He’s only marrying her because she’s pregnant! He thinks he has to. Tell him he doesn’t have to.”
Billy rounded on his mother. “I will not have you speak about Luciana like that! She’s not some scheming, desperate – ” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word he knew his mother was thinking – “girl.”
“No. You’re right. She’s not. She’s a scheming, desperate Italian.”
“Do you love her, son? Truly?”
“I do.” There was no hesitation in his reply.
He looked back at his wife. “Then I see no reason why he shouldn’t marry her.”
No reason? No reason! What about appearances? What about the family name? What about position and politics? Everything they’d accomplished together as Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Quinn had always been about position and politics. It’s why he’d married her, wasn’t it? And it’s why they’d sent their son to Harvard. It made no sense. There was a legacy to be had here. A dynasty to be made. And Patrick was going to let them throw it all away for some Italian?
For an Italian!
And then, with a searing flash of insight, she knew. She understood. And suddenly it all made sense.
“It’s because of her, isn’t it?” Her voice wasn’t filled with any of the rage or injustice or humiliation that she felt. It was devoid of all emotion. It was completely and utterly flat.
Billy might have been mystified, but there was no need for Mr. Quinn to ask to whom his wife was referring.
“You’re allowing this because of her. This isn’t about Billy and it isn’t about me. You don’t care what they’ll say. You don’t even care about your career. You don’t care about any of us at all.”
There was a searching exchange of looks between them, and then Mr. Quinn sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair.
“You can go to bed, son.”
Bed? At ten o’clock? Like some schoolboy? But Billy rose, shot a puzzled look at them both, and then left without comment. There was much for him to do. There were forms to be filled out for the wedding and the priest to contact. A physical to prepare for. His entire life was rapidly changing, and yet it couldn’t change quickly enough for his taste.
Mrs. Quinn waited to speak until the door had closed. “You’re letting him marry his Italian because you couldn’t marry yours.”
He pressed his hands flat against the desktop. “I don’t – I don’t know. Perhaps I am.”
“You would throw her in my face?”
“Her name was Rosa.”
“You would do that? To me?”
He looked away from his memories and into his wife’s eyes.
“I’ve never been unfaithful to you.”
He hadn’t.
“Have I ever embarrassed you? By flirtations with other women?”
More than politics required? “No.”
“Have I ever been anything but cordial?”
“No.” But neither had he been affectionate or adoring. She felt like a schoolgirl being called before a principal, caught for passing notes. “I love you.” Passionately. Desperately. And without any hope of redemption.
Ah, now this was familiar territory. Here, he knew just what to do. He smiled. Winked. “And I’ll take it all the way to the voting booths.”
That’s how he had always responded to her statements of love. And that’s what she’d always done. She’d allowed him to take her family’s name, all her earnest hopes – and her love – all the way to the voting booths.
She used to be thrilled, jubilant even, at the thought of being Mrs. Patrick Quinn. At the idea of opening to him the corridors of power, of ushering him into the arena of politics. She used to think of herself as the chief advisor behind the man. Used to dream of all the good that they could accomplish together. But that was when she thought that he had chosen her. Before she knew about the Italian girl. About . . . Rosa. Back before she realized what had really happened. Before she understood that she had chosen him.
“It’s always been about her, hasn’t it?”
He sighed. Shrugged. “I don’t think, honestly, that – ”
“No. Don’t. You told me. Before we were married, you told me. And I married you anyway. That’s my fault. But she left you, Patrick. And I took you. So when does it start to be about me?”
37
Patrick Quinn made his way to the stairs and pulled himself up with a hand on the rail. Halfway up, he stopped. Sat down on the step. Loosened his tie. Ran a hand across his lined, though still handsome, face.
Rosa De Luca.
He hadn’t thought of her for years. He hadn’t let himself. Every time he’d felt the specter of her presence, every time he’d sensed her skirting his thoughts, he’d thrown up the barricades of faith and family and career, and refused to let her in.
And now Billy was doing the same thing he had. Following the same path. And why shouldn’t he?
Patrick Quinn knew what love was. He’d been young once, hadn’t he? He’d been ready to risk it all, risk everything for love. It still galled him that he hadn’t been allowed to. Hadn’t that been his decision to make? Hadn’t he deserved at least that chance?
It had taken him a while to figure out why she’d done it. And when he had, it had hurt him even more. Hurt him more than it had to stand up in front of the church with the priest, waiting ten minutes. Twenty. A full hour.
It hurt him even more because she’d been right. She’d been right! What had anybody ever said but, “I told you so. Italians can’t be trusted. You’re better off without her.”
How would they know? How would they ever know what it had cost him to continue on without her? How would they know just how many dreams he had never been able to realize because she hadn’t been there by his side. To love him. To believe in him.
She may have been right, but that didn’t make her decision any less wrong. They could have found a way. There had to have been another way.
He sighed, then pulled himself to his feet and continued on up the stairs. If Billy wanted to marry his Italian girl, then that’s what he ought to do.
The next day Annamaria went to confession. She cleaned up early, pulled on her scarf, and hurried from the shop toward Saint Leonard’s Church. Her heart had grown heavy with the sins of the week. With the guilt of an unsanctioned romance.
She walked into the church, dipped her fingers into the holy water, and crossed herself. Waited her turn in line. Once inside the booth, she didn’t waste any time in speaking. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.” Actually . . . a bit more than a week. She’d meant to have gone on Tuesday, but with Theresa married and gone from the apartment, leaving all the work in Annamaria’s hands . . . here it was Friday already.
On his side of the booth, Father Antonio recognized the voice. It was Annamaria Rossi. He felt an unseemly blossoming of pride for the girl. So pious and devout. Just the way a good Catholic girl should be. A quick confession of venial sins, a short prayer, and she would be done with her confession and gone from the booth. He put up a hand to smother a yawn.
“I have . . .” What? Spoken sharply to the girls at the shop? Shoved two apples out the window? Regretted her mother’s stubbornness? Spoken to a Sicilian? Sì. And smiled and laughed with him too. But what wrong had she really done? What sin had she truly committed? And didn’t a person have to commit a sin in order to confess it?
Father waited.
“I have . . .”
That was odd. She sounded so hesitant. It was very strange.
“You have . . . ?”
“I have . . . nothing to confess.” She fairly laughed the words. Smiled them in any case. She was in love with Rafaello Zanfini. Her mother would call her a whore and her father might call her a traitor, but she had nothing – absolutely nothing – to confess.
“But – ”
“Thank you, Father.”
He slid the screen open, looked through to the other side, but the girl had already gone.
The next Monday, Annamaria and Julietta left the shop at the same time after work. They walked toward the North End together, though not by design. They had been pressed toward each other as they pushed their way through a crowd of thousands, who lined the streets waiting for a Liberty Loan parade to start. A symphony of coughs and sniffs accompanied their progress. The man pushing through the crowd in front of Annamaria couldn’t seem to stop sniffling. Eventually, he parted from them at Congress Street, but not without first sneezing on her.
Julietta handed her a handkerchief.
Annamaria used it to dab the spittle off her face. Then she pocketed the square, planning to return it after it had been washed. Only she forgot that she put it in her pocket, and she missed the gathering of clothes for washing that Mama did that night.
She shrugged when she realized and put it on the sideboard so she would remember the next time. Only Mama found it first. “Where did you get this, Annamaria?” She was holding up Julietta’s handkerchief.
“From a girl, Mama. At work.”
Mama nodded and set it to one side. She would make sure it was included in the next wash. But it being white and reminding her of one of he
r own, she grabbed the handkerchief and used it to wipe off the lip of a cup that tumbled to the floor. And then to blot up the spill. Since she had the cup in her hand, she decided to fill it up again. She poured some more wine into it and then put it to her lips. Savored the taste of it as it went down her throat. “Bene. Va bene!” Papa should be getting his grapes from the country delivered soon. And then they’d have a feast. A big party, when he made his wine. And an even bigger one when he uncorked his supply in the spring.
She took another sip.
Mama could feel the warmth enlivening her blood and flowing to her bones. They were old, her bones. Alla bell’e meglio. Who knew how long they would last? She just wished they’d stop complaining so much. Creaks every morning getting out of bed, and aches every night sliding back in. Not like her girls. They were energetic. And sprightly. Though Annamaria had seemed a bit . . . moody . . . following Theresa’s betrothal. Mama Rossi could understand. It was hard to be the oldest. But her Annamaria was a good girl, with a good heart . . . when those Sicilians weren’t talking to her. And maybe someday when the youngest boys had married, she could spare her eldest daughter. Annamaria was meant for family. Anyone could see that. Se Dio vuole. Maybe someday. Just as soon as she could spare her. And then she’d find her Annamaria a nice Avellinesi boy to marry.
Stefano wandered by. Such a boy he was, wearing his breakfast still at the corners of his lips. Mama licked her finger and reached out to scrub at his face. Then she dabbed the rest away with the handkerchief, passing it across his lips once or twice for good measure. He licked up the trace of wine that it left on his mouth.
Later that evening, when her oldest son, Vittorio, came home from his work, he picked the handkerchief up to catch a sneeze. He’d been doing that lately. And coughing too. He pressed its folds beneath his nostrils to catch one last drip.
By next afternoon, Mama Rossi was sniffling too. And Theresa was sneezing.
“Watch what you’re about!” Vittorio wiped the traces of Theresa’s sneeze from his cheek with a swipe of the hand, from his ear toward his mouth. Then he reached across the table, picked up the bread that was left from lunch, broke it in half, and offered some to Stefano. They finished it together as Mama Rossi watched them, pride of family on her face.
A Heart Most Worthy Page 25