The older woman shrugged. “The Bible says there is no fear in perfect love. Perfect love casts out fear. We have that love in our Lord. They do, too. We needn’t fear for them. Father in heaven, He will guide them.”
“Here are your spices, miss,” the clerk interjected. “Should I put it on the Panetta bill?”
Chantel took the bottles. “Yes. My father will be in to pay on Saturday.”
The man nodded and turned to Mrs. Barbato. “And what can I get for you?”
She handed him a list. “I hope you have all of this in stock.”
The man looked over the list and nodded. “I believe we do. Let me get right to work on this.” The front door opened, sounding the bells that hung overhead. The clerk called out a greeting to two new customers before turning back to his work.
Chantel tucked the spice bottles in her basket. “I suppose I should be going.”
“The baking will not do itself,” Mrs. Barbato said, smiling. “But you have your mother and sister to help, and that is always more fun. I used to love baking for the holidays when we would all get together and share the work and tell stories of long ago. We laughed and ate—it was the best of times.”
“We did that at my Nonna Panetta’s last Christmas. It was wonderful. You remind me very much of my nonna. While I was in Italy, I missed my family here, but now that I’m here, I long to sit and listen to Nonna tell me stories of the old days and of our family.”
Mrs. Barbato patted Chantel’s hand. “When you want to talk to your nonna, come and see me instead. You can talk to me, and I will tell you stories about the days gone by and of the family. I know it won’t be the same, but I will be happy to tell you what I know.”
The offer was more precious to Chantel than she could explain. “Grazie,” she whispered. “That means so much to me.”
“And you don’t worry. I will speak to Vittorio. I will tell him he displeases God when he refuses to forgive. I will pray, too, that God will speak to his heart.”
Chantel didn’t think before saying, “And to Dante’s heart, as well.”
Mrs. Barbato smiled. “I think his heart is already changing, but I will pray for him, too. He is a good man—Orlando, too. I have raised them as I would have my own sons, and I know their hearts. They love their papa and do not wish to disrespect him. Still, I think if their father will listen to our Lord, then the son will do the same.”
“I hope so,” Chantel replied, feeling the strangest flutter in her heart at the thought of Dante coming to her in peace rather than anger. “I pray so.”
Chapter 10
Christmas Eve arrived, yet the men trudged off to the mine as they usually did, leaving the Panetta women to prepare for that night’s feast. An Italian Christmas called for several days of feasting, and Christmas Eve was just one of many. For Chantel, it was one of her favorite times of the year. She loved working with her mother and sister to create the special meals. She loved having her family all around her. When they’d been younger, she and her sister would go ice skating and sledding with the boys. Sometimes Chantel wished they could go back to those days when life seemed much less complicated. She sighed. At least they’d all share Christmas together.
The mine didn’t often close, but the owners would cease work Christmas Day. There were precious few days of rest in the mining industry. Chantel thought it a terrible way to treat people. She had read not long ago that the United States Congress was working on new laws to address work hours and improvements to industrial jobs. Dangers were always great in any job that involved heavy machinery and explosives, and she would be glad to see new regulations enforced that might keep her father and brothers safe. For now, however, they would simply rely on the Lord and hope that each man would be mindful of their duties and the dangers.
Mama entered the kitchen humming a Christmas tune and carrying a large bowl of candied orange rind. They had worked for weeks to candy cherries, as well as orange, lemon, and melon rinds for the Christmas struffoli. Chantel couldn’t help but lean over and take a piece of the sweet treat. “Mmm, I just love candied orange rind.”
“It’s always been impossible to keep you out of it,” Mama said, putting the bowl on the counter. “Even when you were a little girl, it was your favorite.” She checked the cloth-covered struffoli dough. “It’s risen nicely. We can roll it out now. Is the oil ready?”
Chantel nodded. “It just needs to heat up. I was waiting until closer to time for the frying. I didn’t want it to burn.”
Her mother nodded and pressed her hands into the dough with one hand while sprinkling flour out on the cleaned countertop with the other. She pinched off a piece of the dough and began to roll it and sing a Christmas carol in Italian.
Chantel smiled. Christmas was her mother’s favorite time of year, and this year was special because Mama had all of her children around her. Chantel thought of her grandparents in Italy and wished they could have somehow come to America with her. In a sense they had, Chantel thought, smiling. While in Italy last year, she had spent her extra money to have a special photograph taken of her nonna and nonno, as well as another of the entire extended family. At least as many of them as could come for the picture. What a grand party that had turned out to be. Even now, Chantel remembered the joyous celebration and love that had been shared that day. The photograph would always be a special reminder.
Checking the fire, Chantel placed the large pan of olive oil on the stove and went to find the round-bottomed pan they used to heat the honey, sugar, and water mixture they would pour over the dough after it was fried.
Isabella took that moment to return from her search for fresh cream and eggs. “Mrs. Merritt had plenty of both,” she announced, coming into the kitchen. “Goodness, but it feels so much better in here than out there. I think we may be in for another snow. The sky looks so dark and threatening.” She placed a basket on the large kitchen table and began to peel off her scarf and gloves.
“We’re just getting ready to fry the struffoli,” Mama replied. “Put on your apron and help me roll out the dough.”
Isabella shrugged out of her coat and went to hang it up before taking up her apron. “Mrs. Merritt says the Finnish are opening a school soon. It’s to be a Finnish-American school.”
“What’s wrong with the school we already have?” Mama asked. “Miss Wilson is a good teacher, I hear.”
Isabella shrugged. “But apparently she’s not teaching the Finnish language and history.”
“That is for the mamas and pappas to do, no?” their mother replied. “We are Americans now, so we should speak as Americans and let each family keep the language of their ancestors.”
“I agree,” Isabella concurred. “But apparently the Finnish people do not.”
Chantel put the honey mixture on the stove to cook. She would boil it until the foam died down and the liquid turned yellow. At that point they would take it from the heat and add the struffoli and candied fruits. Then it would just be a matter of forming it. Mama always liked to make it into a holiday wreath. Chantel knew it didn’t matter; her brothers and father would devour it no matter its shape.
There was a knock on the back door, and since Chantel hadn’t yet started to help with the dough, she went to answer it. The cold air hit her face, but because of the heated kitchen it actually felt good. Mrs. Nardozzi’s two youngest boys stood at the bottom of the steps, jostling each other.
“Mama sent us to recite our Christmas verses to you,” the oldest boy said. He nudged his little brother. “You go first.”
“Wouldn’t you like to step inside where it’s warm?” Chantel asked.
The older boy shook his head. “Mama said we couldn’t. She said we had to stand here ’cause our boots are dirty.”
Chantel nodded. “Very well. Please continue.” Again the oldest boy elbowed his brother.
The youngest boy, who couldn’t have been more than four years old, looked up at Chantel with wide dark eyes. “And, lo . . . a . . . lo,” he stammered and let h
is gaze fall to the ground. “Lo . . . the angel of the Lord fell on them. . . .”
His brother ribbed him hard and interrupted. “He didn’t fall on them, he came upon them.”
The little boy pushed his brother away. “I can tell it.” He looked back to Chantel, who did her best not to giggle. “And lo . . . the angel of the Lord . . .” He paused for a moment, gathered his composure, and continued. “The angel of the Lord came upon them . . . and the glory . . . of the Lord . . . shined around them . . . and they were sore and afraid.”
Chantel put her hand over her mouth to hide her grin. She could only imagine that if the angel of the Lord had fallen on the shepherds, they would be sore and afraid.
“And the angel said unto them . . . Fear not: for . . .” His voice trailed off as his face screwed into a stern look of concentration. “ . . . behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” He grinned up at her and gave a bow.
“Very good,” Chantel said, reaching out to tousle his brown hair.
“Now it’s my turn,” his brother declared. He filled his lungs with air and in one breath fired off the next few verses. “‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.’” He barely got the words out before gasping in another deep breath. He grinned up at her, revealing two missing front teeth. “See, I know it really good.”
“Indeed you do,” Chantel replied. “And both of you did such a good job, I must reward you. If you will wait here, I’ll get you some candy.”
She went back inside and opened the cupboard, where little bags of goodies awaited. The neighborhood children had come steadily throughout the week to sing songs and quote Bible verses. As was the tradition back in Italy, the recipients of such visits would bestow treats upon their visitors.
“It’s the two youngest Nardozzi boys,” Chantel explained, taking two bags from the cupboard. “They quoted from Luke and did so quite nicely.”
Mama smiled up from the long doughy snake. “Tell them I said well done.”
“I will,” Chantel replied. She hurried back to the boys and found them already distracted and pushing each other around. “Boys, my mama said to tell you ‘Well done!’ And now I have your gift.” She held out the two bags. She had helped make little cloth bags for the candies and pointed to the drawstring tops. “Once you eat all the candy, you’ll have the little bag for your marbles. Won’t that be nice?”
The boys took the offering and beamed her a smile. “Grazie!” they declared in unison and ran for home.
Chantel watched after them for a moment, feeling a sense of longing. She envied her sister having found true love. Even as the thought came to mind, she prayed for forgiveness. Envy would get a person into trouble every time, her mother often said. Chantel pushed the thoughts aside and closed the door to the cold. There was plenty of work to keep her mind occupied. No sense letting sin ruin the day.
Marco ignored his conscience as he came upon the Fortune Hole. It was Christmas Eve and the family would be awaiting him at home, but he wanted a drink in the worst way. He entered the bar and immediately spied Leo standing with his back to the door. He was intent on a ledger book and didn’t seem to even notice Marco until he’d come up alongside him.
“You ought to be more aware,” Marco chided him. “Someone’s likely to come in here and rob you.”
Leo stepped back from the bar to reveal a derringer in his hand. He grinned. “I’m always very aware of what’s going on—especially here in my bar.”
Marco couldn’t help but remember the night Lamb had been killed. “I need a drink,” he said, trying to force the images from his mind.
“On Christmas Eve?” Leo asked, laughing. “What will the priest say?” He closed the ledger and took it with him behind the bar. “Whiskey or beer?”
A large beer was more to his liking, but Marco didn’t have the time to spare. “Whiskey.” He put his money on the bar.
Leo furnished the drink and waited until Marco had downed it to hold up the bottle. “Another?”
Marco shook his head. “I need to go.”
“Say, you haven’t been here much since that little altercation with Lamb. I hope you aren’t thinking of quitting on me.”
He looked at Leo and could see the man seemed almost amused. “I don’t much like getting drunk anymore. Clouds my thinking,” Marco replied. He could still envision the blood pooling around Lamb’s lifeless body—could still smell the gunpowder. Worse than that, Marco could well remember Leo’s casual attitude about the entire matter.
Leo poured more whiskey into the empty glass. “This one’s on me. Merry Christmas.”
Marco hesitated and Leo chuckled. “Go on. You won’t find me giving any other gifts.” He recorked the bottle and put it under the bar. “One more drink isn’t going to get you drunk. With any luck at all, you’ll just enjoy your church services all the more.”
Marco looked for several long seconds at the glass before picking it up and downing the contents. Leo smiled and nodded. “See, it’s all just in the spirit of the holiday. Now, if you really want some fun, come around on New Year’s Eve. We’re going to have a high-stakes poker game that will beat ’em all.”
“Thanks, but no. I don’t think I will,” Marco said, heading for the door.
“Suit yourself,” Leo replied.
Marco left the saloon and made his way home without stopping. He knew his father and brother would already be there and that the family would be waiting for him to clean up and join them for the Christmas Eve feast. At midnight he would be expected to attend church with his family to remember the coming of the baby Jesus. His heart wasn’t up for celebrating, however. As much as it irritated him that he craved another drink, the desire for alcohol held him fast in its grip, and all Marco could think about was returning to Leo’s rather than heading to church with his family. Maybe he could slip away after supper.
“There you are,” his mama declared when he tried to sneak in the back door. “I was just about to send your papa to find you.”
“Sorry, Mama. I . . . ah . . . I had to take care of something.” He kissed her on the cheek in a hurried fashion lest she smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Well, you’re here now. Go get cleaned up and then we can eat.”
He moved past her and through the warm kitchen. The succulent aroma of his mother’s and sisters’ cooking followed him through the house. Maybe a good meal would put the alcohol out of his mind. Maybe time with his family would help to ease his guilty conscience and bring him peace. But once again he pictured Lamb lying dead on the floor, his blood soaking into the rough wood planks. Peace seemed impossible.
Near noon on Christmas Day, Chantel gathered her family in the front room and announced that she had gifts from Italy to give to each of her family. “I could hardly restrain myself,” she explained, handing out the presents. “I was so tempted to give them to you when I returned.”
Mama looked at the square gift a moment. “This is such a surprise.” She unwrapped the paper to reveal a photograph— nearly forty family members gathered for the occasion. Tears welled and Mama clutched the photo to her breast. “It’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Chantel said. She turned to her father. “Open yours, Papa.”
He did so and held up the framed picture of his parents. “Oh, Chantelly Rosa, this is a precious gift.” He looked at the woman and man a moment and then handed the portrait to his wife. “They look so old.”
Mama nodded. “Oh, how I miss them.” With her own parents now passed on, Mama considered the Panettas to be her mother and father.
Isabella had already unwrapped her gift and was quite excited at the sight of the brush and mirror set
. “Oh, they’re lovely and so beautiful.” She turned them first one way and then another to catch the light.
“The mosaic pattern on the back is made with pieces of broken stained glass. I thought of you the moment I saw it.”
“I’ll cherish it always.” She leaned over to kiss Chantel’s cheek. “Thank you so much.” There was a knock on the front door and, as if expecting someone, Isabella jumped to her feet. “I’ll get it.”
Marco and Alfredo had unwrapped their gifts by this time to reveal two beautiful marble shaving mugs, complete with marble-handled brushes. “A bit fancy for an iron miner, isn’t it?” Marco asked with a grin.
“Nonno said it was the perfect gift for you boys, and who was I to say otherwise?” She smiled and motioned to their scraggly looking faces. “Maybe you could use them right away.”
Isabella cleared her throat. “Ah . . . everyone, I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Orlando to join us for the noon meal,” Isabella announced from the hallway. Orlando Calarco stepped around from the entryway and took his place at Isabella’s side.
The room fell awkwardly silent and for several moments all anyone did was stare at the young couple. They were all surprised to see a Calarco in their home, but it was Papa who welcomed the young man first. “Glad to have you. Merry Christmas.”
Orlando stepped forward and shook hands with the older man. “Thank you, and Merry Christmas.”
Chantel could see that her brothers were rather apprehensive, but they said nothing. They were well aware of their sister’s interest in Orlando, even if they didn’t yet approve of it.
“We were just enjoying Chantel’s gifts,” Mama said, holding up the pictures. “It’s almost like having family from the old country here with us.”
“And now we can feast and enjoy the day,” Isabella said, taking hold of Orlando’s arm. “I’ve already told Orlando what a wonderful cook you are, Mama.”
Their mother blushed and put the photographs aside. Getting to her feet, she motioned to her daughters. “Come and help me, and then he will see what wonderful cooks you are, as well.”
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