Monica continued. “We have something in common. I’m not Monica Mironi any longer. My first husband died in France during the war. I remarried a wonderful man. Maybe you know him? Antonio Montaquila?”
“Yes, I do. He owns a shop in Pietrasanta.”
“That’s him. He sent me to pick up a gift for his mother. He said your father would have something appropriate, and he did. A beautiful brooch.”
“I’m glad.” Domenica took Monica’s hands in hers. “I’m happy to see you so well.”
“I didn’t know where to turn when Guido died. The children were bereft. But God had a plan for me. I’m almost ashamed that I found happiness again when there’s so much suffering in the world.”
“You had your share, Monica. You deserve happiness.”
Domenica watched Signora Montaquila walk down the boulevard. Fate had spared her a long life with a horrible husband and given her a second chance. If she could forgive Guido Mironi, Domenica could too.
Domenica entered Cabrelli’s and greeted Isabella, the seasoned clerk who was waiting on a customer. The display cases were practically empty. Before the war, this would have been a good sign for the family purse. But following the war, most items from Cabrelli’s were purchased on credit. It would be years before her father would be made whole. Credit had replaced profit in postwar Italy.
“We have company, bella,” Cabrelli said as Domenica walked past him to the back room to hang her coat on a hook.
Silvio Birtolini stood up from his seat on the bench under the window. He wore his best suit and tie. Silvio pushed a stubborn curl off his forehead before giving Domenica a kiss on both cheeks. “How are you, old friend?”
“Old.” She laughed.
“I don’t want to hear it! You’re still a baby,” her father said. “Look at that face.” Cabrelli pinched his daughter’s cheek before going to the front room.
Silvio, like all Italian men, was thin after the war. His black hair remained unruly. His face had matured, bringing out the angles of his cheekbones. “I’m happy to see you made it through the war,” Silvio said.
“I’m happy you did too.” Domenica felt something she had never felt in Silvio’s presence: awkward. She attempted small talk. “Do you need a gift? I don’t know what’s left.” She pulled an apron on over her nursing uniform. “Choose something and I’ll wrap it for you.”
Silvio put his hands in his pockets. He looked down at his polished shoes. “I’m not here to buy a gift.”
Cabrelli returned to the workroom with a gift that needed to be wrapped. He gave it to Domenica. “I just hired Silvio to cut for me. Would you wrap this for me, Nica?” Cabrelli went back into the showroom.
Domenica opened the box. She pinned the delicate gold chain to the cotton batting. “You finished your apprenticeship?”
“I did. I worked in Firenze until I was drafted into the army. At first, I was a guard at the prison camp in Friuli. Horrible place.”
“Where did they send you after the camp?”
“They didn’t. I left the army because my country left me. I was in the mountains north of Bergamo in the resistance.”
Domenica thought of John McVicars, who would not have left active service regardless of his own beliefs. She wrapped the box in gold paper and twine.
“There were many Italians who believed there were some good qualities at play with the Fascisti, but I’m not one of them.”
“I’m not either,” Domenica agreed.
Silvio smiled. “So you don’t judge me.”
“No, I don’t.” Domenica patted his hand. “I can’t judge anyone who fought for the good. It was a terrible time, but in the midst of it, there was some joy. I was married to a Scotsman, a very proud one. He was killed on the Arandora Star five years ago. We have a daughter.”
“That’s wonderful. She must be a comfort to you.”
“She is. She’s my heartbeat. She’s almost six years old. Do you have a child close in age?”
“I don’t have children.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe now that the war is over, you and your wife will have them.”
“I’m not married.”
Isabella poked her head into the workroom. “Signore? Maria Pipino called to say dinner is on the table.”
“Thank you,” Silvio said as he reached for his hat and coat. “I took a room at Signora Pipino’s.”
“On the Via Fiume? Go, go. Signora Pipino is a good cook. We’ll chat another time.”