“Do it again,” Domenica said. Silvio lifted her into the air, this time twirling her aloft above the other couples.
The Cabrelli girl always makes the Birtolini boy do things that he shouldn’t do. Silvio remembered what the nuns had told his mother when she went to school to tell them that they were leaving the village.
Silvio placed her on the ground gently.
“Excellent! You did a good job and you deserve a prize,” she said as she bowed to him. “They have bomboloni.”
“Are they as good as they used to be at the feast?”
“We’ll have to see.” She took his hand and led him off the dance floor.
Silvio followed Domenica through the crowd. He felt lucky to take his place anywhere near the light of her. Silvio Birtolini hadn’t realized how much he missed Domenica Cabrelli until he danced with her.
Silvio bought Domenica a bombolone. “You don’t want me to go, do you?”
“But you have to. You have a lovely girl waiting for you.”
“How do you know she’s lovely?”
“Anyone you chose would be.”
“You think highly of me.”
“Is that allowed?”
“Yes, and it’s appreciated. Would you like to know what I think of you?”
“I already know.” Domenica fed him a bite of the doughnut.
“You do?”
“Bossy.”
“It’s true.” He laughed.
“Who else could get you to dance at Carnevale? Filomena Fortunata? You liked her for six days when we were ten.”
Silvio did not take another bite of the pastry because he was too busy talking to Domenica. When Silvio’s friends found him, it was time to go. Domenica walked them to the car.
“Just like the old days, you have to make sure I get home safely,” Silvio joked.
“Be careful.” She embraced her old friend.
She watched them drive away and wondered how long it would be before the four young men would be called into military service. She said a prayer and kissed the medal of Santa Lucia around her neck for their safety. Domenica wished she had remembered to show the medal to the boy who had given it to her so long ago. There hadn’t been enough time.
* * *
Domenica walked home from Carnevale barefoot, carrying her dancing shoes, one in each hand, swinging them like the two pails of water she used to fetch for her mother when she was a girl. It was almost hard to remember what life was like before the pipes brought the fresh water down the mountain and into their home. She did not mind the feeling of the smooth, cold cobblestones beneath her aching feet. Her feet must have been hurting all night, but she didn’t feel them in the company of Silvio Birtolini.
The stairwell of Villa Cabrelli was dense with the scents of cinnamon and anise. She joined her parents and the Speranzas in the kitchen.
Speranza was in the middle of a story as her mother stirred the pot with chestnuts on the stove. The kitchen table was covered with pristine muslin. A mound of sugar sparkled in the center of the table. Agnese dredged the chestnuts in sugar and arranged them on the pan to cool. Close by, a tray of the blanched, tender chestnuts rolled in the sugar were being stacked in a tin by her father. They looked like they had been dusted in snow.
“That’s plenty,” Agnese said to Cabrelli.
“When you work, you eat,” Cabrelli said.
“See how useless I am,” Speranza said to Domenica. “I let your papa and mama do all the work.”
“That’s all right, Romeo. You’re doing the driving tonight.”
“You’re going back to Venezia?” Domenica asked.
“Romeo has a lot of work,” Agnese explained. “He is creating a monstrance for the cathedral at Castel Gandolfo.”
Cabrelli snapped the lid on the tin of chestnuts. Domenica went up the stairs to the guest room and picked up their suitcase. She brought it down to the kitchen where the Cabrellis and the Speranzas were saying their goodbyes. Cabrelli took the suitcase from Domenica and followed the Speranzas down the stairs.
“Try one,” Netta offered.
“I had a bombolone.”
“One chestnut won’t hurt you.”
“All you do is feed me.” Domenica tasted the buttery, sugar-glazed candy. “Mama, why so many tins of chestnuts?”
“We will need them. Have you noticed? I’m filling the pantry. There’s a lot of talk in the village. Did you know the old Stampone palazzo is full of Blackshirts? That’s half a mile up the beach. They get closer and closer.”