Domenica cringed at the thought that the captain had dictated the letter to a purser to type, which meant there was a stranger in the world who knew that McVicars didn’t love her before she received the news. The man she thought capable of great tenderness was also coldhearted. The captain wasn’t brave after all; he hid behind the seal of his stationery. Domenica wondered how she could have been so misled.
Domenica reached the bank of the river Clyde where the nuns had built a platform at the water’s edge. Domenica took the letter out of her pocket and fiddled with it; she folded it into a paper airplane. She squinted, aimed for the roll of the river where it undulated in waves to the sea, and threw it. The letter sailed through the air before landing on the surface, a tiny patch of blue that was quickly swallowed by the rapids. A cold sentiment deserved a frigid end. Domenica felt lighter as she hiked back to the convent. McVicars had given her an excuse to forget him. Now she could put him out of her heart for good.
When Domenica was a girl, her mother and aunt spoke of a woman who went abroad and married a good Polish fellow she met on the train. By all accounts, he was hardworking and prosperous, but he was not Italian. Eventually, their differences brought them unhappiness, her aunt explained. It was then that her mother confided, “When you marry a man from your own village, you know how he salts his food.”
* * *
Domenica had spent the fall of 1939 acclimating to her new job at the school. The nuns celebrated every feast day from All Saints’ Day in November through Advent to Christmas Day in December with decorations, special Masses, and novenas. Domenica didn’t have time to be homesick or think about anything outside of her job because the nuns required full participation of the staff at all school functions; but she missed Saint Joseph’s and the circle of friends that she had made in Marseille. By winter, she was the most lonesome she had ever been since leaving Italy.
The weather in Scotland had not helped her state of mind. Early winter had been brutal, forcing the students and teachers indoors. The students who boarded at Notre Dame de Namur could not go home for Christmas because a terrible blizzard had stopped all travel. The Sisters and staff did the best they could to keep the children amused. A flu went through the dormitory, which kept Domenica busy. She got a taste of what it must be like to mother many children. She decided there were women who were born to it, and she wasn’t one of them.
Domenica poked the fire in the convent kitchen. She tossed a few lumps of shiny black coal onto the logs. The fire spit blue flames as tendrils of white smoke went up the flue.
Domenica re-created her mother’s Christmas cake from memory. The gardener had provided her with butter and eggs. She used two cups of flour, two cups of sugar. She blended them together in a bowl with a tablespoon of water. The Sisters had put up cherries in liqueur last summer, the last jar of them would grace the batter. She fished them out of the jar and added them to the mix slowly, throwing in a half cup of cherry juice before stirring. She set the batter aside, sat by the warm fire, and cracked the walnuts, removing the meat and placing it in a bowl. She cracked enough walnuts to make a cup. The chore took longer because she ate some as she went. She folded the walnuts into the batter and then poured it into a pan and placed it in the oven.
There was a knock at the kitchen door. She figured it was the gardener dropping off lard to bake the Christmas goose. But instead of the gardener, a small man, a stranger, greeted her, carrying a large bucket in one hand and a sack of bottles in the other. He entered the kitchen, stomping the snow off his boots.
Domenica took a small whisk broom and removed the rest of the snow from his coat. “Here, give me your coat. We’ll dry it by the fire.”
“Perdona mi. I make work for you.” The old man handed her the coat.
“You’re Italian.”
“I’m a citizen of Scotland born in Italy. We’re called Britalians. Or Tallies, when they want their gelato. Arcangelo Antica is my name.”
“Where are you from in Italy?”
“Bardi.”
“I know it. I’m from Viareggio.”
“No!”
“And I miss it most at Christmastime. What did you bring?”
“Gelato and prosecco for the nuns’ Christmas dinner. The gelato goes in the floor with the ice block,” Antica instructed. “What are you baking?”
“Christmas cake, Toscana style.”
“Emilia-Romagna. My people. We make the cheesecake.”
“With the sugared lemon?”
“That’s it. Are you a postulant?”