John carried Domenica to the bed and placed her gently on the coverlet, as if she were made of crystal so delicate, the glass would break if held too tightly. She put her hands on his face and guided his lips to hers. The moment filled her heart, which filled the room and would fill her life. There was only John Lawrie McVicars and the warmth of the fire he had built for her.
As his lips found her neck, his gentle kisses made up for the loneliness she had felt since she left Italy. Nothing, no matter how wonderful, had been able to fill her up until now. She was no longer alone in the world. She had a partner, a man she trusted, believed in, and admired. His love made up for all she had lost. Someday she would see her family again, and he would become part of them.
John loved Domenica more than his heart could hold. He had lived a rootless life until now. His mother’s home on Tulloch Street had never been his. Now he wanted a home worthy of Domenica. He was ready to build a new life and offer himself in faith to her. His past washed away like the letter Domenica had thrown into the river Clyde. All the hurt dissolved, like the ink on the paper in the undertow. Love, it turned out, could shelter the banished and lift the broken spirit, but he had no idea that it was one woman’s love that could do both.
* * *
Sister Matelda had left a letter in the guest lodge for Domenica. Her hands shook as she opened the envelope. She sat under the window and unfolded the letter.
6 June 1940
My dear Domenica,
The Sisters of the Sacred Heart in Lucca promised me that this letter would reach you. I do not want you to worry. Papa and I are in good health. We are leaving to go up the mountain where we will be safe. The Gregorios and Mamacis are going with us. We have sent word to the Speranzas to join us. Their situation is difficult, but Papa believes Speranza’s good friendship with the church will help. We have hope. Your brother, Aldo, remains in Africa. Reggimento Puglia. His last letter was brief, but he is also in good health. We trust the good Sisters will take care of you until we can be together again. Pray. We will pray too. Your mother and father and brother love you. This is the last letter I will write until the conflict is over. The Sisters cannot deliver any further mail.
Mama
The captain entered the lodge, sat on the step stool by the door, and removed his work boots. “How was your day?” He called out, “Mrs. McVicars?” When she didn’t answer, he went to look for her. He saw the letter from Domenica’s mother on the table. He read it.
Domenica stood in the doorway. “I will never see them again,” she said.
CHAPTER 29
Venezia, Italy
SUMMER 1940
The bruting wheel sustained a high-pitched screech as Romeo Speranza gently polished the ruby. Filaments of red dust fell through the air and into the work tray as the gem cutter pumped the pedal underneath the table. One carat. Peruzzi cut. Following a few final spins of the wheel, he held the stone up to the afternoon light through the street-level window. The ruby held the saturated color of burgundy wine, so red it was practically purple. He buffed the jewel in a cotton cloth between his thumb and forefinger.
Agnese collected the polished ruby and knelt to return it to the lockbox inside the safe in the floor. “Romeo, your shoes.”
Speranza looked down at his shoes with a critical eye. The oxblood leather was covered in dust from the wheel. He wiped his hands on a rag tucked in the back pocket of his work trousers.
“There’s a shoeblack on Calle Sant’Antonio.”
“Should I go now?”
“They won’t get polished by themselves.” Agnese’s lips almost curled into a smile. “Come back as soon as you can. No stopping at Bar Maj. I would go with you, but I have to make the challah for Shabbos.”
“Va bene.” Speranza grabbed his hat.
He buttoned his vest as he walked along the canal to the piazza. Overhead, the sky matched the dull blue surface of the canal. He passed the mesh baskets filled with fresh silverfish, clamped to the wooden bumpers in the ice-cold water of the canal. Soon the air would fill with the scent of a woodsy smoke, as the smelts and sardines were grilled for Friday dinner.
The heavy-lidded black Madonna carved from marble looked down from her perch on the roof of Santa Filippa. Beneath her alcove, a soldier in the uniform of the Blackshirts stood guard, his hand resting on the butt of the rifle perched on his shoulder. Speranza remembered when there were no guards or guns in Venezia. Now it was overrun with soldiers in makeshift uniforms. There were more of them than pigeons.
The piazza was filled with traders from the four corners of the world. Their voices ricocheted off the walls as they haggled. The buyers wove in and out among the tables, on the hunt for particular treasures. The sellers, in contrast, modeled their wares—silver, fine fabrics, leather goods, and ceramics—with flair, hoping to close a final deal by sunset. Speranza walked past the display racks of textiles. Nuns, swathed in their navy habits and crisp white wimples, compared the quality of the wool as they bargained with the Scottish merchant. The haggling was spirited. Speranza could barely hear himself think.