she had made out of fear?
It had seemed unreal at first. They had written a letter to send to the Brunellis accepting the proposal. And then they waited. They decided to tell no one about it until it became official with the return post—which would take weeks. And then, as those weeks of waiting passed, Catarina was almost able to forget that it was happening at all. She labored in the garden, helped her father with the vines, and worked in the house alongside her mother, all the while staying far from the Carlucci house. She had no idea what lie her mother told her father about why she hadn’t gone back to her job, but he never brought it up with her, so she let the subject alone. The only people who knew the whole story were her mother and her two best friends, who would never tell a soul. But, looking back, the moment of terror with Signor Carlucci had sealed her fate. She knew she would move to America and marry Franco.
The one noticeable difference in her routine was the sewing they did at night. Catarina and her mother began sewing things she would need for the marriage. Her mother put Catarina to work on a simple, white linen nightgown that was to be covered in white embroidery, while her sisters began to stitch a quilt for the marriage bed. Celestina set to work on Catarina’s undergarments. No daughter of hers would be sent off for marriage in old, faded underthings.
Several weeks after they posted the letter, they began wondering when they would receive the awaited response. The daily trip to the post office became agony, and because she was no longer working for the Carluccis, the task had been given to Catarina. The pimple-faced boy who delivered the mail to the general store trudged to the village each day around three o’clock in the afternoon, a beat-up leather satchel over his shoulder. He was surly and rude—filled with self-importance—but at least he was punctual.
Catarina didn’t want to appear to be waiting for something important, so she made sure to arrive just before the store closed each day—as if it were an unwanted burden to collect any letters that arrived for the family. When she stepped up to the counter, she made sure to put a bored expression on her face. The last thing she wanted was talk from the village. And then, when there was no letter, she made sure to hide her disappointment. It took six weeks of daily agony from the day they mailed the letter to the Brunellis until the response was finally placed in her hand. Remaining calm was almost impossible, but Catarina forced herself to reply with a simple “Grazie” when she saw the Brunelli name on the thick envelope. She walked at a restrained pace through the square, the letter gripped in her suddenly clammy hand.
“Mama, it’s here!” she yelled as she opened the front door.
Celestina came bustling from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. When they tore open the envelope, they found two missives: one letter for Catarina’s parents and another for herself.
Catarina wanted to take the letter upstairs to her room to read in private but she knew her mother would never allow it. She felt her heart beating nervously. She watched until Celestina became engrossed in the first letter before she began reading the one to her alone. The writing was small and gently sloped. It was written in blue ink. The vague vision she had of Franco came to her mind. She could almost see him sitting at a desk, composing the words. She wished she could remember his voice and his face more clearly.
Cara Catarina,
May I call you Cara? It’s presumptuous, I know, but I feel that it follows the presumption of asking you to marry me based on my memory of a girl. How shall I begin this letter? By telling you first of all how pleased I am that you said “yes.” Are you wondering why I chose you to ask? I can easily tell you. It’s because of a certain memory I have of you and your brother, Mateo. You two were sitting at the table in your kitchen when my family was there for a visit. You were working on learning your sums. Mateo couldn’t remember how to work one of the sums and you not only reminded him how to do it, but looked over at me with a fierce expression while you did so—daring me to say something that would slight your older brother. I wouldn’t have, but I admired your nerve, as I was much older than you. That image stuck with me. Your intelligent blue eyes and the fierce expression on your face. When I decided it was time to marry, I didn’t want to marry a girl from America. I wanted to marry a girl who would remind me of Italy. Who would speak my language and understand what it means to be Italian. My father said he would ask your babbo if there was a suitable girl in the village. While we were talking about it, your face flashed through my mind. I asked my father how old you would be now, and once I knew you were of marrying age, I asked him to talk to your father about it. I know it’s strange that we don’t know each other well—that we haven’t seen each other for years. But then again, my parents met only days before they were due to be married, and it has worked well for them.
My family has booked passage for you on a ship. The letter to your parents contains the details of your departure. I want to assure you of some things myself, though. The first is that I promise to take good care of you. My family has a successful jewelry business and soon we will have an apartment of our own. Until then, we will live at my family home.
I will come to New York to meet your ship and travel with you by train to San Francisco. We will be married there in a cathedral near our home. It has a beautiful glass window made of different colors, so when the sun shines through, it’s like looking at a rainbow. I know it sounds like make-believe, but wait until you see it.
I will write more later, but for now, please know that I look forward to our marriage.
Yours,
Franco
That had been more than a month ago. Now Catarina had a small bundle of letters from Franco tied up with a ribbon. It was the first thing she placed in the wooden chest.
She was due to leave in a matter of days. The plan was to travel with Babbo by cart to Salerno, where she would board a ship to cross the Atlantic Ocean. The most important thing, Franco had said, was to stay healthy on the ship if she could, because they were very strict about whom they let into the United States. She would have to go through a place he called Ellis Island, where those who wanted to immigrate had to be checked over and cleared before they could enter the country. He wrote that even when she arrived in the United States, there would still be a risk that she could be sent back, even with a fiancé waiting for her. She hoped that wouldn’t happen. It would be humiliating to be found unfit and have to return home after telling everyone that she was going to America to be married.
He had booked her into a berth she would share with one other girl. She hoped she liked her, because they would be spending a long time together aboard the ship.
The next item Catarina placed in the wooden trunk was the quilt her sisters had made for her. It was the color of the old bricks that made up the oven where they baked their bread. A deep, rich brownish red that they trimmed in cream-colored crochet. The fabric was heavy and the feathers they filled it with were thick and fluffy. Franco told her that the evenings were cold and foggy in San Francisco, and her sisters wanted her to stay warm. She couldn’t imagine living somewhere where the evenings, even in the summer, were cool. Summer evenings at home were the best part of the day—after the heat had receded to sultry warmth. Would she have to wear a coat in the summer there? She couldn’t imagine that. She looked over at her thin, old coat. It had been tight on her last winter and she knew she had grown more since then. She decided to leave it at home for her sisters. Even if that meant she was cold during the voyage, at least her coat would be something she could leave behind to help. Even though Catarina was petite, they were even shorter, so she knew it would go to good use.
She couldn’t bring herself to pack any more yet. Instead, she walked outside and sat on the stone wall that surrounded la cucina giardino, the kitchen garden, which faced out to the olive orchard. The air was warm and still and it felt good to be out of her stuffy attic room. The leaves were grays and verdant greens. The lavender stood sentry at the entrance to the orchard, with its spiky, purple flowers. How would she leave it? But the decision was made. She would see it through. She would exchange the sights and sounds of the countryside for the noise and bustle of an unfamiliar city.
Babbo called her stubborn, but Catarina knew