The American Lady(8)

“Your guests will have a surprise they will never forget!”



At the other end of town, at the harbor, where thousands of crates from all over the world were unloaded every day of the year, two people were sealing a deal.

The shorter of the two, a nervous little man, shoved an envelope into his jacket pocket as the taller man snapped his briefcase shut with a flourish.

“I’m very pleased with your work, Mr. Sojorno,” the tall man said. “You have been a great help to us, preparing the way like this. Not every warehouse supervisor would be so . . . cooperative. My father and I assume we may rely on your help in the future as well.”

Cooperative—who is he trying to kid? Sojorno thought. They had him over a barrel and they damn well knew it! Sure, they paid him well for what he did, but what good would that money do him behind bars? He wiped the sweat from his brow and said a quick prayer to Santa Lucia to ask that he never end up in jail. Then he looked around nervously.

“Part of the shipment was already a little . . . well, let’s say it had . . . suffered from the journey,” Sojorno whispered. “I worry about what might have happened if there hadn’t been enough air.”

Franco de Lucca frowned deeply. “Well, shipping certain kinds of goods over such a distance is a tricky business, we all know that. And . . . special shipments like these need constant temperatures and good airflow. But please don’t worry, Mr. Sojorno. Our man in Genoa is a master of his craft. As long as nobody interferes with the crates on the crossing, there’s plenty of air inside.”

The other man nodded. He found Franco de Lucca’s words reassuring. “When can we expect the next delivery?”

“First thing next week,” de Lucca answered, leafing through his pocket diary.

“So soon? I thought that signore would go back to Genoa first—”

“I do not pay you to think, Mr. Sojorno! If you have any trouble with this, you must let me know,” de Lucca interrupted. He fixed his ice-blue eyes on Sojorno until the man began to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Like a dog submitting to the pack leader, he hunched his shoulders and made himself look as small as he could. He simply shook his head in response.

De Lucca’s gaze became a little easier to bear. “I knew that we could rely on you,” he said, and even smiled.

Why does the dear Lord hand out his gifts so unfairly? Sojorno wondered. The mere fact that the other man had smiled at him made him feel like one of the chosen few. The young aristocrat had everything that he did not, everything that he wished for; he had a physique that made Roman sculpture look clumsy, olive-brown skin that bristled with manly stubble even at this early hour, and eyes that could glow like hot stones—or glitter cold as ice, as they had just now. Finally, there was a tenderness and sensitivity in the shape of his mouth and chin that could make women swoon. Madonna mia!

“I will be in New York all summer. Since we have so many shipments arriving, my father felt it could do no harm to have one of us here looking after things in person,” the young de Lucca said as he put his diary away.

Sojorno found it hard to take his eyes off the other man. Franco de Lucca didn’t owe him any explanations. The fact that he gave them all the same was a special sign of favor.

“Would I be right to assume that the next few shipments will also be, ah, special deliveries?” He put a touch of sarcasm into his voice as he used de Lucca’s words, but a moment later, he felt a hard hand press his Adam’s apple against his windpipe.

“Just so we understand one another, Sojorno—we ship Italian red wine. Nothing more!”





2

Marie spent the first two days aboard the ship in her cabin. Not because she was suffering from seasickness like so many of the other passengers, but rather because she spent hours at a time reading the English dictionary that Sawatzky had given her. She went to the dining room at mealtimes but left before the last guests had put down their flatware. She justified her solitary habits by telling herself that if she worked hard at learning the vocabulary, then at least she would be able to understand a little of what was being said around her when she reached New York. Even though she was also—or, mostly—making this journey to meet new people, right at the moment she didn’t feel like it. In fact, she didn’t feel like doing anything much, and she had to admit that she deeply regretted her decision to go visit her sister Ruth in America. What am I doing here? she wondered as she hurried through the narrow corridors below decks, her head down. She would much rather be sitting at her lamp, blowing glass. Or trying to at least . . .