“Dante loves me, Father.” She beamed so brightly that Father Ascanio couldn’t help but take pleasure from her joy. God had looked favorably on his little daughter at last. However, his pleasure was tinged with foreboding. Theirs was an unlikely union and one that would undoubtedly be frowned upon by Dante’s family.
“You must ask for God’s guidance, my child.”
“He is already guiding me, Father. It is because of Him that I have arrived at this point.”
He watched the two girls skip out into the sunshine and shook his head. “Father Severo, I fear that is not going to end well.”
“Indeed,” said Father Severo, dabbing his bald head with a handkerchief. Even he could detect the alcohol in his sweat. He hoped he could rely on Father Ascanio’s poor sense of smell.
“It troubles me that Floriana’s heart might be broken again,” Father Ascanio continued. Father Severo nodded. “I shall be there, though, to pick up the pieces and put them back together again. Her father has taken up with the Devil and is not to be relied on. She relies on us.”
“She has her faith,” Father Severo agreed.
“It is very strong. But is it strong enough to endure another heartbreak? I don’t know. I shall pray for her.”
“And so shall I,” said Father Severo. “Most ardently.”
That evening Costanza ate in the dining room with her parents. Her mother rattled on about the party, discussing the extravagance of it all and the new friends they had made. Costanza didn’t mention Floriana, but she was constantly in the back of her mind. If her mother knew that Dante had kissed her and confessed his love, she’d be horrified. It was almost worth baiting her, just to watch her squirm, but her fear overrode temptation and she kept quiet. She didn’t need to fight Floriana’s battles for her; the girl was more than capable of fighting for herself.
Dante swung by Floriana’s house in his Alfa Romeo Spider and tooted the horn. Signora Bruno bustled out to admire the car, running her hands over the shiny bonnet as if it were made of real silver. Children pushed past each other to get a better look, daring one another to touch it.
Dante noticed the smallest child, who was standing on his tiptoes at the back of the throng, and waded through to get him. “Do you want to sit inside?” he asked, and the little boy nodded excitedly.
When Floriana stepped out, she found Dante in the front seat with the child on his knee, showing him what all the buttons were for.
“You be careful with Floriana,” said Signora Bruno, wagging a stout finger at Dante.
“Trust me, she’ll be cherished like a jewel,” he replied, lifting the little boy off his knee and placing him on the ground.
“I’ll wait up,” she added, as Dante started the engine.
The children stepped back in wonder. Floriana waved and Dante tooted again. As they drove slowly up the street the children followed, like a pack of playful dogs.
“Where are we going?” Floriana asked.
“Anywhere you want.”
“Let’s just drive.” She took his hand, and he lifted it to his lips.
They drove as the sun set on the olive groves and vineyards of Tuscany. The light grew mellow and the sky paled until it was dusk and the first twinkling of a star could be seen high in the sky. They found a little trattoria and dined on pasta beneath a trellis of tomato plants. The candle glowed as the natural light diminished and the crickets sang their nocturnal chorus. It was late when they left their table and drove back towards home.
Dante parked the car on the cliff top, overlooking the sea. The moon shone a path of silver light across the water. He turned off the engine and they sat in silence, gazing out at the beauty before them. For a long while neither spoke, and their stillness was as comfortable as the stars and the moon above them.
“It’s always going to be like this,” he said at last, drawing her close. “We’re going to sit here when we’re old, discussing our children. We’re going to grow old together.”
“And we’ll tell them how we met.”
“Yes, we’ll tell them about my piccolina, pushing her nose through the gates to gaze longingly at the house and her gardens.”
“I’ll be a good mother,” she said wistfully. “I’ll give our children everything I never had.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’ll give you everything you never had.”
She gazed up at him and her eyes glistened. “You already have.”
25.
Two months went by. Floriana still had to work to support herself and her increasingly inebriated father. Some days she helped her aunt in the laundry; other days she waited on tables in the caffè in Piazza Laconda. She wasn’t too proud to wash dishes or sweep, anything that would earn her cash to buy food and clothing, and the locals knew they could call on her at the last minute if they needed something done. Dante was unaware of her plight, having never been acquainted with someone who had nothing, and Floriana didn’t tell him; she would have been deeply embarrassed to receive his charity.