Domenica followed the captain down a narrow path into the woods behind the farmhouse. The forest was dark. The trees were gigantic on either side of the path, the sun barely peeked through the foliage. She heard a rush of water and turned to the source. She looked over the ravine for a river, but there was none.
The captain led Domenica to the sound. A glacial waterfall began at the top of the mountain and crested over a cliff, where it cascaded in clear ribbons of water past them to the depths below.
“Here’s a thought,” he said over the sound. “They should bring every general of every country here before they drop their bombs.”
The waterfall was a wonder. Domenica stood behind the captain, placed her arms around him, and rested her head on his back. He pulled her arms tightly around him and wove his fingers through hers. They stayed there until the sun was the color of a ripe peach.
Domenica Cabrelli had spent many hours of her life in prayer. The rituals of her faith had brought her comfort, but none of them compared to the serenity of this moment. Even home, where she had found solace, did not come close to the peace she found in his arms. Maybe John McVicars would show her the world in ways that would help her forget all she had lost. Maybe he was the compass who would show her the way forward.
McVicars wanted to make Domenica happy, a desire that had eluded him in the past romantic entanglements whereby he slipped the knot and escaped so graciously, a young lady barely knew he had left before he was gone for good. But Mademoiselle Cabrelli was different. He, too, wanted to forget the past and wondered if the Italian nurse could give him his highest dream: a happy life that seemed to come so easily to other men.
CHAPTER 20
Domenica looked down at her white work shoes. She had been too tired the night before to polish them, but they needed it. She shook the bottle of white polish, poured a bit onto a cloth, and dabbed over the scuff marks on her shoes.
“Hey. Cabrelli. Mail.” Mary Gay Mahoney handed Domenica a package. “Looks like you have a sweetie in Scotland.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego. One month in a cloister in Bologna and this Scottish lass can speak Italian.”
“I’d like to learn more about your people.”
“Ask me anything. I was born and raised in Drimsynie. We were the only Catholic family in the village. That’s how the nuns found me. Next to a loch. They look for the marooned.”
“How do you tell if a man fancies you in Scotland?”
“The only proof of a man’s love is how he cares for the family cow.”
“What if he doesn’t have a cow?”
“You’re out of luck.”
Domenica opened the package and read the letter.
9 April 1939
Dear Signorina Cabrelli,
I wish you a glorious Easter Sunday. I am most grateful for your bandages and care. My own mum marveled at my hands, as she was the first to hold the wee ham fists when I was born. Your honey salve spared me the scars of the burn—my manual extremities no longer look like boiled pig knuckles, but the fine fingers of a duke, just as they were before the trauma. I have shared the vat of honey serum you gifted me with the men of the Boidoin. They have nothing but compliments for the Sisters and their pageant of fine nurses, “each a perfect rose”—their words, not mine.
Our shared ham brioche in Cassis is now my favorite meal and memory. Your kisses by the waterfall will make any kisses that come my way for the rest of my life uneventful by comparison. You are delightful company. Enclosed please find a wee gift from the looms at Dundee.
Captain John L. McVicars
The Boidoin Star
She lifted out a paper sleeve tied with a ribbon from inside the box. When she loosened the bow, a cashmere scarf in woven shades of lilac and purple tumbled out. The colors reminded her of the shades of lavender on the hillsides above Cassis. She wondered if the captain chose this scarf because he remembered too.
The Feast Day of Saint Bernadette of Lourdes
“Sister Marie Bernard rang the bell,” Josephine said as she slipped into her good dress.
“We heard it.” Stephanie pinned a chapel veil to her hair. “You ready?” She turned to Domenica. “Andiamo. See? The Italian you taught me stuck.”
Domenica draped the scarf from McVicars over her shoulders. The nurses walked to the convent garden together.
“That scarf is so chic,” Josephine complimented her.
“I finally have someplace to wear it.”
“Mademoiselle Cabrelli. Finally you like a fella!” Stephanie teased her. “We’ve been waiting. We were afraid you might take the veil.”
“Don’t,” said Darlene Heck, a surgical nurse who greeted them as they entered the garden. “Never make any major decisions when you’re exhausted. These nuns are experts at running a girl ragged.” Darlene handed each of the nurses a velvet bag containing rosary beads. “A gift from the Sisters.”
“Do you think Saint Bernadette would approve of a fuss on her feast day?” Stephanie whispered. “She seemed humble.”
Josephine looped the rosary around her wrist and through her fingers. “It’s a good excuse for Sister Marie Honoré to get her mitts on the vintage champagne stored in the convent basement.”
“Thank God she doesn’t like to drink alone.” Stephanie blessed herself.
The pale green buds of spring twizzled on the branches of the lemon trees. The nuns knelt on the soft grass, followed by the nurses. As the women bowed their heads to pray, the buzz of the bees in their hives along the wall underscored Sister Marie Bernard as she led the group in reciting the rosary. Soon their incantations were louder than the hum of the bees.
No matter their country of origin, nurses were French on the feast day of Saint Bernadette of Lourdes, the patron saint of healing. As the priest asked the nuns and nurses to pray in silence for their intentions, Domenica looked around the garden and prayed for the small army of fellow nurses and nuns that protected her at Saint Joseph’s, remembering, too, one sailor she hoped was thinking of her.
* * *