After a lengthy walk, she arrived at the park—a nondescript rectangle dotted with benches and the occasional clutch of trees—and weaved through the crowd of families who had gathered to visit and enjoy the afternoon. Children chased each other or played games with a stick or ball. Several women eyed her as she passed, and she felt a twinge of discomfort. Where they were tall and willowy or square and stout, she was petite and curvy; where their creamy skin glowed in the sunlight, hers was the color of Mrs. Lancaster’s tea with milk; where they drew their silky hair into neat chignons, hers floated about her shoulders in a mass of dark, untamable curls. They all wore their Sunday best, with dainty gloves and three-story hats decorated with ribbons and floral spays. Some held pretty parasols in spring yellows and blues. At least Francesca had disposed of the tattered work dress she’d brought from Sicilia and traded it for a second-hand bustled skirt and blouse. She wouldn’t be mistaken for a lady of Park Avenue, but she looked more like a woman of New York, and for now, that was good enough. When she’d had a chance to save a bit more, she’d buy something as pretty and frivolous as ribbons or baubles.
Soon, she caught sight of the Brauers in the middle of the open square. As she started in their direction, she gripped her basket a bit tighter. She suspected Robert and Johanna didn’t know about Alma’s invitation, and though they hadn’t been cruel to her in the past, they’d made it abundantly clear they’d done her an enormous favor by letting her stay with them. They’d also made it clear where she stood in their eyes. She was an outsider allowed to join them only for the sake of propriety.
“Good afternoon.” Francesca waited at the edge of the crowd.
“You’re here!” Alma put down the cheese board and embraced her tightly.
Francesca warmed to her friend’s welcome. Alma wasn’t the type of woman to show much affection, yet some barrier between them seemed to have melted away. They were linked, a team of sorts because of what they’d already shared, and Alma seemed as grateful for their new friendship as Francesca was.
“For us?” Alma pointed at the basket.
“A tart and fresh bread. I made them,” she said shyly. She was happy to offer something for a change, rather than being the one in need.
“I see we have a guest again.” Johanna Brauer snapped a towel in the air to rid it of any crumbs. She wore a fine dress of burgundy crepe, bustled and trimmed with cream ribbon, and a large straw bonnet of the older style with a wide brim. Even with the dated hat, she was much more fashionable—and lovelier—than the woman she’d met in gray work dress and apron. Francesca could almost see the pretty maiden Signora Brauer had been in her days of youth.
“Mama, I’ve invited Francesca to join us,” Alma said curtly, adding something else in German.
Francesca didn’t miss the edge in Alma’s voice. Upon closer inspection, she saw the dark circles under her friend’s eyes. She made a mental note to ask Alma if something was wrong when they had a minute alone.
“Have you brought something, Francesca?” Johanna said, nodding at the basket.
Francesca ignored Johanna’s distinct look of displeasure and instead held out the basket. “Yes. I make for everyone.”
“How kind.” Johanna set it down with the others without looking inside.
Francesca swallowed her disappointment. She would just have to win Johanna over like everyone else.
During the next hour, several other families joined the Brauers, toting their baskets and the odd toy or instrument. Alma introduced her to a friend named Emma, who smiled at Francesca hesitantly and then joined a group of young women sitting in a circle beneath a tree. Alma frowned at the slight, but Francesca pretended not to notice and followed Alma as she introduced the rest of the group. The Schullers, the Kleins, and the Muellers. Francesca made an effort to remember their names.
In that instant, a familiar voice drifted through the crowd. She turned automatically toward it, her eyes seeking its source. Fritz stood in the middle of a crowd, his features animated. Those around him listened closely, riveted by what he had to say. There was something about him that drew the eye. An energy about him. He took off his derby hat and launched it in the air. Everyone laughed, and Klaus, his younger brother, scooped up the hat and ran with it, his lanky form a jumble of arms and legs. Fritz dashed after him beneath the trees in the dappled sunlight, easily catching him. Francesca wished she were running along beside them, but she’d receive more than a few surprised looks for behaving that way.
Instead, she sat beside Alma on the blanket, tucking her legs beneath her. “Can I help?”
“Slice the bread?” Alma forced a cheery tone, but her eyes belied something more.
Francesca touched Alma’s arm. “What’s happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look…sad or disappointed. I don’t know.” She didn’t say more, sensing Alma’s boundaries. Pushing her friend into a confession wasn’t the way to invite her to share. Instead, Francesca unwrapped the bread she’d infused with dried basil and garlic and sliced it into perfect wedges.
“I’m just tired,” Alma replied at last.
“Of course,” Francesca said, nodding. But she couldn’t help feeling disappointed Alma wouldn’t take her into her confidence.
*
“We’re ready to eat!” Alma dished out cheese and ham, cold potatoes, and a piece of bread on each plate. She wanted to tell Francesca about the engagement, and she would in time, but Alma wasn’t even used to the idea herself. She’d hardly slept the last two days, imagining what her new life would look like, her emotions swinging wildly from despair to fear to embarrassment. There would be a marriage bed, a new home…and waking up to a man she barely knew every morning. She lost her appetite all over again and set down her plate.
Robert ambled over, took a plate, and gestured at it. “Give me more ham, girl! You never give me enough.”
Without a word, she unwrapped a package of parchment paper, produced another thick slice, and laid it atop the others. She hadn’t spoken to Robert at all and had scarcely spoken to her mother since the dreaded announcement.
“There we are,” he said, his face shifting to an expression he reserved for her alone: mouth pinched, eyes filled with disgust. “Glad you’re making yourself useful, at least. Soon enough, you’ll be someone else’s problem.”
Alma reddened and glanced at Francesca, who quietly took in the scene.
“She’s the hard-working woman I ever have known,” Francesca replied defiantly in stilted English.
Alma’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes flicked to Robert’s face.
He snorted and swigged from his beer. “You must not know many,” he grumbled to himself as he weaved around them to look for a spot near the other men.
Alma swallowed hard. How had Francesca stood up to her stepfather so easily—and on her behalf? The consequences could have been harsh: he could have asked Francesca to leave, or ridiculed her in front of the others; pointed out that she was a dago and didn’t belong with them. Francesca didn’t seem to care. She didn’t fear him, and she didn’t need his approval. She was free, freer than Alma had ever been in a way she was just beginning to understand.
Alma gazed at her beautiful friend, who had turned her attention to her food. As much as Francesca had lost, as much as she had given up to be here in New York, she had something Alma didn’t, and it was the most important thing of all: she knew her mind and she wasn’t afraid to speak it. Francesca understood her own strength and drew upon it like water from a well. If only Alma could do the same.
Alma reached for Francesca, touching her hand softly. “Thank you.”