“Well, you’ve been on my back.” Mark slugged a large gulp of beer.
Fritz paused in bringing his own cup to his lips. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always kissing up to the bosses these days.”
The muscle in Fritz’s jaw twitched. “I wouldn’t call doing my job kissing up to the bosses.”
“You hear about the riot in Colorado?” Mark asked, ignoring Fritz’s comment. “The laborers are sticking together. Figure it’s the best way to make a statement. I say we burn a few things. Let them know we’re serious.”
Francesca glanced at Alma. Her expression was grim, her eyes troubled.
“Violence undermines what we’re trying to accomplish.” Fritz’s voice took on an edge. “If we riot, they’ll think we need to be put in our places.”
“The bosses won’t understand how serious we are until we make a statement,” Mark argued. “Our agenda isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“And what exactly is our agenda, according to you?”
Mark’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “You know we want McCreedy. He’s just another Irish bastard. A crook. Keeps the lion’s share of profits while we all work ourselves to the bone. But you’re in there, puckering up for promotions.” He flicked the collar on Fritz’s shirt. “You’re not one of us anymore.”
Fury sparked in Fritz’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, they argue all the time,” Alma whispered in Francesca’s ear.
“Good afternoon, Brauers.” A pretty woman in flowered skirts and a white blouse interrupted their conversation. She held a rosy pink parasol in her hand. Francesca recognized her from Ellis Island. She’d been nice enough.
“Helene!” Alma exclaimed. “You came! Everyone, this is Helene Bach. We work together at Ellis Island.”
The young woman smiled, and they all switched to German. When it looked as if the conversation would continue that way, Francesca decided it was time for a walk. No one would miss her.
She skirted around the edges of the park, trying to enjoy the weather, but her gaze kept drifting back to the Brauers. Johanna smiled at Helene and led her by the arm to get a plate of food. Helene had been welcomed to the fold instantly. And given her age and beauty, her German heritage, she was a good potential match for Fritz, too.
Francesca walked across the square, putting distance between her and the others. She passed a patch of yellow and red flowers clustered in a small pot of soil. On the other side of it, she saw another group sitting on an array of colorful blankets. They shared a meal, but instead of potatoes and beer, they pulled out loaves of bread, cured ham, olives, and several carafes of vino rosso. They laughed heartily and shouted over one another, the Sicilian dialect she hadn’t heard in a while enveloping her. To the untrained eye, the group might have been arguing, but Francesca knew better. Why say something calmly when one could make their point much better with a little display of emotion?
A woman noticed her staring and smiled, then said something to the man next to her, who looked Francesca’s way.
“Buongiorno,” he called. “I’m Giuseppe and this is my sister, Giana. You’re welcome to join us, if you like. We noticed you’re alone.”
And they’d also noticed that she was Italian, like them, and hadn’t bothered speaking to her in English. Something that disappointed her a little.
She walked around the flower bed to say a proper hello. “I’m Francesca Ricci.”
They all exchanged kisses on the cheek in greeting.
“Francesca!” Someone called her name from behind her and she turned. Fritz crossed the park with long strides, his eyes fixed on her. He stomach dipped as she watched him come for her.
“It was nice to meet you”—she said hastily to Giuseppe and Giana—“but I’ve come with another group.”
Giana smiled. “If you change your mind, we have plenty of food. Isn’t that right, Giuseppe?”
“Certo,” he replied.
Francesca smiled and thanked them for their hospitality just as Fritz caught up to her.
“Francesca, are you… Is everything all right?” he said, out of breath.
“Yes, of course. Fritz, this is Giuseppe and Giana.”
They nodded politely. “Hello.”
Though the group was friendly, there was an unspoken question in the air: what was she doing with the German? As Johanna’s glare and deliberate cold shoulder replayed in Francesca’s mind, she wasn’t sure she could answer the question herself.
Fritz’s expression changed as he took in the group of families, and understanding dawned in his eyes. He looked back at Francesca. “If you’d prefer to stay…” His words trailed off.
Giana made eye contact with Giuseppe, and a silent communication passed between them.
“Fran!” Alma said, approaching with Helene on her arm. “We wondered where you’d gone. We’re going to play cards. Would you like to play?”
Fran? Francesca felt a rush of warmth as her friend slid her free arm through hers. They’d come for her, and Alma had even given her a nickname. Francesca might not be German or exactly like the Brauer family and their friends, but she was welcome, at least mostly, and for now, that was enough.
With a smile for Giana and Giuseppe, Francesca wished them a good day and set off for the cozy spot where the rest of the Brauers gathered.
Fritz walked silently beside her, casting a final glance over his shoulder.
She wished then that she could read his mind.
30
Alma walked to the train station, the sweet perfume of lilacs masking the odor of mud and sweaty horses. Trees scattered throughout the city proudly displayed their new greenery, and flowerpots burst with happy peonies. All the things Alma loved about spring took center stage, yet she couldn’t pretend to be content, not for anyone or anything. Even Fran had noticed her gloominess at the picnic last week. Alma sighed.
She was to be married. To a middle-aged man she hardly knew.
Fritz had been somewhat sympathetic when he’d learned the news, but he’d also asked her whether she wanted a home of her own and to get out from under Robert’s thumb. She didn’t bother to explain that yes, of course she did, but there had to be another way. She envisioned packing her things, moving out on her own—and promptly shuttered the idea. She’d destroy her family’s reputation as well as her own. Even if she could entertain the idea, she didn’t have any money.
When she arrived at work, she trudged up the front walk, wishing for all the world it was her day off. She hadn’t the faintest idea of what to say to John. He’d asked her parents for her hand without even consulting her! What kind of man did that, in this day and age? It was downright medieval.
Shoulders sagging, she lined up in the matron’s office and waited for Mrs. Keller’s inspection.
Her supervisor did her usual nitpicking and scolding over everyone’s uniforms. When she reached Alma, she straightened Alma’s collar and eyed her cap with disdain. “You’re a mess today, Miss Brauer.” She pushed Alma’s shoulders back to force her to stand tall. “Your brain must be clouded by love.”
Several of the others giggled.