Carina tried to picture one of the pigtailed men in Tia Gelsomina’s kitchen. But then, her godmother had never liked to cook. She would think it a good joke on the rest of them. Carina would have to go and see for herself. Maybe Gelsomina could help with Quillan, as well. She was not as rigid as Mamma and Papa.
Angelo’s wife, Renata, leaned close to Lorenzo’s petite wife, Sophie, and murmured something. Those two had experienced an easier time since Rosa took the brunt of Mamma’s disfavor, though neither was perfect. Maybe that’s all it was with Quillan. A little disapproval for a while . . . bene, a healthy disapproval. Then everyone would see he wasn’t so different.
Or was he? Carina raised her head and listened. The voices from the back room carried, but they were moderate, tempered. Either they were ignoring Quillan, or he was holding his own.
Mamma sniffed loudly and carried a pan of meat pastries to the oven. Already a pot of marinara sauce steamed on the stove with spaghetti drying over the chair backs. Plump purple sausages lay ready to fry in olive oil with the peppers Carina was cutting. Renata floured carp filets and laid them in a skillet already popping with oil. The aroma of crusty bread came from the oven. Mamma may be upset, but she was preparing a feast.
Carina thought of Nonna. It brought a fresh ache to see the kitchen without her, but for the moment her tears were spent. She wondered what her grandmother’s reaction would have been. No, she knew. Nonna would have been shocked and angry that Carina had thrown away her match with Flavio. She had been partial to him from his youth, as she’d been to Carina. Nonna would have wept for her lost chance, but she would have seen Carina’s love for Quillan, would have accepted it. Wouldn’t she? Carina had to believe someone would.
The back door opened, and there was Divina with a basket. A red shawl crossed over her chest and tied around her waist over the white blouse tucked into a gathered gray skirt. Carina had spent so many nights in painful fury over Divina’s betrayal, but now she felt only sisterly love. Spreading her arms, Carina went to hug her sister and felt the protruding stomach against her own empty womb. Divina seemed full for four months.
She kissed Divina’s cheek. “Oh, Divina, I missed you.”
Divina stepped back. “Nicolo says you’re married.”
“Yes.” Carina released her.
Divina’s face squinched up, and she hissed, “How could you?”
Carina froze. Surely Divina understood? But her sister stalked past her to the marble table, laid out the apples from her basket, and set it aside. What right had she to bitterness, when Carina had stripped off her own and forgiven Divina’s betrayal? In what way had she hurt Divina? In what way caused the breach between them?
Flavio. It was there in Divina’s face. Divina loved Flavio. Because he was the one she couldn’t have? But she had! Carina had seen them together, confronted them, and Divina had laughed. Carina’s heart seized with the memory. That was why she’d fled. And Flavio did not come after her. So there was Divina’s chance, yet she married Nicolo—solid, stocky Nicolo with a face like a bear. Bene. It was not Carina’s part to figure it out. She had her own troubles.
The voices from the house grew louder, but Nicolo would have joined them and maybe another brother or two. Carina went back to cutting. She sliced the peppers into long thin strips and removed the stems, thick with seeds.
“How are you feeling?” Mamma asked Divina.
“Sick in the mornings. Nicolo has to fetch me bread before I can sit up.”
Carina could just picture it, Nicolo panting by the side of the bed as Sam used to, tail wagging. Sam. Carina understood why Quillan left him with Alan Tavish, but she missed the dog’s warm eyes and wet nose. She carried the stems to the compost bowl but scraped the seeds into a bowl. They would be saved and planted in the garden.
Now one voice rose up in the other room. Angelo’s, of course. The oldest son pushing his weight. He was always the loudest and most outspoken. What Ti’Giuseppe called a blusterer. His words sounded clearly through the open kitchen door. “How do you intend to support my sister?”
Quillan’s answer was too soft to hear.
“And you’ll live off the fat of our land until then?”
All hands in the kitchen stopped. Carina held the knife suspended over the cutting board over the compost bowl. Some of the women looked toward the door, others at her. Carina could discern Quillan’s voice, but not his words.
Mamma held out a papery bulb. “Crush the garlic, Carina.”
But Carina set down her utensils and pulled off her apron. Tia Marta put a hand to her shoulder, but Carina hurried through the door.
Angelo’s tone was more insulting than angry. “Can you read? Can you write? Do you—” He broke off when Carina came into the room, fists to her hips.
“Of course he reads! And writes poetry. And memorizes books. You can’t claim as much!”
Angelo reddened. He wasn’t stupid by any account, but neither was he a stellar student. Her brothers looked at Quillan, seemed to reappraise him, then dismissed that for their original assessment. Angelo sneered, “What has he to show for it?”
Quillan looked wary, tense. She didn’t think the others could tell, but in his charcoal-rimmed gray eyes she saw something of Wolf. Carina waited for him to tell them about his mine, his fortune. Surely he’d made something from the sale? If not, he must have done well enough freighting? But Quillan said nothing, only stood with one hand holding his lapel.
Papa leaned one elbow on the mantel, elegant in silk-embroidered vest and white sleeves, exactly as Carina had remembered him—except for his expression. He said softly, “Where is your family? Who are they?”
Carina started to answer, but Papa sent her a scathing glare. “Let him answer for himself.”
She clutched her hands together. What would Quillan say? Surely not the truth.
“My parents are dead.”
Papa waved his hand. “Grandparents, uncles, cousins?”
Quillan shook his head a little stiffly.
Papa frowned. “You have no relatives?”
Carina’s breath caught. She pictured William DeMornay in his fine mansion, his slender fingers folded in his lap, his grim expression. “What are you after . . . money?”
Quillan said, “No.”
Carina’s breath returned. The DeMornays had denied him. Even though the locket proved otherwise—the diary, as well—in their minds, at least William’s, Quillan did not exist.
“So you have nothing.” Papa extended his fingers disdainfully.
For the first time Carina saw his arrogance, and Quillan saw it, too. She watched his fire ignite.
Papa’s chin raised. “And you think you should live here with my daughter, with my blessing, when you bring nothing.”
Quillan’s jaw tightened; the tendons stood out under his flesh. “I bring myself. Judge me on that.”
Papa’s eyes locked with Quillan’s. “Then you have already failed. You stole my daughter, disgraced her and me.”
Quillan said, “I have never disgraced Carina.”
Papa’s fist came down on the mantel. Carina jumped. Never had Papa lost his temper publicly!
“You contradict me? In front of my family?” He swung his arm to include all his sons.