Serafina rose. “And now we’ve finished.”
A Near Miss
The hills burned with light. Hoping for another glimpse of the red fox, Serafina held up a gloved hand, shielding her eyes from the strength of the setting sun.
“I think they liked my performance,” Maria said.
“Who wouldn’t love it, my precious? Keep up your Brahms.”
“What?”
“Brahms, good for the fingers, Papa would say.”
Renata and Giulia exchanged smirks.
“How does Don Tigro know Brahms?” Maria asked.
“Betta told me he spent some time at the Naples Conservatory and got to know many musicians. And musicians talk.”
“What instrument does he play?”
Serafina laughed. “He doesn’t play, my precious. I don’t think he studied at the conservatory at all. Who knows what he did in Naples?”
“Papa told me that Don Tigro is a bad man.”
“Your papa was right.” She crossed herself. “Don Tigro does bad things to good people in order to make money, and he takes money from everyone, even from our store. If you don’t pay him monthly, bad things happen to you or to your family or your store.”
“Pay him monthly? You mean, he’s like a bank?” Maria asked.
“Even worse,” she said.
“Then why do you talk to him? Why did we go to his home today?”
Serafina opened her eyes. “First of all, Elisabetta is my friend. I’ve known her since I was your age. She asked me to deliver her baby and wanted to see me today to make sure she was on the right regimen. I gave her Nanna’s recipe for a healthy pregnancy. Second, Don Tigro, who happens to be her husband, asked to see me after the Brahms. And the way to deal with bad people is to meet them head on, not to pretend they don’t exist.”
“Like you do with Carmela?”
Silence except for the mules blowing air through their nostrils and Renata’s elbow hitting Giulia’s side.
“Honey lamb, that is a deep question, very deep.” Her eyes moistened. She thought a moment. “We all need to find our specialness. That’s my difference with Carmela.”
“Because she never found it?”
“No. Because she never looked for it,” Serafina said.
“Don’t cry, not again. Where’s your linen, Mama? When we get home, I’ll play Scarlatti. You’ll feel better.”
“Play whatever you want. All beautiful from your fingers.”
Another rustle of silk from Giulia or Renata, one of them.
“But today, as your brother Carlo said earlier, is a day for tears.” She kissed Maria. “Now, Giulia, tell me about the dresses. Any ideas?”
They hit a bump. Maria laughed. “I like it better when we go downhill.” She tapped the ceiling. “Faster!” she yelled.
An answering tap from above, and the scenery blurred. Swaying, Serafina hung onto her seat.
Renata said, “Elisabetta took us to see her wardrobe while you were talking to Don Tigro, and-”
“You should see it-a huge room on the top floor, windows on one side, mirrors on the other. Two closets in the room,” Giulia said.
“And the closets are rooms, too,” Maria said. “Full of gowns and day dresses, suits, capes, furs.”
“The colors and the fabrics, her style, all so different,” said Renata.
“From Paris, the House of Worth amp; Bobergh,” said Giulia. “All that gathering in the back. Too much, I don’t like it. How do they sit?”
“Elisabetta does for most of the day, my darlings. You saw her servants running.”
Giulia said, “The stitching, the finishing, even the lining is magnificent. But my designs are more interesting.”
“Good for you, my darling seamstress. Finally you see your own talent.”
“Only the fabric is so fine, so beautiful, the colors so alive, the wools, plaids, silks, such texture. We don’t have that selection in Oltramari.”
“Then we must go to Palermo. To the finest of shops. You pick out the fabric and improve on the design of Worth and Whatever by making your own. For once in her life, Aunt Giuseppina made a good choice, sending you the subscription to Godey’s.”
Renata rolled her eyes.
Serafina heard a ping. The carriage swayed. They rocked back and forth.
“What was that?” Renata asked.
“Nothing, my genius. A stone hitting the side of the coach.”
“I counted her gowns-one hundred and forty-seven. Why does she need so many?” Giulia asked.
A shot rang out. Serafina’s eyes popped. Her daughters seem unconcerned. “They entertain, my cherub. And they are invited. That’s all they do, give dinners and go to dinners.” Serafina grabbed the blanket behind her seat bench. Turning to Renata, she said, “Why the frown?”
“I was just thinking. All that splendor, and look at the peasants. See them?” She nodded to a group walking by the side of the road. “Shoeless,” Renata said.
Except the one who rides in the weather-beaten cart, Serafina realized, but kept it to herself, hoping her hunch about the ragpicker was wrong, hoping he would be intimidated by the rifle Vicenzu held. Why didn’t I ask to borrow the guards? “Yes, our shame. For thousands of years, they’ve been used.” Her eyes followed the cart, twisting her neck to watch through the rear window as it shrank, partially hidden by dust.
More shots. The coach sped, swayed.
“Quick. On the floor. Now!”
Serafina covered her daughters with the blanket. “Not a peep.”
Then she saw someone on a black steed speeding toward them. She thought it might be…yes, it was the man she saw in Betta’s park today. Her throat swelled. Blood pounded in her ears. Maria popped her head up. “Down, Maria,” Serafina said.
“But I’m suffocating under this horsehair,” Maria said.
Gunshots, too many to count.
A silvery ping, a scream from Vicenzu.
Largo in the lead gave a hee-haw bray. The carriage halted.
Sound of hooves growing louder.
She looked back to see the rider very close now. Coming to kill us all. Must divert him. Opening the door, she said to the moving blanket, “Stay here, all of you. Don’t move a muscle until I say it’s safe to come out. That means you, Maria!” The blanket stilled.
Shaking her skirt and holding a linen to her nose, she peered up, saw Carlo bending over Vicenzu. Untying his bandana, the limping man slowed alongside their coach, his horse kicking clods of dirt into Serafina’s face. He grabbed the rail, pulled himself up to the driver’s seat, and bent over Vicenzu.
“You! Off now!” she said.
Cobra eyes looked at her, continued holding Vicenzu.
“Off!” she yelled. She grabbed the rail, started to climb.
“It’s Carmine from the don’s stable. He’s helping!” Carlo shouted.
Vicenzu lifted a pale face to her and managed a smile. “Lucky for us he rides to Oltramari to visit his parents this evening.”
“Bullet ricocheted, nicked his upper arm. Bad aim, the bandit,” Carmine said. He gestured to a moving cloud of dust in a distant field. The cart, she was sure. The peasants had gone. They must have scattered with the first shot.
On the rest of the ride they were quiet. Dusk mantled the fields, and Serafina felt the chill of early evening. Fingering gold braids, Serafina was glad for the warmth of her cape. She dozed. Saw her husband’s face in the casket. It changed to Vicenzu’s lifeless form. Nearly killed, thanks to her, her innocent, beautiful son. Leg maimed by a galloping horse, left for dead in the streets. A genius with numbers and she’d disregarded him. She hit the side of her thigh.
They should be home before curfew. If not and they’re stopped, Serafina would talk to the roadside guards. For her family and to find the killer of Rosa’s house, she’d do anything. Anything. She gazed out the window, not at the passing scenery, but at the plan she was forming. It was spread out before her, shining, a rough sketch right now. Today she had eliminated two suspects-Don Tigro and the limping cobra. Time to catch the monk.