The Miner's Lady (13 page)

When it became apparent that Nonna was not with Orlando, Dante knew there must be a problem. The look on Orlando's face made him even more certain.

“What's wrong?” Dante asked.

Orlando unwrapped his scarf, sending snow scattering. “Nonna took sick,” he declared. “The doctor says it's quite serious.”

Father's dark brows knit together. “What has made her ill?”

“While at church she became weak, pale . . . she could barely breathe. The doctor says it's pneumonia. She may . . . she might not make it.”

“We will go to the hospital and speak to the doctor,” Father said. “Whatever she needs, we will see that she has it.”

“She isn't at the hospital,” Orlando said.

“Then where is she?” Dante couldn't help but question.

Orlando hesitated, and Dante could tell by the look on his face that the news wasn't going to be to their liking. “She's at the Panettas' house.”

“What!” Their father pushed one of the kitchen chairs, sending it to the floor. “Why would she be there?”

“She fell ill in church and refused to let me take her to the hospital. The Panetta house was the closest place to take her. Mrs. Panetta insisted. We sent for the doctor, and he came there to see her.”

“You boys go and fetch your nonna home! She should not be in the house of our enemy.”

“Dr. Shipman says she can't be moved,” Orlando countered.
“She's not strong enough, Papa. Her condition is very fragile right now, and the doctor said such a move would probably kill her. He didn't even want to risk taking her to the hospital.”

“It's a risk we must take,” their father replied. “It is worth it if we get her away from the Panettas.”

Dante was appalled. “Father, listen to yourself. I can hardly believe you would suggest such a thing. If the doctor believes it too grave a danger, then we must respect that. Nonna will have good care there, and if the Panetta women are willing to see to her needs, we should be grateful.”

Their father scowled. “I will not have Panettas caring for her. It would be better she die in her own bed than to be poisoned by the likes of that family.”

Dante could hardly believe his father's ranting. “They would never hurt her, and you know it.”

“This is where your ridiculous feud has taken you, Papa!” Orlando accused. “You have no trust in anyone if they have the last name of Panetta. Well, frankly, I'm in agreement with Mr. Panetta. This feud is over. I refuse to carry it on.”

Orlando took up his scarf and headed for the back door. “I only came here to tell you the news. I'm going back to be with Nonna.”

“If you go, you will be a traitor to this family!” their father called out after his youngest son.

Turning, Orlando looked at him for a moment, but it was Dante who interceded. “Father, stop for a moment to think about this situation. Nonna needs special care and can't be moved. Even if she could be moved, we can't care for her here. We'll be at the mine for twelve hours of every day. We can't
take time away without losing our jobs. And when we aren't working, we'll need to sleep. How can we possibly take care of a sick woman? Especially one so close to death? Will you deny her proper care?”

“I would deny her nothing,” his father said, sounding less angry and more resigned.

“Would you deny us the right to see her and ensure that her care is acceptable?” Dante further questioned.

“Of course not.” Father folded his arms against his chest. It was clear that the fight was going out of him.

Dante took advantage of the moment. “Nonna gave up her life after Mama died to come and see to our care. It's only right that we see to hers now. Orlando did the right thing by getting her help. Had someone else been closer, they might have suggested a different home, but this is what we are left with. Whether or not we can forget the past and forgive, we must at least care for Nonna's present needs.”

Orlando stood silent while their father wrestled with the matter. Both sons waited for the man to recant his declaration or to offer his acceptance, but when he turned away and said nothing, neither were quite sure what to do.

Finally, Dante moved to retrieve his coat. “I'll come with you.”

Later, as Dante sat beside his nonna, he was glad he had chosen to come. She was so very weak and sick that she hardly recognized him. From time to time she grew restless and agitated, then would once again fall silent. There were long periods when she struggled so hard to breathe that Dante
found himself inhaling and exhaling with her—willing her to continue to draw air.

Dante had been impressed by the constant care she received from the Panetta women during this time. When he'd first arrived, Mrs. Panetta had been wiping Nonna's brow with a damp cloth. Later, Isabella had come to help the old woman drink a bit of medicinal tea. But it wasn't until Chantel came to take her turn that he found himself completely taken in.

Dante couldn't help but watch the young woman as she tenderly cared for his grandmother. Her gentle hands and soft-spoken voice seemed to comfort Nonna. He marveled as Chantel talked to the old woman as if she were awake and fully capable of carrying on a conversation.

“Nonna Barbato, I remembered what you said about the candied melon rind,” Chantel stated, taking up the wet cloth and water bowl. She began again to wash Nonna's face and neck, working tirelessly to bring down her fever. “Mama said they never used melon rind when she was a girl. I told her how Nonna Panetta did and that you agreed it was the recipe you followed. So we tried it and Mama thought it quite good. My brothers did, too.”

She smiled at Dante and the gesture momentarily startled him. He tried to regain his composure as Chantel continued her chat. “Of course, my brothers will eat just about anything that isn't nailed down. Mama used to say it was because they were growing boys, but now they are full grown and still eat like horses.”

“They work like horses, too,” Dante threw in. “Mine work takes a great deal of energy and strength.”

Chantel nodded. “Your grandson makes a good point, Nonna Barbato.”

At that the old woman opened her eyes. It seemed for a moment there was clarity in her expression. “Dante?”

“I'm here, Nonna,” he said, leaning forward to take hold of her hand.

“Sí,
che fa bene
.” That's good.

She closed her eyes, satisfied that all was well. Chantel smiled again and looked at Dante. “She's comforted that you're here.”

“She hardly knows that anyone is here,” he said, trying not to let his heart feel anything but concern for his nonna. It was funny how easily this Panetta woman maneuvered her way into his thoughts.

“You'd be surprised just how much she knows,” Chantel said, returning her attention to her patient. “Mama says that it's good to just talk to the sick, even the unconscious, as if they were able to talk right back. She said sometimes it's just hearing the voice of loved ones that gives them the will to go on living.”

She took up the cloth and bowl and moved away from the bed. “You should try it. Just tell her what you're thinking. Talk to her as you would any other time. You might be surprised at how much it affects her recovery.”

Dante watched her leave the room. When she turned in the hall to pull the door closed, he was more than a little bit aware of her bright eyes and full lips. Her oval face seemed as perfect as a china doll, and the rich plum color of her gown complemented her olive complexion.

When she didn't move, Dante felt uncomfortably self-
conscious. She was studying him with as much intensity as he studied her. Their eyes locked, and he felt suspended—caught. When at last she closed the door and broke the spell, Dante didn't feel the relief he'd hoped for. Instead, there was a strange sense of loss.

The deadly cold of winter increased as January moved into February. Nonna Barbato, however, was on the mend, and Chantel used every opportunity to take advantage of her presence. She loved talking with the older woman and often brought her sewing and tatting into the bedroom to do while keeping Nonna company. They spoke exclusively in Italian, and it reminded Chantel of her year in Italy.

“I've really enjoyed hearing your stories about my nonna,” Chantel said, taking up one of her brother's shirts to mend. “I love knowing more about the family. I asked my nonna and nonno for stories, but they were less inclined to speak on certain subjects.”

“Such as the feud?” Nonna asked, seeming to understand.

Chantel nodded and gave the woman a smile. “As you know quite well.”

Nonna settled comfortably against the pillows propped behind her. Though she'd lost weight from her illness, her color had returned and she no longer struggled as much to breathe. “I suppose,” she began, “the important thing to know is that it was not always so.”

“I just can't imagine how two families who were once friends came to such a parting over a mule,” Chantel said, paying close attention to the tiny stitches needed to repair the armhole of Marco's shirt. “It makes the people involved seem petty, don't you think?” She looked up rather abruptly. “Not that I mean any insult.”

“No, of course you don't,” Nonna replied with a smile. “And you should know the truth, even though the few who know it will rarely speak of it. It was not only about the mule, as you have guessed. The mule was simply the final blow, you might say.”

Chantel shook her head. “Then what really happened?”

“The entire matter started between best friends—your great-grandfather Franco Panetta and Dante and Orlando's great-grandfather, Paulo Calarco. It was a matter of too many roosters interested in the same hen.”

“This was about a woman?”

Nonna gazed toward the ceiling. “That should not surprise you. We have been causing problems for men since the beginning of time.”

“But to put two families at odds over that . . . well . . . it just seems uncalled for. There are so many other things that matter more.”

“Ah, but not when the heart is involved,” Nonna declared, looking back at Chantel. “Look no further than my Orlando and your sister. They are willing to risk everything to be together, and it was just that way with your great-grandfather Franco and his friend. He was in love with a beautiful young woman named Sophia. Paulo was also in love with her. Of course, this was before he married the
boy's great-grandmother. He wasn't an improper man, you understand.”

Chantel nodded and continued her work. “So what happened?”

“Well, you cannot hope things will go well when two men love the same woman. Sophia, she rather liked the attention and let both men pay her court. She teased and flirted with both, accepting their gifts and attention. That was her mistake. It only served to cause bitterness and hatred. The men, they did not like that she would not choose just one. But Sophia, she told them that she wanted her heart to choose and that she could not do so until she got to know each man.”

“That seems perfectly reasonable to me,” Chantel replied.

“Ah, but in the old country, it was not done in such a fashion. The mama and the papa, they would choose a suitor for their daughter. And that is what happened. Seeing that their daughter was gaining a reputation as a tease, they demanded that Sophia court and marry your great-grandfather. But it was as if by doing so, they made Sophia only want more to marry Paulo.

“They ran away together . . . to marry, you understand . . . but the priest he would not perform the ceremony. So they were forced to return in shame to the village. Her reputation was ruined. They walked for a week in torrential rains, and when they finally made it back, Sophia had taken ill. She died less than a week later.”

“How awful and sad.” Chantel thought of her sister. The loss would be impossible to bear.

“The families, they blamed each other, and your great-grandfather's family blamed the Calarcos most of all. The
two men called each other out and would have murdered each other but for the priest. He came and told them that he would not allow either of them a proper church burial if they killed the other. That, you must understand, was a very strong threat. No one wanted to be without the church's blessing, so they did not fight. Instead, they began to cause each other problems in ways that could not be traced back.” Nonna pointed her finger at Chantel. “But each one knew it was the other.”

“Of course,” Chantel replied. “There would be no reason to think otherwise. What did they do to each other?”

Nonna lowered her arm and clasped her hands together. “Well, as I am told, there were years and years of retribution. Paulo married and the children began to arrive, and your great-grandfather, he married and started his own family. And during all that time there were animals that went missing from each man's land. There were crops that were destroyed and property damaged. Ill will was spread throughout the village and people began to choose sides. By the time the mule was killed, it was clear that you were either a supporter of the Calarcos or the Panettas. No one was allowed to be neutral.”

“How . . . well . . . childish,” Chantel said. She hesitated. “I'm sorry if that was disrespectful to my ancestors, but to cause such trouble that an entire town had to choose sides seems not only a childish act, but a very unchristian one, as well.”

“Sí. It wasn't at all Christian. The priest tried to intercede, but to no avail.”

“How was it that you became friends with my nonna?”

Mrs. Barbato smiled. “We were quite young. We met one
day when she had fallen and skinned her knee. I helped her to sit and used some water and a handkerchief to treat her knee.” She shrugged. “We became good friends and for years we were inseparable. After all, she had not yet married into the Panetta family.”

Chantel considered that for a moment. “So you became friends and had that friendship for many years, and then she married my nonno and it all ended?”

“When I heard she was to marry Carlo Panetta, I was already wed to Leonardo Calarco's best friend, Daniel Barbato. We knew our families would never allow for our friendship to continue, but we weren't of a mind to stop being friends. We met in secret sometimes and shared news and other things.”

“Like recipes?” Chantel asked, smiling.

“Recipes, books, gossip, secrets.” Nonna Barbato closed her eyes. “As the years passed, we saw each other less and less, and when my sweet Gia died and left Dante and Orlando without a mama, I came to America. It was the end for our friendship. We could not write to each other. Not without someone finding out. We met one last time before I left for America. We promised we would always be friends, and we always will be. I miss her more than words can say.” The pain of such a loss was evident in her expression.

Chantel felt a terrible sadness for the woman. Isabella had always been her best friend. She knew that when her sister left Ely with Orlando, she would bear a terrible emptiness.

“It's not fair that they should keep you from writing to each other.” Chantel had a sudden thought. “What if you wrote to her through me? I could put your letter in with mine, and she could do likewise for you?”

Nonna Barbato considered this for a moment. “Do you really think it could work?”

“I do.” Chantel couldn't see any obstacle to it. “If it should prove a problem, all Nonna would have to do is burn the letter or not write back. I think it's worth a try.”

“I think so, too.” The woman's entire face lit up. “I will send a letter right away.”

Chantel put aside her sewing. “I'll go get you some paper and a pen.”

Marco had tried hard to stay away from the lure of the Fortune Hole, but his old ways were seemingly impossible to overcome. Entering the saloon, Marco reasoned with himself that a few drinks would be all right. It wasn't like he was coming to Leo's with the thought of getting drunk. He just wanted two or three beers and some time at the gaming tables. And, of course, seeing Bianca wouldn't be a bad idea, either. He knew it would displease his parents, but he was a man full grown with a right to do as he wanted. After all, he contributed to the household in every way they asked and then some. It was only right that he spend the rest of his money as he saw fit.

“It's good to see you here again, my friend,” Leo said, slapping Marco on the back. “I was beginning to think you'd joined the Finnish Temperance Society.” He motioned to the back door. “Come on back with me. We're going to have quite the time tonight.”

Marco nodded. “Bianca around?”

Leo shook his head. “She up and left me. Owes me fifty dollars, too.”

“Where did she go?”

Shrugging, Leo handed Marco a tall mug of beer. “Who can say? If I knew, I would have one of my men go bring her back. She met someone who apparently had enough money to get them both on the train out of town. Someone saw her at the station, and after that she was gone.”

The idea that she'd left without so much as a good-bye caused Marco a moment of anger. He'd known she was a working girl—a woman just looking for her next best customer—but it irritated him nevertheless. He had thought they were friends . . . at least friends enough that she could have sent a note to say she was leaving.

“Well, if I ever find her again, I'll fix her good for leaving me without paying up,” Leo said matter-of-factly. He led the way to the back hall door. “But it's not important tonight. That we have a lot of money changing hands is what's important—so some of it might as well belong to you.”

Marco followed Leo to the gaming room. The Snake Room was full to capacity, and thick cigar and cigarette smoke made it hard to even see who else was there. Smoking was one vice Marco hadn't picked up, and the stench burned his throat. He took a long gulp of the amber ale in his glass, hoping it might reduce the smoke's effect.

“Come on over here,” Leo said. “I'm just now relieving Clark.” He leaned closer to Marco. “I'll see that you win a few hands.”

Leo tapped the man called Clark on the shoulder. The man nodded and got to his feet. “I'll be taking a break now, gentlemen. Good luck.”

The four other men looked up from the table to where Leo
and Marco stood. Leo lost no time. “Well, let's see if we can make those stacks of chips get even higher.” He motioned Marco to the table. “Find a chair and join us.”

It wasn't easy, but Marco finally located a vacated seat and brought it to Leo's table. Leo had already dealt a hand of poker to the men and was awaiting their decision on additional cards. Two of the men folded and opted for more liquor, while the other two were battling it out with Leo. Marco knew Leo would string them along until they ended up losing everything they'd come with, but it didn't matter. It was a game, and no one was forcing them to play.

The night wore on and the men came and went. Marco was rather intrigued by one of the players who stayed on at Leo's table, however. The man had introduced himself, but Marco couldn't remember his name. Leo just called him the Finn, because the man was one of the many Finnish immigrants who'd settled into Ely.

The Finn seemed quite adept at playing cards and had won a good amount from Leo. It wasn't until he stood to leave, however, that Leo suggested they raise the stakes and play for some real money.

The Finn seemed torn. He'd already explained that he was saving up money to send for family in the homeland. His forehead wrinkled as he weighed his options. “I should go,” he said, his accent thick. It was obvious that the temptation was great.

“Just a few hands and you might double your money,” Leo said with a smile. “Unless of course, you're afraid.”

“I'm not afraid of playing cards,” the man protested. “I know my way around a deck. You can see that.” He sat back down. “I play.”