ran his hands through his thick hair, then looked at his fingernails, black half moons under every nail. Concetta turned and looked at him, then turned back to face the altar. This type of meeting, just the two of them alone in the church, was rare. A conversation with Concetta was nearly impossible to engineer. She had a stern father, a devout uncle, a few brothers, and a gaggle of girlfriends that surrounded her, as tight as the knot on the ties of a pinafore.
Ciro pulled the rag from his pocket and tucked it behind Saint Michael. He unsnapped the brass key ring from his belt loop and placed it on the rag. He walked up the center aisle of the church, genuflected, joined her in the pew, knelt beside her, and folded his hands in prayer.
“Ciao,” he whispered.
“Ciao,” she whispered back. A smile crossed her perfect pink lips. The lace of the mantilla made a soft frame around her face, as though she were a painting. He looked down at his dirty hands and folded his fingers into fists to hide the nails. “I just cleaned the church,” he said, explaining his appearance.
“I can tell. The tabernacle is like a mirror,” she said appreciatively.
“That’s on purpose. Don Gregorio likes to look at his own reflection.”
Concetta frowned.
“I’m just joking. Don Gregorio is a holy man.” Sometimes Ciro was happy that he actually paid attention to things his brother Eduardo said, so he added, “A consecrated man.”
She nodded in agreement and pulled a string of white opal rosary beads from her skirt pocket and held them. “I’m here for the novena,” she said, looking up at the rose window behind the altar.
“Novena is on Thursdays,” Ciro said.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll just say my rosary alone, then.”
“Would you like to see the garden?” Ciro asked. “We could go for a walk. You can pray in the garden.”
“I’d rather pray in church.”
“But God is everywhere. Don’t you listen in mass?”
“Of course.” She smiled.
“No, you don’t. You whisper with Liliana.”
“You shouldn’t watch us.”
“I’m not watching Don Gregorio.”
“Maybe you should.” She slipped back off the kneeler and sat on the pew. Ciro did the same. He looked down at Concetta’s lovely hands. A slim, plain gold bracelet dangled from her wrist.
“I didn’t invite you to sit with me,” she whispered.
“You’re right. How ill-mannered of me. May I sit with you, Concetta Martocci?”
“You may,” she said.
They sat in silence. Ciro realized that he hadn’t drawn a deep breath since Concetta entered the church. He exhaled slowly, then took in the wondrous scent of Concetta’s skin, sweet vanilla and white roses. He was finally, at last, grateful to God for something, the nearness of Concetta.
“Do you like living in the convent?” she asked shyly.
Ciro’s chest tightened. The last thing he wanted from this girl was pity.
“It’s a good life. We work hard. We have a nice room. Don Gregorio loans me the cart whenever I want it.”
“He does?”
“Of course.” Ciro puffed up with pride.
“You’re very lucky.”
“I’d like to take a ride to Clusone sometime.”
“I have an aunt there,” she said.
“You do? I could take you to see her.”
“Maybe.” She smiled.
A maybe from Concetta was better than a yes from any of the hundreds of other girls who lived on this mountain. Ciro was elated, but tried not to show it. Ignazio had taught him to hold back, to refrain from showing a girl how much you care. Girls, according to Iggy, prefer boys who don’t like them. This made no sense to Ciro, but he decided to follow Iggy’s advice, if at the end of the game he might win Concetta’s heart. Ciro turned to her. “I wish I could stay, but I promised Sister Domenica I would make a delivery for her before dinner.”
“Va bene.” Concetta smiled again.
“You’re very beautiful,” Ciro whispered.
Concetta grinned. “You’re very dirty.”
“I won’t be the next time I see you,” he said. “And I will see you again.”
Ciro stood and exited the pew, remembering to genuflect as he left. He looked at Concetta a final time, bowing his head to her, remembering the manners the nuns taught him to use in the presence of a lady. Concetta nodded her head before she turned to the gold tabernacle, which Ciro had spent the greater part of the afternoon buffing to a high polish. Ciro practically skipped out of the church into the piazza.
The afternoon sun burned low, a purple peony in the powder blue sky. Ciro ran across the piazza from the church