“There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who want to know the facts, and those who want to make up a nice story to feel better. I wish I was the kind who made up stories,” Enza admitted. “I was taking care of Stella the day before she died.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Ciro said. “Maybe you shouldn’t blame anyone, but accept that this is your sister’s story, and the ending belongs to her.”
“I wish I believed that.”
“If you look around to find meaning in everything that happens, you will end up disappointed. Sometimes there aren’t reasons behind the terrible things that go on. I ask myself, If I knew all the answers, would it help? I lie awake and wonder why I don’t have parents and wonder what will become of my brother and me. But when the morning comes, I realize that there’s nothing to be done about what has already happened. I can only get up and do my chores and push through the day and find the good in it.”
“Stella was a big part of our happiness.” Enza’s voice broke. “I never want to forget her.” Enza stifled her tears.
“You won’t. I know a little about that. When you lose someone, they take a bigger place in your heart, not a smaller one. Every day it grows, because you don’t stop loving them. You wish you could talk to them. You need their advice. But life doesn’t always give us what we need, and it’s difficult. It is for me, anyway.”
“Me too,” Enza said.
As they walked in the twilight, Ciro decided that Enza was more beautiful than Concetta Martocci. Enza was dark, like an inky lake in the moonlight, whereas Concetta was lacy and airy, like columbine in the spring. Ciro decided he preferred the mystery.
Enza had slender limbs and lovely hands. She moved gracefully and was well-spoken. Her cheekbones, straight nose, and strong chin were typically northern Italian. But she had something that Ciro had not seen in any girl before—she was curious. Enza was alert; she drank in the details of the world around her, sensitive to the feelings of others and quick to respond to them. He saw this in church that morning, and now, in conversation. In contrast, Concetta Martocci poured her energy into the cultivation of her beauty and the power it brought her.
Ciro had met Enza at her most vulnerable, and he wanted to help her. He felt compelled to do whatever he could for her. He had used his physical power when he worked, but now he wanted to share his emotional strength. There were no awkward moments with Enza; they seemed to have an immediate and comfortable connection. He hoped the walk back to the rectory took longer than he remembered; he wanted more time with this beautiful girl.
“Are you in school?” he asked.
“I’m fifteen. I finished school last year.”
He noted happily that they were the same age. “You help your mother with the house?”
“I help my father in the stable.”
“But you’re a girl.”
Enza shrugged. “I’ve always helped my father.”
“Is your father a blacksmith?”
“He drives a carriage to and from Bergamo. We have an old horse and a pretty nice carriage.”
“You’re lucky to have a carriage.” Ciro smiled. “If I had a carriage and horse, I would go to every village in the Alps. I’d take trips to Bergamo and Milan every chance I got.”
“How about over the border to Switzerland? You look like the Swiss. The light hair.”
“No, I’m Italian. Lazzari is my name.”
“The Swiss have Italian surnames sometimes.”
“You like the Swiss? Then I’ll be Swiss,” Ciro teased.
Enza walked ahead of Ciro, then turned on her heel to him. “Do you flirt with all the girls you meet?”
“Some.” He laughed. “You just ask a question like that?”
“Only when I’m interested in the answer.”
“There’s a girl I know,” Ciro admitted. He thought of Concetta, and he was disappointed all over again. The kiss between Don Gregorio and the girl he was enamored of burned in his memory like the image of hell in the fresco over the altar.
“Just one?”
“Concetta Martocci,” Ciro said softly.
“Concetta. What a beautiful name.”
“Si,” he said. “It suits her. She’s small and blond.” He glanced at Enza, who was almost as tall as he was. Ciro continued, “And I used to watch her in church. The truth is, I looked for her everywhere. I’d wait on the colonnade for her to go by. Sometimes for hours.”