Chapter 8

It was Chantel’s turn to relieve her mother and sit with her father at the hospital. Smiling down at her father’s sleeping form, Chantel shifted in her chair and began tatting again.

“Ah, keeping busy, I see,” Father Buh said as he came for his daily visit.

Chantel smiled. “Father, it’s good to see you.”

“And you, Miss Panetta. I know your mama is quite delighted to have you back.”

“Her papa is as well,” Chantel’s father said, opening his eyes.

Father Buh stepped to the side of the bed. “Sorry if we woke you.”

“That’s all right. I was hoping to speak with you today,” Papa replied.

Chantel was surprised by this. She’d never known her father to seek out counsel from their priest.

Father Buh drew up a chair. “Well, I’ve always time for a parishioner.”

“Should I leave you, Papa?”

Chantel’s father shook his head very slowly. She could see the pain in his eyes even at this small effort. “Stay. What I have to say is nothing to be hidden.” She smiled and turned her attention back to her tatting.

Papa sighed, then began to speak. “Some say, Father Buh, that this was no accident.”

“I have heard as much myself. However, I’m also told that in the days that have followed, no one could find anything that suggested otherwise.”

Papa seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m glad.” For a moment he closed his eyes and then reopened them. “Do you suppose God allowed such a thing to happen for the purpose of . . . well . . . teaching?”

The old priest smiled and stroked his beard. “A good question. I for one am of the belief that nothing happens by chance. The Lord foretold of troubles and tragedies that would afflict our days.”

“So an accident like this could be one of those troubles and nothing more?”

“Of course,” the priest replied.

“And that trouble could be allowed by God to teach a man a lesson, could it not?”

“Oftentimes that is the case, my son. Why do you ask?”

Chantel was intrigued by the conversation, but didn’t want to appear overly interested, lest she be asked to leave. She’d never heard her father give anything such a deep spiritual consideration.

“I just feel that there’s something here that I’m supposed to see,” her father finally admitted. “It’s like a restlessness that won’t let my soul be at peace.”

Father Buh nodded. “I have seen such unrest on many occasions. At times our Father in heaven niggles at the soul to get our attention. Other times, when we are less than willing to receive Him, He does allow for other ways to awaken us to His calling.”

“Like facing death?”

“Very often that can be the case. Many a man has changed his ways when death looms. I’ve sat with men who were about to be hanged and heard their great sorrow and repentant words. I’ve no doubt in my mind that most of those men, if given another chance at life, would have changed their ways and done things differently. Are you one of those men, Giovanni?”

Chantel couldn’t pretend not to want the answer to that question. She continued to tat, waiting anxiously for her father to speak. It seemed to take forever.

“As you know . . . our family,” Papa finally began, “are enemies of the Calarcos. The disagreement goes way back, and both sides are guilty of . . . guilty of . . .” His words faded as if he couldn’t quite figure out how to explain the matter.

Father Buh had no such trouble. “Guilty of perpetuating the disagreement?”

Papa nodded and closed his eyes. “Perpetuating . . . yes.”

“And what is God saying to you about this?”

Chantel glanced over and found her father’s face tighten, as if the pain were suddenly too great. She thought to ask him if he needed more medication, but something held her silent.

“I think . . . I believe God is telling me that it must end. That we are wrong for our actions.” He opened his eyes and his face relaxed. “I believe He spoke to me.”

The priest smiled and reached out to pat the man’s bruised and scratched hand. “Sometimes God speaks in a whisper and sometimes in the collapse of rocks and iron ore. And always His words offer us a choice.”

“A choice?” Chantel’s father asked. “What do you mean?”

She could see that her father was growing quite tired, but he continued to press the priest for understanding.

“You believe God spoke to you,” Father Buh replied. “I believe God speaks to all of His children. Do you remember your training as a child?”

Papa gave a single nod.

“A man who is without a Savior is without hope. We cannot be cleansed of our sins without God’s grace and the sacrifice of our blessed Savior. We are utterly and completely left to condemnation and darkness, by our own choice. And,” he continued, “we are ushered into forgiveness and light by a choice, as well. If we acknowledge our sinfulness—our evil nature—and repent, we choose that light. To reject it is to cast aside the slain body of our Lord Jesus and all that He did for us at the cross. It is to mock the empty tomb and despise the resurrected Savior.”

“I have never sought to . . . reject God,” Chantel’s father said, his voice weak.

“My son, it is in our very nature to reject authority. However, God has made a way for us to come unto Him, and that is through Jesus.”

Papa looked at the older man. “And past mistakes can be forgiven?”

“Are you willing to be forgiven? Are you willing to confess your sins?”

Chantel’s hands stilled as she looked at her father. He seemed to feel her gaze upon him and gave her a smile. “I am,” he whispered. “I want to be at peace with God.”

“Then,” the priest said, “we must pray.”

Dante sharpened one of his grandmother’s paring knives on a whetstone as she bustled around the kitchen. The aroma of her delectable lasagna filled the air, and his stomach growled in anticipation of the meal.

Turning his attention to testing the knife’s edge, Dante couldn’t help but think of Chantel Panetta. Her tongue was sharp when she was riled. He thought of her threat to him and the way she had stood her ground in defense of her sister and his brother. It brought a smile to his face remembering how unafraid she’d been—at least in dealing with him.

“Ah, you must be thinking of a young lady, no?” Nonna said, eyeing him with careful scrutiny.

Dante startled at this. His grandmother always seemed to have an uncanny way of getting the truth out of him. “I was, in fact. I was thinking of you and how blessed we are to have your amazing meals.”

“You are a poor liar, Dante Calarco. Better to ask God’s forgiveness than continue,” she said, shaking her finger.

He laughed and shrugged. “Well, it was partly true. Your lasagna is my favorite, and you know that full well.”

“Sí, but there is something more on your mind, I think.”

Dante opened his mouth to reply, but just then his father and Orlando came into the kitchen from outside. Both looked half frozen.

“It’s cold out there,” his father declared. “Cold that goes right to the bone.”

Orlando slipped from the room, but their father went to the hot stove and warmed his hands. “Some say it’s a gonna be a bad winter.”

“They always say that,” Dante replied. “And this far north they have good reason.” He thought it just as good a time to bring up his idea of moving. “Maybe we should think about relocating. This isn’t the only iron mine in Minnesota. Maybe we should go south to the Mesabi Range.”

His father looked at him oddly. “Why would we leave perfectly good jobs and do that?”

Dante switched to English so his grandmother would have more trouble keeping up. “Well, I was just thinking that if we were to move a little farther south, it might be good for Nonna. If we suffer from this cold, just imagine what it’s like for her.”

His father cast a glance toward his mother-in-law and then back to Dante. “Has she complained?”

“No, of course not. You know that isn’t her way. It was just something that came to mind.” In fact, it would be the perfect solution for getting Orlando away from Isabella Panetta.

And for getting me away from her sister.

Dante pushed that thought aside and got up to put away the whetstone. He handed the knife to his grandmother and again spoke in her native tongue. “I believe this will do.”

She put her thumb to the edge and nodded. “Sí. E’perfetto.” She looked to Dante’s father. “Vittorio, are you ready to eat?”

The man nodded and moved from the stove. “I’ll go wash up.”

They were soon seated at the well-worn kitchen table with steaming plates of lasagna, crusty bread, olive oil, and freshly grated cheese. It was a veritable feast as far as Dante was concerned. He dug into his food, hoping there might also be some cannoli for dessert.

“The mine owners are pushing to have the saloons closed all day Sunday,” his father informed them.

“That won’t go over well,” Dante replied.

“No, it won’t,” his father said, tearing a chunk of bread to dip in the oil. “The miners claim that the men are too often unable to work because of their Sunday drinking. They believe if the saloons are closed, the men will be more likely to show up to work on Monday.”

“I doubt the saloon owners will allow for it,” Dante replied. Orlando kept his eyes fixed on the food. No doubt his mind was on Isabella.

“They may not have a choice. Ely will soon incorporate, and when it does there will be all sorts of new laws. In order to acquire the mines into the city limits, those in charge will have to be willing to yield something in return. This will be a good first step. The taxes brought in by the mines will far outweigh any benefit of having an open saloon on the Sabbath.”

“The men should be in church on Sunday,” Nonna added. “If the saloons are closed, maybe they will go with their families to church and spend time with their little ones.”

“I doubt it, Mama Barbato,” Dante’s father replied.

“Well, once the mines are incorporated and the town has a taste of increased monies, it will only whet their appetites for more,” Dante replied. He wasn’t much for drinking and seldom wasted his money at the saloons or gambling halls. He had saved a great portion of his wages over the years and even now knew that he could most likely buy a home of his own if he had the desire. Of course, leaving the comfort of his grandmother’s tender care for life on his own held no appeal.

“You’re quiet tonight, Orlando,” Nonna interjected. “Are you ill?”

“No, Nonna. I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind,” he replied. “The food is really good. Thank you.”

Dante could see that his grandmother was less than convinced, but she said nothing more. Dante couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s moodiness had to do with his meeting with Isabella Panetta. Or perhaps the accident at the mine had left him more rattled than Dante realized. Either way, his brother was clearly not himself.

“Marilla’s letter says that she could use as much tatting and Chantilly lace as we have to sell,” Mama said, looking up from the missive as the family enjoyed a quiet evening in the warm sitting room. Outside the wind howled, but the house was a perfect refuge.

Marco poked at the fire and added another log to keep the room toasty. Isabella worked feverishly on her sewing, and Chantel couldn’t help but wonder just how soon the young couple would elope. She hadn’t had a chance to really speak to her sister on the matter since the accident last week.

Papa rocked quietly, a warm wrap tucked around his legs. He’d only been home a day, but Chantel could tell that he was feeling much better. He said there was something about being among his loved ones that made him heal all the faster.

Mama continued. “She also says that she will be sending a Christmas package soon, although she wishes we could join her for the holidays in Duluth.”

“Aunt Marilla always sends such wonderful gifts,” Chantel replied. Her wealthy widowed aunt was most generous with her dead husband’s money. Uncle Gaetan Faverau had made a small fortune and never failed to spoil his childless wife, and she in turn had learned to do likewise with her family.

“It would be wonderful to see her again,” Isabella surprised Chantel by adding. “Maybe Christmas in Duluth would be possible, Papa?”

“We can’t leave our jobs to go gallivanting off like that,” Marco said before their father could speak. “The mine captain has already been complaining that production is behind. Quotas have to be met.”

“I heard them say we’ll be going to twelve-hour shifts before Christmas,” Alfredo added.

“That’s hardly fair,” Isabella pouted.

“Fairness never figured into iron mining,” Marco countered.

“I’ve been thinking,” Papa began, “that God has given me a second chance to live a better life.”

His sudden declaration immediately caught the attention of his family. Mama smiled and nodded as if she knew what he would say next. “I think,” Papa continued, “that it is time for us to put our affairs in order. To set our lives right before God.”

Chantel saw Marco frown. “And what do you mean by that, Papa?” he asked. “I suppose you’ll want us all confessing our sins and attending church regularly.” Marco sounded sarcastic and unimpressed.

“What I want . . . is an end to the fighting,” Papa replied. “I want to make peace with the Calarcos.”