Chapter 12

JANUARY 1891

For the next few weeks things seemed to calm down. Chantel figured the bitter cold had much to do with it. Orlando and Isabella weren’t inclined to plan clandestine meetings in the sub-zero temperatures, and the single time Orlando had come to see Isabella at the house, the couple had made it clear to the Panettas that they were going to forego seeing each other to ease the vigilant watch of the Calarco men. Orlando felt confident that if they gave it a little time and pretense, his brother and father would assume he was giving up on the idea of marrying Isabella. Chantel’s father hadn’t encouraged Orlando to be deceptive, but rather had told him to continue praying that God would change his father’s heart. Orlando had rightly countered that he supposed a man would have to want to change his heart before God could work on it. Chantel had to agree.

The one place Orlando and Isabella saw each other was at church on Sunday. Mrs. Barbato insisted on attending services, and Orlando had taken to accompanying her because the ground was too icy and temperatures too bitter for her to go alone. Mrs. Barbato was also her grandson’s advocate. She approved of his romance with Isabella Panetta, and even though the young lovers could hardly be seen together at church without word getting back to his father, they were at least able to slip notes to one another via their family members and exchange a glance or two.

It was through one of those notes that Chantel learned of Isabella’s plans to leave with Orlando around the first of February.

“I don’t understand why you’re waiting,” Chantel said in a whisper. She handed her sister back the folded note.

The priest was concluding the service with prayers, but Isabella leaned over to speak nevertheless. “He needed to wait until he had enough money set aside.”

“But I already offered you money,” Chantel replied.

The service ended just then and the congregation rose. Isabella held fast to Chantel’s arm. “I told that to Orlando, but he wanted to do this himself. I will take a little of the money just in case, but I don’t want to shame him, so I don’t want you to say anything about it.”

“Of course I won’t,” Chantel promised.

Mama left the family and made her way through the congregation to where Orlando and his grandmother sat. Chantel looked to her father, who since nearly dying at the mine had become a regular churchgoer.

“What is Mama off to do?”

He glanced in the direction his wife had gone. “She was concerned about Mrs. Barbato. She didn’t think the old woman looked well.”

Chantel frowned. “I think I’ll go make sure everything is all right.” She pressed past her father and slipped into the stream of people.

By the time she reached her mother and Mrs. Barbato, it was evident that something wasn’t right. The old woman looked quite pale and didn’t seem to be feeling at all well.

“Mama, what can I do to help?”

“I don’t want to make a scene,” Mrs. Barbato whispered. “Orlando, help me to my feet, and we will go home.”

“Nonna, I don’t think you’re strong enough to walk that far,” he said, looking to Mrs. Panetta as if for instruction. “I think I should take you to Dr. Shipman’s hospital.”

“No. I won’t go there,” Mrs. Barbato said in a tone that made it clear the matter was not up for discussion. “Hospitals are where people go to die.”

“Our house is just a block away,” Mama reminded him. “We will take her there and send for the doctor.”

This seemed acceptable to the older woman, who by now was struggling to get to her feet. Orlando put his arm around her to offer his support. “I should carry you,” he whispered.

“No!” Mrs. Barbato declared. “Just help me, and I will walk. I don’t want everyone knowing.” She gave a quiet cough into her handkerchief, then nodded that she was ready.

Chantel followed them from the church. “I’ll go ahead and open the door,” she told Orlando. She glanced back to see her mother explaining the matter to Papa and Isabella.

Hurrying ahead, Chantel made it to the house well ahead of Orlando and his grandmother. Marco was sitting at the table drinking coffee when she burst into the house. He looked at her oddly for a moment.

“Something on fire?” He yawned, and she could tell he hadn’t been awake all that long.

Just then Alfredo came in from the back door with an armful of cut wood. Chantel motioned to him. “Put the wood down and come assist Orlando. His nonna is sick, and Mama is having her come here.”

Alfredo stacked the wood and asked, “How do you want me to help?”

“Orlando may need you to help carry his nonna—she’s quite weak. If not, Mama may want you to go for the doctor, since you already have your coat and boots on.”

He nodded and headed to the front door. “I see them coming.” He went to meet them while Chantel hurried to her bedroom. She pulled down the covers to her bed, deciding it would be best to let Mrs. Barbato rest here while awaiting the doctor’s arrival.

She bustled back to the foyer just as Orlando and Alfredo came up the steps. They were on either side of Mrs. Barbato, who looked as if she’d fainted. Once they stepped into the house, however, she opened her eyes.

“Take her to my bed,” she instructed Alfredo. “I’ve already pulled down the covers.”

The men delivered the old woman to the room, and once she was seated on the bedside, Chantel dismissed them. Mama came into the room just as the boys were exiting.

“Someone needs to go for the doctor,” she told them.

“I’ll go, Mama,” Alfredo replied.

Mama pulled off her gloves and coat. “Orlando, tell Isabella to put some hot water on to steam. We need to help your nonna breathe easier.” Next, she turned to Chantel. “Go take off your things and go to the pantry for the vaporizing lamp. You’ll find the eucalyptus oil in the medicine box.”

“Yes, Mama.” Chantel hurried to do as directed. Pulling off her coat, she tossed it and her woolen scarf and bonnet aside.

The pantry was hardly big enough to turn around in, but Papa had made shelves to the ceiling. Thankfully, the vaporizing lamp wasn’t too high up. Chantel pulled it from the shelf, careful not to disturb the glass shade. Next she located the medicine box and rummaged through it to find the oil.

By the time she returned to her bedroom, Mama had Mrs. Barbato partly undressed and resting against a stack of pillows.

“Where should I put this, Mama?”

“On the dresser will be fine. Go ahead and leave it there. I can manage,” she told Chantel. “Why don’t you keep watch for the doctor? Hopefully he’ll be here soon,” she said, speaking more to Mrs. Barbato than to Chantel. “Is it any easier to breathe propped up like this?”

Mrs. Barbato gave a weak nod. Mama smoothed back the older woman’s hair. “Good. You just rest.”

Chantel could see the look of worry that crossed her mother’s face. Nonna Barbato’s condition must be quite grave, she feared. She left the room and waited by the frosted front window for the doctor to arrive. Blowing hot breath onto the glass, Chantel cleared away a little circle from which to watch. After what seemed an eternity, a one-horse sleigh arrived with Alfredo and Dr. Shipman.

Chantel ushered the doctor into the house just as Orlando and Mama entered the foyer.

“Dr. Shipman, she’s right this way,” Mama declared, not worrying about any social greetings or formal proprieties. “She has a high fever and is struggling to breathe.” Chantel heard her continue down a list of what had already been done on the woman’s behalf. She could see the worried look on Orlando’s face.

Chantel gestured toward the front room. “We can wait in here for the doctor.”

Isabella came up from behind her fiancé and took his arm. “Will it take long for the doctor to tend her?” she asked her sister.

“I’m not certain.”

“I knew she shouldn’t have gone to services this morning,” Orlando said, shaking his head. He went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel. “She just didn’t seem herself.”

Isabella joined him and touched his arm. “You aren’t to blame. Like you told me earlier, she would have gone with or without you. Thankfully you were with her.”

“Father will wonder where we are. We always come right home after services. I suppose I should go and let him know what’s happened, but . . .” His brow furrowed as his voice trailed off.

“Why don’t you wait until you know what’s wrong with her,” Chantel suggested. “After all, there’s really nothing to tell him other than she got sick and we brought her here.”

Orlando’s frown deepened. “And he’s not going to like that one bit.”

“I would think it more important that she get proper care,” Isabella said softly.

He placed his hand atop Isabella’s. “Most folks would, but not my father, Issy. His desire to continue this feud between our families keeps him from rational thought.”

Chantel tried to think of comforting words she might offer, but in truth, she was equally frustrated. No doubt Orlando was right. His father would be livid when he learned the truth. A Calarco in the care of a Panetta was unthinkable to him.

The minutes ticked by in silence as the trio waited for news from the doctor. Chantel had no idea where her father or brothers had gone. She hoped they hadn’t taken it upon themselves to inform the Calarco men of Nonna Barbato’s situation. She doubted that Dante’s father would even hear them out.

Finally Mama emerged. She came to where Orlando stood by the hearth. “Your nonna has pneumonia. She’s quite ill.”

His jaw clenched. Chantel had seen Dante do the same when vexed with her. Orlando looked past the women toward the foyer. “I suppose I should go tell my father. He’ll wonder why we haven’t yet returned from church. Maybe I could get the doctor to drive Nonna home.”

Mama shook her head. “Dr. Shipman says she isn’t to be moved. He doesn’t even want to take her to the hospital. He fears such a disruption would end her life. We are perfectly happy to care for her here, however.”

“My father . . . my father will never allow for it,” Orlando said, meeting the woman’s look of concern.

Chantel saw her mother give a slight nod. “He won’t like it, but he will tolerate it. He must. Otherwise he would be responsible for her death. If you explain it to him that way, he’ll have to accept the situation.”

“You don’t know my father,” Orlando said, pulling away from Isabella. “I want to see Nonna, and then I’ll go. I don’t know what else I can do.”

Mama patted his shoulder. “You can pray. We can always do that. Our Father in heaven hears our prayers. He will not forget such a faithful woman as your nonna.”

Orlando nodded and hurried from the room. Chantel got to her feet. “Will she recover, Mama?”

“Her fever is high and her breathing is very labored.” Mama shook her head. “I fear for her. I sent your papa for Father Buh.”

“Is it truly that bad?” Isabella said, taking hold of her mother’s sleeve. “Oh, this is terrible. Poor Nonna Barbato. She’s such a dear. She’s the only one in Orlando’s family who wants to see us married.”

“She is a dear woman,” Mama agreed, “but she’s also quite old. A sickness such as this can easily take her life. Only time will tell. We will keep her here and do for her what we can.”

“We’ll pray for her recovery,” Isabella said, casting a fearful glance at Chantel. “And that she doesn’t pass away in our care . . . or it will no doubt go down in history as a Panetta killing a Calarco.”

“Yes,” Chantel said, nervous about that very thing. “We will pray.”

“Where have you been?” Father bellowed as a snow-covered Orlando burst through the door.

Dante knew his father presumed the worst, although he had suggested that perhaps Orlando and Nonna had taken lunch with friends after church. Father had spent much of the afternoon pacing back and forth to stare out the window at the near-blizzard conditions, watching and grumbling about the duo’s absence.

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.