Chapter 26
After that, Mira began receiving her own visitors to the workshop.
On days when Zaneta was at the market or on some errand, she no longer had to turn people away, telling them to come back later when her mother had returned.
Now, Mira sat in the light of the window, holding a woman’s hands as she poured out her heart, the way she’d witnessed her mother doing.
She wove tiny byssus rings and bracelets for the children brought by their mothers, coaxing a promise they’d return when it came their turn to be wed.
“If you come back when you’re engaged to your sweetheart,” she told the young girls, “you can trade that ring for a pretty pillowcase for your bed.”
For the women who ducked through the workshop doorway, their bellies heavy with a baby, Mira gave them bracelets for good fortune, a gift from the fruitful sea that provided them with food in all seasons.
She prayed with them in a mixture of Hebrew and Italian, lifting up blessings on their behalf, a kind of priestess of the sea and its Maker.
Mira and Dante waited a year to be married, until he was established at the school and she had settled into her new role.
Mira’s father wasn’t against the union but said a year of commitment wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Her mother, rather than being happy with the news, seemed to grow snappish and aloof, helping only reluctantly with planning the wedding.
Mira was disappointed but honestly not surprised.
Perhaps her mother worried marriage and a family would distract Mira from the byssus?
But Mira sensed it was something else, something she wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about from the past. Her mother never discussed that time, no matter how many questions Mira asked, a refusal that once used to fuel Mira’s curiosity but now simply exasperated her.
“One wedding is like any other,” her mother said. “The rabbi will perform the ceremony, and that’s that.”
“Didn’t you have more than that when you got married to Papà?”
“That was different. There wasn’t money for finery and fuss.”
“I don’t want or expect either,” Mira said, “but Carmina at least has to be there, and Dante’s family will come.”
“We’re Italian. We’ll be hospitable and have a respectable meal and wine. No one will expect more, given our means.”
“I wish we had more family who could attend,” Mira lamented.
Zaneta’s hands stopped their rhythmic motions at the loom. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” she snapped. “Papà’s parents will come, though they’re so old they won’t want to stay long. Everyone else is gone.”
“Maybe I could carry a piece of your dress? Or wear your veil?”
“I told you, Mira, there wasn’t any of that. We had to marry quickly.” Zaneta seemed to check herself, then added, “Because of the times. It’s not about the wedding anyway. It’s about the marriage. You’d better be sure about it.”
“Of course I am. Dante’s perfect.”
Zaneta shook her head. “You have stars in your eyes. Life isn’t a fairy tale.”
Mira smothered a laugh under her hand, tucking that comment away to share with Carmina later.
What would her mother know? She’d never so much as seen her parents kiss goodbye.
They were civil to each other, and her father was certainly tolerant of Zaneta’s dark moods.
She and her brothers were proof that her parents had shared at least some passionate moments, but there was no magical spark, no giggles or sly kisses like she and Dante shared.
She supposed that could be some sort of love, but it wasn’t the sort she was after.
Dante did more than tolerate her. He encouraged and celebrated her talent; thought up new compliments every day; and made her swoon when he held her close, smelling of chalk and ink and coffee. Mira couldn’t wait to get married.
The night before her wedding, she tossed and turned in bed, unable to quiet her mind enough to sleep, and she overheard her parents talking outside.
“Can’t you be happy for one day, Zeta? Not just for Mira but for you? For us?”
“I’m as glad for Mira as I can be. You should know by now happy isn’t something I’m very good at.
I suppose this has all been stirring up memories I’ve tried to lock away, ghosts long buried, and it makes me think of how it could have been different, how it should have been different.
I wish my family were here to give a blessing.
How much of a heart do you need to be happy? ”
“I’ll give you some of mine,” her father said, his voice so low Mira had to strain to hear it. “It’s always been available.”
“You’re a good man, Luccio.” Zaneta sighed.
The locks on the door clicked, and Mira heard them pattering about the house, shutting it up for the night.
A piece of her iced into place in the empty pit inside of her, as she wished for the millionth time that her mother would be excited and happy for her.
Carmina’s mother, Signora Petrolus, had been over the moon for months, full of questions and wedding chatter.
Mira would give anything if her own mother would act like that.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed away the heaviness that settled upon her chest. Tomorrow, she would marry Dante, and life would have more happiness than she could hold.
When the day came, on a late afternoon in April, the year Mira turned twenty, she and Dante stood under the chuppah in front of a small gathering of friends and family—their parents and many of Dante’s relatives she’d only just met—on a sandy stretch of the Sardegnan Mediterranean shore.
The sun cast its shimmering golden light on the sea while tawny speckled kestrels and white gulls drifted on the fading mistral winds.
Mira had never looked lovelier. Pieces of her hair hung loose and curled, while the rest had been braided lavishly around her head.
The effect of her simple white dress was stunning against the turquoise backdrop of water and sky, its sole adornment an embroidered trim of byssus thread that reflected the light and sparkled like diamonds.
Dante’s dark suit complemented his tanned skin and beard, and a smile played on his lips during the entire ceremony, though his hands shook slightly as they held hers.
Because he wasn’t Jewish, Mira had had to coach Dante through certain aspects of the ceremony—the ketubah, hakafot, and logistics of the processional—because he’d been concerned about doing everything correctly, still determined to prove himself to her parents.
Mira’s left hand received a slightly larger ring than the one she’d received for taking the water oath.
While it contained no byssus threads, it was dear to her heart because of the new vows she took, those that anchored her to a lifetime with Dante Barone.
Despite her mother’s reservations about fuss and finery, Mira’s father relented, and they held a joyous and festive party after the ceremony, with her mother playing the gracious hostess.
Mira laughed until she was breathless at the face Dante made when his chair tipped during the dizzying hora dance, and she drank too much wine, sipping after each “Mazel tov!” offered.
Even Johann and Isaac wished her well, saying they would miss her not being at home as much.
Mira had always acted like a second mother to the two of them, especially when her mother sank into one of her moods and did nothing but shush and scold.
They’d gradually gotten over having a teacher at school date their sister.
Sacks of amaretti cookies went a long way to sway young boys’ affections.
Mira and Dante planned to spend a week together in Sicily, part honeymoon, part introduction to the larger Barone clan and the places where Dante had grown up.
After the third day, a restless tug pulled at Mira, and she stared out the window at the sliver of yellow moon while Dante slept.
She surprised her new husband early in the morning by pulling him out of bed and toward the water outside the cozy beach cottage they’d shared.
It was so early, the crickets still chirped in the wet grass as they walked.
“What are you up to?” he teased her, pulling on her long braid.
In reply, she shed her thin nightdress and spun around on the sand in the chill air while Dante stared openly at her nakedness.
Mira laughed at his expression and, delighted she could have such an effect, ran splashing into the waves until they knocked her off her feet.
Dante gave a darting glance in either direction and then left a trail of discarded clothes and followed his bride, shaking water from his hair when he surfaced, sputtering.
She was a nymph, a siren, and she urged him farther out until neither of them could touch the rocks beneath their feet.
Despite all the lessons and treasures it had offered her before, the sea showed Mira yet another as it cradled her and Dante in their union.
“You’ve been quiet,” he commented later, once they’d dried off and eaten, stuffing themselves with cheese and bread. “You’ve drifted off; where’d you go?” Mira shrugged and curled on her side against him with her eyes closed. “You want to go back—is that it?”
She looked up at him, surprised he knew. “It’s wonderful here, Dante. That’s not it.”
“It has been wonderful,” he agreed, “but it’s time we return. I no longer have your undivided attention.” Before she could protest, he held up a hand. “No apologies, Mira. It’s getting close to harvest time. I understand.”
“I’ll make it up to you when we get back,” she said, already bouncing off the bed and snatching up stray items of clothing from the backs of chairs and the floor.
“I’m counting on it,” he said.