Prologue
SERRALUNGA D’ALBA, ITALY
At Villa Della Rosa, autumn was fading. The beauty of the summer had given way to the fall harvest, but now the trees, the bushes, the vines—all of them were bare. Their yearly slumber had begun. Vincenzo wondered if they dreamed during those long months. Dreamed of sunshine, dreamed of color, dreamed of life.
When Vincenzo closed his eyes, he dreamed only of her.
Giovanna smiling at him.
Giovanna laughing, the sun on her face.
Giovanna angry, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning.
Giovanna writing him a letter. A letter, now open beside him, that left him no hope.
But even with that knowledge, he preferred, still, to dream. To imagine that once again their hearts would belong to each other. That he would no longer have to paint her from memory alone.
He looked up at the stars and wished upon all of them that one day his dream would come true.
Chapter 1
GENOA, ITALY
Then
Giovanna’s heart leapt every time the door to her father’s tailor shop opened.
It was only six months ago that she, her father, and Faustina had returned from Saluzzo, where they’d spent most of the war. In the autumn of 1942, after a bomb blew out the windows in their shop and in their home above it, her father had boarded up the windows, taken what he could, and brought them all to the farmhouse his parents shared with his brother, Enzo, and his family in the mountain town where he was born.
When they came back to Genoa nearly three years later, they weren’t sure they’d be able to open the shop again. The boards across the windows had been splintered, the floor covered in dirt and debris. Bombs had rained down on the city while they were away.
As they had stood staring at the shattered wood and chunks of glass and stone, Faustina spotted a half-destroyed piece of paper crumpled under the rubble—it looked like it had been there for years—and bent down to work it free. “A propaganda leaflet,” she’d said, “from the Allied forces: The government in Rome says: the war goes on. This is why our bombing goes on.” Faustina shook her head. “The government in Rome cost us our shop.”
“It’s not so bad,” Giovanna had said softly, walking over to her sister and running her fingers across the leaves carved into the counter, which was still standing at the back of the shop. Her fingertips came away covered in soot and dust.
Federico had wrapped an arm around each of his daughters. “The war is over,” he’d said then, kissing first Faustina on the top of her head and then Giovanna. “We are still here.”
“Are our customers?” Faustina had asked.
Federico sighed. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
* * *
And they had seen. Their customers had slowly come back, some looking to have their clothing remade to fit bodies that had become leaner during wartime, some wanting skirts tapered to look fashionable again, some carrying a coat or a dress or a sweater left behind by a loved one, asking Federico if there was anything he could do to keep their memories alive.
“I can help,” Giovanna told a young mother whose husband had died only six months after their child had entered the world. She took the coat the mother brought and turned it into a stuffed rabbit for the little girl, its ears lined with scraps of satin, its face embroidered with gold thread. The whole time she was sewing, Giovanna wished she still had one of her mother’s coats. It had been more than six years since her mother died; Giovanna had been fourteen then. She wished she’d been able to carry a small piece of her mother with her all these years, hold that piece in her arms, keep her close. Giovanna sewed her own longing into that bunny.
And now the woman had returned for it.
“One moment,” Giovanna said to her, ducking behind the curtain into the back room of the tailor shop, where her father and her sister were working.
She picked the stuffed rabbit off the high shelf where she’d left it to keep it safe.
“That’s beautiful, Giovannina,” her father said, admiring the rabbit in Giovanna’s hands. “Where did you find a pattern for that?”
Giovanna smiled. “I made one up,” she told him.
It was something she loved to do: imagine a dress, a shirt, a jacket—or in this case a stuffed rabbit—in her mind’s eye and then create it.
“I bet we could sell those,” Faustina said, an A-line skirt resting on the sewing machine in front of her. “Do you want me to see if Betto can get some scraps of fabric so you can make more?”
“I can make the pattern for you, if you’d like to make them,” Giovanna said as she headed back into the public part of the shop. “But I’d rather work on clothing, if that’s okay.” She loved how a beautifully fitting dress could give a woman confidence, how perfectly tailored pants could make a boy feel like a man. She would often watch people on the street and tailor their clothing in her mind or imagine new outfits for them entirely. Especially after the war, she wanted to give people that moment of self-assurance, of happiness. But she was glad she was able to make this toy so a little girl could have a physical reminder of her father.
“Here you go,” Giovanna said, handing the stuffed rabbit to the woman.
The woman rubbed the rabbit’s ears between her fingers and her eyes filled with tears. “What do I owe you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Giovanna said, her heart responding to the sorrow in the woman’s eyes, recognizing her own sorrow there. “It’s my gift to your daughter.”
“You must take something,” the woman said. “Perhaps a trade? I still have some plum jam from the summer. I can bring a jar by tomorrow.”
“That sounds perfect,” Giovanna said, recognizing in the woman a need for fairness. “My family and I love plum jam.”
During the war they’d gotten used to trading—for work, for food, for clothing—a way to make sure everyone had what they needed.
The woman smiled when she took hold of the toy. “Angelina will love this,” she said, putting the stuffed rabbit in her purse. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Giovanna told her, noticing how loosely the woman’s clothing hung on her body, wondering whether it was sorrow or scarcity that had stolen her appetite.
When Giovanna looked up, there was another customer waiting. A young man, about her age, with warm brown eyes, looking at her intently. The intensity of his gaze made her heart flutter. Giovanna’s eyes locked with his, and she couldn’t look away. It felt like he was looking straight through to her heart, to truly see, to understand. He cleared his throat and she remembered herself.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“You can,” he answered, and then didn’t say anything more.
Giovanna laughed. She asked that question dozens of times a week, and no one had ever responded that way.
“Well, I’m glad,” she said. She glanced down at his clothing, trying to figure him out. It was well made, expensive, but a little small. She could see his socks poking out between the hem of his pants and the top of his shoes. She wondered if he’d grown taller during the war, if he was still wearing pants that fit him when he was fifteen or sixteen.
There was a leather satchel slung over his shoulder and he took it off, placing it between them on the counter. “I was wondering if Signor Ferrero would be able to remake some of my brother’s clothing to fit me,” he said.
Giovanna took the clothing out of the bag. The fabrics were good quality, and the pants and vests inside weren’t that much bigger than the man in front of her.
“I’m sure my father could do that,” she said. “I’ll get him so he can fit you properly.”
“Your father?” he said before she could turn.
“Yes,” she said. “My father is Federico Ferrero.” She wondered who had sent this man to their store. Most of their customers knew her and Faustina well. “I’m Giovanna,” she added.
“Hello, Giovanna.” He said her name softly, and her heart fluttered again. “I’m Vincenzo, Vincenzo Della Rosa.” Della Rosa. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place why.
Federico walked through the curtain.
“Hello,” he said to Vincenzo. “I just heard you introduce yourself to my daughter. Can I assume that you’re the conte d’Alba’s second son?”
“I am,” Vincenzo said.
The conte d’Alba! Giovanna remembered him, a tall man with thick brown hair the same caffe latte color as Vincenzo’s. She’d met him twice, a long time ago, but he’d made an impression, since he was the only member of the nobility who frequented her father’s shop.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Federico said. “I hope your father is well.”
“He is, thank you,” Vincenzo said. Then he paused for a moment. “But we lost my brother in the war.”
Giovanna’s heart went out to him. She could tell by the way he said it that Vincenzo was still grieving the loss, that his heart was still tender.
“I’m so sorry,” Federico said. “Please send my condolences to your parents—and your sister as well.”
Giovanna wished she could think of something comforting to say. Instead, she just nodded in sympathy.
Then there was a moment of silence until Federico said, “Did you say you wanted some of your brother’s clothing tailored?”
Vincenzo nodded. Giovanna wondered if he was too choked up to answer out loud.
Federico picked up the satchel of clothing and brought it across the shop. “The changing area is over here,” he said, pulling back a curtain that separated a small corner of the room from the rest.
Vincenzo cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, walking toward Federico. Before he stepped into the curtained-off area, he turned back to Giovanna. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she answered, feeling her cheeks get hot.
Giovanna ducked behind a curtain into the back of the store before he could see her blush.
“So the conte d’Alba’s son is in?” Faustina asked, putting down the blouse she was working on.
Giovanna nodded. “His second son. The older brother died in the war.”
Faustina shook her head. “I can’t believe Papà is still going to accept their business when they supported the fascists. I told him
that on principle he should refuse the business of everyone who was on the wrong side of the war.”
Giovanna sighed. Her sister saw things so black and white. It was an argument Giovanna had stopped trying to have with her. There were definite wrongs and definite rights, but there were so many shades of gray in between, especially during wartime, when people were scared and sad and fighting for their lives or the lives of loved ones. You had to give everyone some grace until they showed you a reason not to, or at least that was what Giovanna thought. She had trouble putting those thoughts into words, though. Especially words her sister would listen to.
Faustina stood. “I’m taking a walk,” she said. “Tell Papà I’ll be home in time to make supper.”
“Okay,” Giovanna said, watching her sister put on her coat.
“This,” Faustina said, closing the buttons, “is why I want to move to America.”
Giovanna was pretty sure there were people there who needed grace, too, whose wartime stories contained shades of gray, but she kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t worth arguing with Faustina. Not when they were kids, and certainly not now, when Faustina’s opinions were so set, when her facility with words was so much better than Giovanna’s.
As Giovanna picked up a pair of pants to hem, she wondered what Vincenzo Della Rosa’s story was. And whether she’d ever find out.
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