Mom drew in a sharp, ragged breath, and sat up sharply, as if she’d been thrown ashore, and Grandma steadied her, took her in her arms and held her.

Loreda had never heard sobbing like this. She thought Mom might simply break in half at the force of her crying. When she was finally able to breathe without sobbing, Mom drew back, looking ravaged. There was no other word for it.

“Loreda, Ant, please leave us,” Grandma said.

“What’s wrong with her?” Loreda asked.

“Passion has a dark edge. If your father had ever grown up, he would have told you this instead of filling your head with fluff.”

“Passion? What does that have to do with anything?”

“She’s too young to understand, Rose,” Elsa said.

Loreda hated to be told she was too young for anything. “I am not. Passion is good. Great. I long for it.”

Grandma waved a hand impatiently. “Passion is a thunderstorm, there and gone. It nourishes, sì, but it drowns, too. Our land will save and protect you. This is something your father never learned. Be smarter than your selfish, foolish father, cara. Marry a man of the land, one who is reliable and true. One who will keep you steady.”

Marriage again. Her grandmother’s answer to every question. As if marrying well meant a good life. “How about if I just get a dog? It sounds about as exciting as the life you want for me.”

“My son has spoiled you, Loreda, let you read too many romantic books. It will be the ruin of you.”

“Reading? I doubt it.”

“Out,” Grandma said, pointing to the door. “Now.”

“I don’t want to be here anyway,” Loreda said. “Come on, Ant.”

“Good,” Grandma said. “It’s laundry day. Go get us water.”

Loreda should have left five minutes ago.

“HE NEVER LOVED ME,” Elsa said. “Why would he?”

“Ah, cara . . .” Rose scooted closer, reached out to place her rough, work-reddened hand on Elsa’s. “You know I lost three daughters. Three. Two who never breathed in this world and one who did. But never did we really speak of it.” Rose drew in a deep breath, exhaled it. “Each one I allowed myself to mourn briefly. I made myself believe in God’s plan for me. I went to church and lit candles and prayed. I was never in my life as afraid as when I carried Raffaello in my womb. He was so busy in there. I found I couldn’t think of him as anything but healthy and I grew afraid of my hope. If I saw a black cat, I would burst into tears. Spilled olive oil could send me rushing to church to combat bad luck. I didn’t knit a single pair of booties or make a blanket or sew a christening gown. What I did do, it seems, was imagine him. He became real to me in a way the girls had not. When he finally was born—so hearty and hale and too beautiful to bear—I knew that God had forgiven me for whatever sin I’d committed that cost me my daughters. I loved him so much, I . . . couldn’t discipline him, couldn’t deny him. Tony told me I was spoiling him, but I thought, how could it hurt? He was a shooting star and he blinded me with his light. I . . . wanted so much for him. I wanted him to know love and prosperity and to be an American.”

“And I came along.”

Rose was still for a moment. “I remember every bit of that day. He was packed to go to college. College. A Martinelli. I was so proud, I’d told everyone.”

“And then, me.”

“Skinny as a willow switch, you were. Hair that needed tending. You looked like a young woman who didn’t know how to smile. And you were too old for him, I thought.”

“I was all those things.”

“It took me months to see that you were a woman more capable of love and commitment than anyone I’ve ever known. You were the best thing that ever happened to my son. He’s a fool to have missed that.”

“It is a kind thing for you to say.”

“But you can’t believe it.” Rose sighed. “What damage I did to Raffaello by loving him too much, I fear your parents did to you by loving you too little.”

“They tried to love me. Just as Rafe did.”

“Did they?” Rose said.

“I was a sickly child. I had a fever as a teenager and it left me weakened. They told my parents that I would die young and that I have a damaged heart.”

“And you believed them.”

“Of course.”

“Elsa, I don’t know about your youth or your illness or what your parents said or did. But I know this. You have the heart of a lion. Don’t believe anyone who tells you different. I’ve seen it. My son is a fool.”

“The last thing he said to me before he left was, ‘Remember me then.’ I thought he was being romantic.”

“I imagine it will hurt us all for a long time, but Loreda and Ant need you. Loreda needs to learn that it is this land that will save her, not her silly father.”

“I want her to go to college, Rose. To be brave and have adventures.”

“A girl?” Rose laughed. “Ant will be the one. Loreda will settle down. You’ll see.”

“I don’t know if I want her to settle down, Rose. I’m in awe of her fire. Even if I’m the one who gets burned. I just . . . want her to be happy. It breaks my heart to see her as unhappy as her father was.”