Beloved by millions of readers around the world for her "dazzling" novels (USA Today), Adriana Trigiani is “a master of palpable and visual detail” (Washington Post) and “a comedy writer with a heart of gold” (New York Times). She is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty books of fiction and nonfiction, including her latest, The Good Left Undone- an instant New York Times best seller, Book of the Month pick and People’s Book of the Week. Her work is published in 38 languages around the world. An award-winning playwright, television writer/producer and filmmaker, Adriana’s screen credits include writer/director of the major motion picture of her debut novel, Big Stone Gap, the adaptation of her novel Very Valentine and director of Then Came You. Adriana grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia where she co-founded The Origin Project, an in-school writing program serving over 1,700 students in Appalachia. She is at work on her next novel for Dutton at Penguin Random House. 

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The Shoemaker's Wife

HarperCollins Publishers

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

A GOLD RING

Un Anello d'oro

The scalloped hem of Caterina Lazzari's blue velvet coat grazed the freshfallen snow, leaving a pale pink path on the bricks as she walked acrossthe empty piazza. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic sweep of herfootsteps, like hands dusting flour across an old wooden cutting board.All around her, the Italian Alps loomed like silver daggers against apewter sky. The rising winter sun, a pinprick of gold buried in the expanseof gray, barely flickered. In the first light of morning, dressed inblue, Caterina looked like a bird.

She turned, exhaling a long breath into the cold winter air.

"Ciro?" she called out. "Eduardo!"

She heard her sons' laughter echo across the empty colonnade, butcouldn't place them. She surveyed the columns of the open portico. Thiswasn't a morning for hide and seek, or for playing games. She called tothem again. Her mind swam with all she had accomplished, big choresand small errands, attending to a slew of overwhelming details, documentsfiled and keys returned, all the while stretching the few lire shehad left to meet her obligations.

The first stage of widowhood is paperwork.

Caterina had never imagined she would be standing here alone, onthe first day of 1905, with nothing before her but the small hope of eventualreinvention. Every single promise made to her had been broken.

Caterina looked up as a window on the second floor of the shoe shopopened and an old woman shook a rag rug out into the cold air. Caterinacaught her eye. The woman looked away, pulled the rug back inside, andslammed the window shut.

Her younger son, Ciro, peered around one of the columns. His blue-greeneyes were the exact color of his father's, as deep and clear as thewater of Sestri Levante. At ten years old, he was a replica of Carlo Lazzari,with big hands and feet and thick sandy brown hair. He was thestrongest boy in Vilminore. When the village children went down intothe valley to collect sticks bundled to sell for kindling, Ciro always hadthe heaviest haul strapped to his back because he could carry it.

Caterina felt a pang whenever she looked at him; in Ciro's face wasall she had lost and would never recover. "Here." She pointed to theground beside her black leather boot. "Now."

Ciro picked up his father's leather duffel and, running to his mother,called to his brother, who hid behind the statuary.

Eduardo, at eleven, resembled his mother's people, the Montini family,dark eyed, tall, and willowy. He too picked up his satchel andran to join them.

At the foot of the mountain, in the city of Bergamo, where Caterinahad been born thirty-two years ago, the Montini family had set up aprinting press that churned out linen writing paper, engraved callingcards, and small books in a shop on Via Borgo Palazzo. They had ahouse and a garden. As she closed her eyes, she saw her parents sittingat an alfresco table under their grape arbor, eating ricotta and honeysandwiches on thick, fresh bread. Caterina remembered all they wereand all they had.

The boys dropped their suitcases in the snow.

"Sorry, Mama," Ciro said. He looked up at his mother and knew forcertain that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her skinhad the scent of peaches and felt like satin. His mother's long hair fellinto soft, romantic waves, and ever since he could remember, as he layin her arms, he had twisted a lock until it became a single shiny blackrope.

"You look pretty," Ciro said earnestly. Whenever Caterina was sad,he tried to cheer her up with compliments.

Caterina smiled. "Every son thinks his mother is beautiful." Hercheeks turned pink in the cold as the tip of her aquiline nose turnedbright red. "Even when she isn't."

Caterina fished in her purse for a small mirror and a chamois puff.The tip of red disappeared as she powdered it. She pursed her lips andlooked down at her boys with a critical eye. She straightened Eduardo'scollar, and pulled Ciro's coat sleeve over his wrist. The coat was toosmall for him, and no amount of pulling would add the two inches atthe cuff to make it fit properly. "You just keep growing, Ciro."

"I'm sorry, Mama."

She remembered when she had their coats made for them, alongwith pin-cord trousers and white cotton shirts. There had been tuftedblankets in their cribs when they were born, a layette of soft cottongowns with pearl buttons. Wooden toys. Picture books. Her sons hadlong outgrown the clothes, and there was no replacing them.

Eduardo had one pair of wool pants and a coat given to him by aneighbor. Ciro wore the clean but ill-fitting clothes of his father, thehems on the work pants three inches deep, tacked with ragged stitchesbecause sewing was not one of Caterina's talents. Ciro's belt wastightened on the last grommet, but still too loose to function properly."Where are we going, Mama?" Ciro asked as he followed his mother."She told you a hundred times. You don't listen." Eduardo lifted hisbrother's duffel and carried it.

"You must listen for him," Caterina reminded Eduardo.

"We're going to stay at the convent of San Nicola."

"Why do we have to live with nuns?" Ciro complained.

Caterina turned and faced her sons. They looked up at her, hopingfor an explanation that would make sense of all the mysterious goings-onof the past few days. They weren't even sure what questions to ask,or what information they needed to know, but they were certain theremust have been some reason behind Mama's strange behavior. She hadbeen anxious. She wept through the night when she thought her sonswere asleep. She had written lots of letters, more in the last week thanthey could ever remember her writing.

Caterina knew that if she shared the truth, she would have failedthem. A good mother should never knowingly fail her children, notwhen she is all they have left in the world. Besides, in the years to come,Ciro would remember only the facts, while Eduardo would paint themwith a soft brush. Neither version would be true, so what did it matter?Caterina could not bear the responsibility of making every decisionalone. In the fog of grief, she had to be sensible, and think of every possiblealternative for her boys. In her mental state, she could not take careof her sons, and she knew it. She made lists of names, recalling everycontact in her family's past and her husband's, any name that might behelpful. She scanned the list, knowing many of them probably neededas much help as she did. Years of poverty had depleted the region, andforced many to move down to Bergamo and Milan in search of work.

After much thought, she remembered that her father had printedmissals for every parish in the Lombardy region, and as far south asMilan. He had donated his services as an indulgence to the Holy RomanChurch, expecting no payment in return. Caterina used the old favor tosecure a place for her sons with the sisters of San Nicola.

Caterina placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Listen to me. This is the most important thing I will ever tell you.Do as you're told. Do whatever the nuns ask you to do. Do it well. Youmust also do more than they ask of you. Anticipate. Look around. Dochores before the sisters ask.

"When Sister asks you to gather wood, do it immediately. Nocomplaining! Help one another - make yourselves indispensable."Chop the wood, carry it inside, and build the fire without asking.Check the damper before lighting the kindling. And when the fire isout, clean the ash pit and close the flue. Sweep up so it looks like a picture.Prepare the hearth for the next fire with dry logs and kindling. Putthe broom and the dustpan and the poker away. Don't wait for Sister toremind you.

"Make yourselves useful and stay out of trouble. Be pious and pray.Sit in the front pew during mass and sit at the farthest end of the benchduring dinner. Take your portions last, and never seconds. You arethere because of their kindness, not because I could pay them to keepyou. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mama," Eduardo said.

Caterina placed her hand on Eduardo's face and smiled. He put hisarm around his mother's waist and held on tight. Then she pulled Cairoclose. Her soft coat felt good against his face. "I know you can be good.""I can't," Ciro sputtered, as he pulled away from his mother's embrace,"and I won't."

"Ciro."

"This is a bad idea, Mama. We don't belong there," Ciro pleaded.

"We have no place to stay," Eduardo said practically. "We belongwherever Mama puts us."

"Listen to your brother. This is the best I can do right now. Whensummer comes, I will come up the mountain and take you home."

"Back to our house?" Ciro asked.

"No. Somewhere new. Maybe we'll move up the mountain to Endine."

"Papa took us to the lake there."

"Yes, the town with the lake. Remember?"

The boys nodded that they did. Eduardo rubbed his hands togetherto warm them. They were rough and pink from the cold.

"Here. Take my gloves." Caterina removed her elbow length black gloves.

She helped Eduardo's hands into them, pulling them up andunder his short sleeves. "Better?"

Eduardo closed his eyes; the heat from his mother's gloves traveledup his arms and through his entire body until he was envelopedin her warmth. He pushed his hair back with his hand, the scent of thebrushed cotton, clean lemon and freesia, reassuring him.

"What do you have for me, Mama?" Ciro asked.

"You have Papa's gloves to keep you warm." She smiled. "But youwant something of Mama's too?"

"Please."

"Give me your hand."

Ciro pulled his father's leather glove off with his teeth.

Caterina slid a gold signet ring off her smallest finger and placed iton Ciro's ring finger. "This was given to me by my papa."

Ciro looked down at the ring. A swirling, artful C in an oval of heavyyellow gold gleamed in the early morning light. He closed his fist, thegold band still warm from his mother's hand.

The stone facade of the convent of San Nicola was forbidding. Grandpilasters topped with statues of saints wearing expressions of hollowgrief towered over the walkway. The thick walnut door had a sharp peaklike a bishop's hat, Eduardo observed as he pushed the door open. Caterinaand Ciro followed him inside into a small vestibule. They stompedthe snow off their shoes on a mat made of woven driftwood branches.

Caterina reached up and rang a small brass bell on a chain.

"They're probably praying. That's all they do in here. Pray all day,"Ciro said as he peered through a crack in the door.

"How do you know what they do?" Eduardo asked.

The door opened. Sister Domenica looked down at the boys, sizingthem up.

She was short and shaped like a dinner bell. Her black and whitehabit with a full skirt made her seem wider still. She placed her handson her hips.

"I'm Signora Lazzari," Caterina said. "These are my sons. Eduardo and Ciro."Eduardo bowed to the nun. Ciro ducked his head quickly asif saying a fast prayer. Really, it was the mole on Sister's chin he wishedto pray away.

"Follow me," the nun said.

Sister Domenica pointed to a bench, indicating where the boysshould sit and wait. Caterina followed Sister into another room behinda thick wooden door, closing it behind her. Eduardo stared straightahead while Ciro craned his neck, looking around.

"She's signing us away," Ciro whispered. "Just like Papa's saddle."

"That's not true," his brother whispered back.

Ciro inspected the foyer, a round room with two deep alcoves, oneholding a shrine to Mary, the Blessed Mother, and the other, to SaintFrancis of Assisi. Mary definitely had more votive candles lit at her feet.Ciro figured it meant you could always count on a woman. He took adeep breath. "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"I can't help it."

"Don't think about it."

"It's all I think about."

"You have a simple mind."

"No, I don't. Just because I'm strong, doesn't mean I'm stupid."

"I didn't say you were stupid. You're simple."

The scent of fresh vanilla and sweet butter filled the convent.

Ciro closed his eyes and inhaled. He really was hungry. "Is this like the storyMama told us about the soldiers who got lost in the desert and saw awaterfall where there was none?" Ciro stood to follow the scent. Hepeered around the wall. "Or is there a cake baking somewhere?"

"Sit down," Eduardo ordered.

Ciro ignored him and walked down the long corridor.

"Get back here!" Eduardo whispered.

The walnut doors along the arcade were closed, and streams offaint light came through the overhead transoms. At the far end of thehallway, through a glass door, Ciro saw a cloister connecting the mainconvent to the workhouses. He ran down the arcade toward the light.When he made it to the door, he looked through the glass and saw abarren patch of earth, probably a garden, hemmed by a dense gnarl ofgray fig trees dusted with snow.
(Continues...)Excerpted from The Shoemaker's Wife by Adriana Trigiani. Copyright © 2012 by Adriana Trigiani. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
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