Chapter 24: A New Chair

On the fourth of October the baker's old apprentice knocked at the shop door before dawn.

Cecilia opened it in her father's apron, with one hand pressed to the small of her back.

She was five months along, and the apron no longer tied.

"Eight tarts, signorina," he said. "Same as always."

"Same as always."

"The Don says I'm not to leave them on the step this year. He says I'm to carry them in."

"He's right. You'll have coffee first."

The old man laughed, took off his cap, and came inside.

She ate the first tart standing at the marble counter, with her eyes shut.

It tasted of lemon and sugar and ricotta, exactly as her father had made it.

There was no card in the box this time.

She hadn't wanted one.

That evening the family came to Pine Street, and there were thirty-six at the long table.

It was a year to the day since a box of these tarts had come to his kitchen with no card.

Nobody said so.

Zia had set the places herself.

At the Don's right hand stood a chair that had not been there the year before.

It was low, wide and cushioned, built by a carpenter from the parish with arms to hold a woman's weight.

A card stood on its plate in Zia's round handwriting.

CECILIA FONTANA.

The old men had looked at it for some time when they came in, and said nothing.

The eldest had finally cleared his throat and sat down.

Cecilia lowered herself into the chair with one hand on her belly.

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