Choices of the Heart Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Margaret Gay Malone

  Choices of the Heart

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  A word from the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The city is ripe in its beauty, about to explode with color—rose, yellow, peach, cerise. And I am being seduced by the day because I think that a beautiful woman, in a dress as bright as the sun, holding a child’s hand and walking serenely toward me, is Ottavia.

  She was talking with the child, and they were laughing, enjoying each other’s company. He pointed to something on the river, and they walked to the railing to look, leaning over, head to head, engrossed in each other.

  Another step closer and Vittorio’s heart began a furious dance. He stepped up his pace to reach Ottavia, and the monsignor, who had just asked him a question, stopped and stared. Vittorio was already far in front of him.

  Ottavia was unaware of him until he called her name. She turned her head to look up at him, her mouth open slightly, her eyes wide in shy surprise. It seemed to him that she turned in slow motion, a glint of sun upon her lips, her hair swinging against her cheek.

  “Vittorio,” she said. She stood up from the railing and faced him. She said nothing more than his name; her eyes said the rest.

  Praise for Margaret Gay Malone

  “Margaret Malone’s CHOICES [OF THE HEART] is a fine evocation of life and forbidden love across two continents. Spanning over forty years, Malone expertly begins her story in the small town of Argiano, Italy, in the mid-1880s and subsequently transports us to bustling New York at the turn of the century and through World War I. Extraordinarily moving and superbly written, CHOICES is destined to be Margaret Malone's best book.”

  ~Saul Schachter, Newsday essayist

  ~*~

  “Ms. Malone uses sympathetic characters and the beauty of language to create a sweeping historical saga.”

  ~Prof. Jane Werner, FIT

  Choices

  of the Heart

  A Romantic Family Saga

  by

  Margaret Gay Malone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Choices of the Heart

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Margaret Gay Malone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Historical Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1776-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1777-9

  A Romantic Family Saga

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband, Tom, who thinks outside the box

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Mark Kornfeld,

  super techie, super nice

  Chapter 1

  Tuscany, Italy 1897

  For months Ottavia Rossi had noticed the handsome young priest. Now, as she knelt in the tiny village church, trying to pray, she watched his confident athletic stride as he walked up the aisle before Mass, the way the light from the altar windows struck golden highlights in his warm brown hair. She longed to bury her face in his hair, feel its softness. She noticed the languid way he half-closed his eyes as he raised his hands for the Pater Noster, and the sweet curve of his lips as he prayed aloud, “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,” and she imagined the touch of his lips on hers. She inhaled the scent of his hands and felt his long fingers graze her lips as she knelt before him for Communion, but she dared not look up to see his eyes upon her as he gave her the blessed host. His lips, his hair, his arms, his hands—she was suffused with his presence. Like too much wine, thoughts of him brought pleasurable warmth coursing through her.

  Just the night before, she had knelt on the stone floor of her room. “Holy Virgin Mary, I beg you, tear this sinful desire from my heart.” She knelt long into the night until her knees ached and she could pray no more.

  Father. Vittorio di Rienzi was of the noble di Rienzi family and had been sent to Argiano for a short time until its pastor, Father Giuseppe Nollo, recovered from an illness that kept him from ministering to his people.

  The people of Argiano were born, lived, loved, and died in their village. Father di Rienzi was used to the opulence of Florence and Rome, yet he loved the simple people and their life. Every day, the men of Argiano left their whitewashed, terra cotta-tiled homes nestled among the rolling hills and walked to the vineyards and fields where, in the shadow of castle-crowned hills and medieval towns with towered walls, they cultivated grapes for wine, trees for olives and their rich oil, and a lush bouquet of fruits and vegetables. Every day, the women baked bread and cooked simple meals from the bounty of their fields. They cared for their children, large families like the one Ottavia was born into. Ottavia, named because she was their eighth child, bore a distinction which was a source of pride to her family.

  While old men sat clustered in threes and fours in the village, remembering their youth in hues as golden as the August fields, children played, and muscular young men and girls with shining hair spoke to each other wordlessly.

  Of all the young girls of Argiano, Ottavia was the one the young men noticed most. At seventeen, she had a lovely face, flawless olive skin, and expressive dark eyes. Especially shy, she walked with her head high, appearing not to notice the young men who clowned for her attention or who followed her silently with their eyes. Her apparent aloofness made her more desirable to them, but none seemed to capture her heart. Federico was nineteen, a short, sturdy young man with a passion for Ottavia. He kept his love to himself and waited for the day when she would look at him.

  A mixture of shyness around people her age and desire to serve others made her spend much of her time helping the sick. She helped nurse her
ill father back to health and cared for her many nieces and nephews, so that her mother called her “my little blessing.” The women of Argiano would smile to see how the little ones asked to be lifted in her arms while the older ones vied with each other to hold her hand. If someone in the village was confined to bed, often it was Ottavia who visited them, her youth and her lovely smile a tonic in itself.

  After Mass one sunny Sunday, when the families and the old widows had filed out of the little church with it rough-hewn benches and its handcarved statues, Ottavia remained kneeling, her eyes closed, engrossed in prayer. Father di Rienzi had left the church to stand outside with his parishioners, and Ottavia did not hear him return. His whisper made her start.

  “Old Giuliana is not well,” he said, leaning so close it took her breath away. “She has asked for you.” She lowered her eyes.

  “I’ll go today.” As she stood, her cotton shawl slipped from her shoulders. He stood before her and carefully wound the shawl around her. The gesture inflamed her like a caress. Her face on fire, she brushed past him with a hoarse “Grazie,” and rushed from the church.

  She went to visit Giuliana, hurrying past the young men lounging in the square on a bright spring day, ignoring their low cries of “Bella, bella!” as they took in her sweet profile and her thick brown hair that fell almost to her tiny waist. So intent was she that she nearly collided with Federico, who had mustered all his courage to greet her.

  “Buongiorno. A lovely day,” he said, stammering from the effort.

  Ottavia, who was always kind, smiled at him. “Yes, it is,” she said, and hurried on. It was a momentary encounter, but when she had passed, Federico spread his arms wide and twirled around in the dusty road, then strutted past the other young men, who had watched the scene in awe.

  When she arrived, the women before her left, leaving a pot of dinner heating. Giuliana smiled weakly at the sight of Ottavia. She served the old woman the meal, but she ate little. To the girl, Giuliana looked very near death.

  As she visited every day, she watched the old woman’s life ebb. One evening Ottavia sat by her bedside, reading the Holy Bible by candlelight in the early evening glow while Giuliana, a rough woolen blanket pulled up to her chin, slept fitfully. She awoke, her breathing a wheeze, and spoke so softly that Ottavia had to put her ear to the woman’s lips.

  “I am dying, my child,” she whispered between racking coughs. “Go, send for the priest.”

  Ottavia’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t know whether to stay with the woman or leave. Sensing her confusion, the old woman reached out a bony hand and said as loudly as she could, “Go, quickly!”

  Ottavia jumped up, the Bible falling from her lap, and ran from the bedroom. She raced to the priest’s house, uphill most of the way. Her heart drumming, she pounded on the oak front door. Father di Rienzi swung open the door.

  “It’s Giuliana,” she gasped. “She’s dying.”

  The young priest left her at the door as he ran inside and returned in seconds with a small black bag of candles, a stole, and holy oil to anoint the dying woman as she received the Sacrament of Extreme Unction—final prayers, final blessings, final forgiveness as she left this world and prepared to face God.

  Her mind on the dying woman all alone in her home, Ottavia ran along beside the young priest, doubling her steps to keep up with him. She followed him inside the small home and saw with relief that Giuliana was still alive.

  “Padre,” Giuliana whispered with a smile, and turned to Ottavia. “Grazie, cara filia.”

  The priest opened his bag, took out the candles, and lit them, handing one to Ottavia to place on the small table next to the bed. He placed the narrow purple silk stole embroidered with gold crosses around his neck. Ottavia watched his quiet assurance and gentle manner, the touch of his hand on the dying woman’s, the reassuring voice, and saw the trust in Giuliana’s eyes as she gazed at him. He motioned to Ottavia to go into the kitchen while he heard the woman’s last confession.

  In the other room, she busied herself arranging the simple utensils the woman used to cook with. She prayed for the woman’s soul as she worked, the only thing left that she could do for her, ashamed that even now the priest’s deep baritone, low and mellow, brought the memory of the unsettling, almost intimate, way he had wrapped the shawl around her that day.

  When Father di Rienzi called, she returned to the bedroom. He was sitting next to the old woman, holding her hand. “Will you join me in saying the Pater Noster for her?” Ottavia took her place on the other side of the bed. They prayed aloud, their voices blending, the repetition of the prayer a reassuring presence in the semi-darkness. The flickering candlelight accentuated the fine bones in his face, and his eyes took on a luminous look. He was more handsome than ever, if that were possible.

  Their eyes met, and this time, she did not look away. In this room, in their desire to comfort another human being, Ottavia felt a closeness to him that she had never felt with anyone before.

  He intoned in Latin a blessing that she had heard at Mass again and again. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” As he made the sign of the cross over the woman, her face was suffused with peace and she slowly closed her eyes. The old woven blanket ceased to move rhythmically over her chest. The priest looked for her pulse, then leaned over her face for a sign of breath. He folded her arms as if in prayer and looked up at Ottavia. “May she rest in peace.”

  It was the first time Ottavia had seen anyone die, and though she knew it was coming, the finality of it shocked her. She stood up unsteadily, and tears flowed down her cheeks.

  The young priest got up and tenderly put his arm around her shoulders. She felt his warmth and strength and closeness. Standing there together, she thought she could hear his heart beating the same rhythm as her own. They had shared so much that day—living and dying, healing and peace, and now they shared the silence. They stood that way for a time, her soft hair grazing his cheek, his arm around her, a shield from sorrow. When he finally spoke, he simply repeated her name. “Ottavia,” he said softly, “Ottavia,” and with his hand, brushed the tears from her face.

  Chapter 2

  It was nearly a year since the young priest had come to Argiano, and from time to time, he reported on the progress of Father Giuseppe Nollo, whom he had replaced. Father Nollo was making progress, slow but sure, he told everyone. It had seemed so long ago that Father Nollo had been part of the village that Ottavia began to fool herself that Father di Rienzi would stay forever.

  In the village or outside church after Mass, they met, as if by accident.

  “Thank you for the altar flowers. They’re lovely.”

  Ottavia concentrated on answering him without a tremor in her voice. “The field to the north has the prettiest wildflowers.”

  He looked down at her. “Never more beautiful.”

  Something in his response made her heart catch.

  After that, they met more frequently by accident—early mornings on the path to church, at noon in the orchard, his arm resting on a low olive branch as he smiled down at her. On warm evenings as villagers strolled outside to catch the cool breezes, talking with another parishioner, he would nod at her and follow her with his eyes.

  Federico, believing that he had bested the other young men in the village, continued to try to speak to her. She was polite, but distant. Not the brightest young man in Argiano, Federico continued to believe that Ottavia might be interested in him. His bumbling advances made her long all the more for Vittorio di Rienzi. He was now Vittorio in her thoughts, Vittorio of the golden brown hair and gentle eyes. Vittorio, learned and kind. Vittorio, strong and handsome. Vittorio, whom she loved. Loved with all her heart.

  Ottavia had been in the field gathering wildflowers for the altar. Walking back through the hills, she saw him sitting on the grass in the shade of a tree. He didn’t seem to see her approach, yet he showed no surprise when she called his name.

  He stood up and leaned against the
tree, looking down at her. “More flowers for tomorrow’s Mass?”

  “The prettiest ones I could find.”

  “How fitting.” He lifted the largest bloom from the basket, a delicate pink that shaded to rose at the petals’ edge, lush and gorgeous.

  “You have chosen the most beautiful one,” she said.

  He snapped off the long stem, and as she stood there transfixed, he placed the flower in her hair, the petals grazing her cheek.

  They walked back to the village together, her heart beating a tarantella at the nearness of him.

  “Vittorio, mi amore.” The first time she whispered to herself the word “amore,” she was ashamed, enflamed. All the prayers and sacrifices in the world could not quell the murmurings within her, and she lived with it, a sweet torment, day and night.

  In May the young children of Argiano received their First Communion, and Ottavia helped prepare the celebration. She baked sweet anise cakes and braided breads, helped to plait flowers in the young girls’ hair, and set the table in the church garden for a celebration after Mass. It was a glorious warm day, and it seemed as if the whole village celebrated the children, the sun, and the spring. Just because she was close to Vittorio di Rienzi, Ottavia glowed with happiness.

  In the midst of the laughter and celebration, the young priest held up his hands for silence. The music stopped, and the villagers gathered around him, Ottavia staying on the fringes of the crowd. “I thought this was a good time to tell you some news,” he said.

  Ottavia looked closely at the priest, and a shiver of apprehension shot through her. For the first time she noticed that his face was drawn, as though he hadn’t slept well. He seemed to force a smile. “I am happy and sad today, happy to tell you that your good pastor, Father Nollo, has fully recuperated and will be returning to you, his beloved people, in just two weeks.”

  Ottavia couldn’t breathe.

  “And I’m sad to tell you, dear people, that I will be leaving you the day he returns.”

  Whatever he said afterward, whatever the villagers’ reactions, Ottavia was unaware of it. A wall of pain separated her from what was going on; it could have been a foreign language for all she understood. In that moment, her love had transformed into pain, radiating from her core and obliterating everything else.