An Italian Wife Read Online Free PDF

that Alfredo Petrocelli had the Spanish Influenza and surely would die. But Josephine chose not to believe this. She thought of his cool hands, his muscles straining as he hoisted blocks of ice, his clean clear face. If anyone got the Spanish Influenza, surely it would be the filthy coal man. Or that Jacques LaSalle with his thing hanging out all the time.
    The next Friday morning, with all of the children at school or at work in the mill, Josephine was surprised when she heard a racket in the backyard.
    She stepped outside, still in her thin housedress, and found a man who was not Alfredo Petrocelli standing there with a block of ice. Aware of the sweat marks staining under her arms, and of her breasts against the flimsy dress, Josephine folded her arms across her chest.
    â€œYou there!” she called to the man. “You startled me.”
    He turned and Josephine’s knees wobbled. Tall, with blond hair and green eyes staring back at her from a tanned face, the man in the black pants and white sleeveless T-shirt was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
    â€œSorry,” he said in English. “I don’t know the drill.”
    Josephine frowned. “Drill?” she repeated.
    â€œI’m filling in for my cousin Al,” the man said, in rapid-fire English with no hint of an Italian accent. An American. “He’s pretty sick.” He studied her for a minute, then laughed. “You don’t know a word I’m saying, do you?”
    She shrugged and took a tentative step toward him. That’s when she realized she was barefoot, and her legs were bare as well. Bare arms, bare legs, no shoes, a flimsy dress hardly concealing what was beneath it. What was this man going to think of her? He was looking at her, and a blush rose on his cheeks.
    â€œSorry to stare,” he said in terrible Italian. “But you’re really beautiful.”
    Now color rose in her cheeks. “No,” she said, waving his compliment away with her hands.
    His hand grabbed one of hers, and before she could pull it away, he was shaking it and saying, “Tommy Petrocelli. Your new temporary ice man.”
    â€œYour Italian is awful,” she told him, the heat from his hand spreading up her arm, making her sweat even more.
    â€œSorry,” he said again. “I was born in the good old U S of A. My father is Al’s father’s brother. Tio? ” he said, raising his eyebrows.
    â€œTio,” she said, then. “Uncle.”
    He laughed. “Your English is terrible,” he kidded her. “My mother is French, but she’s been here forever.”
    Josephine nodded, even though she had no idea what French was.
    â€œAh,” she said. “Do you want to come inside for a drink?”
    â€œSure,” he said. “Great.”
    He still held on to her hand, and when they both realized this, he dropped it quickly.
    Sitting in her hot kitchen at the table, beads of sweat on his forehead, he quickly drank the lemonade she gave him. They sat quietly.
    â€œEven the glass is sweating,” Josephine said finally, pointing.
    He laughed. Then they were silent again.
    â€œMrs. . . .” he began.
    â€œJosephine,” she said.
    â€œJosephine. Have you ever heard the saying that every person has a soul mate?”
    She frowned at the word.
    He reached across the table and placed his hand on her collarbone. “Soul mate,” he repeated. “Some people, like me, believe that everyone has a soul mate, wandering the Earth somewhere. Not everyone finds theirs. But if you do, you recognize her immediately.”
    â€œLike fate?” she said, the pressure of his hand on her collarbone making her heart do strange things.
    â€œStronger, even. Two souls wander the planet, and if you are very, very lucky, you find each other.”
    He dropped his hand quickly and stood. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    She wanted to tell