She’d never danced with Nico before. There were so many things they hadn’t yet had the chance to do. One day, once the war was done, they would go to the pictures, and they would eat in a restaurant, and they would dance for hours under the stars. One day.

But first she had to help Rosa get ready for their little party. “So the table’s to come outside?” she asked.

“Yes, but we’ll get the boys to do that for us. Why don’t you bring out the chairs for now? And then we’ll get started on the dough for the crostoli. Nico loves them.”

They ate their supper outside at the big table, and when the sky began to darken they set lanterns in the windows, and hung one in the olive tree, and Matteo moved the radio to a stool by the kitchen door and, after much adjusting of dials, found a program playing American-style dance music.

“Not too loud,” Aldo cautioned. “We don’t want any uninvited guests coming to join us.”

And then they danced: Aldo and Nina, Nico and Rosa, and Matteo even agreed to partner Agnese and then Angela. Not to be left out, Carlo begged for a dance with Nina, and they shuffled in a slow circle as he stood on her shoes, his sweet little face alight with happiness.

A new song came on, and as soon as its melody became clear Nico reached for Nina, promising his brother they both would dance with him again. “I love this song,” he explained, “and I want to dance to it with my wife.”

He took Nina in his arms and led her a little ways away, to the edge of their makeshift ballroom, and the music rose and swirled around them.

“Do you recognize it?” he asked.

“‘Polvere di Stelle’?” she guessed.

“Yes. It’s nicer in English, though.”

“You speak English?”

“Only a little. This version of the song, the Italian one, tells of a sweet dream of love. A golden star of a girl with blue eyes. But everyone knows the most beautiful girls have dark hair that curls just so, and hazel eyes, not blue.”

She smiled up at him, enchanted by his romantic words and his effortless dancing and the delightful knowledge that he was hers.

“The English lyrics are far better,” he continued. “Like poetry, even,” and he began to sing to her, first in English, and then, so she might understand, in Italian.

“‘The stars are bright, and you are in my arms,’” he sang softly and so sweetly. And then, in a whisper for her alone, “No matter where I am, my Nina, near or far, you are the one who brightens my dreams. You are the one who paints the sky with stardust.”

“Is all of that from the song?” she asked, for surely the English lyrics hadn’t included her name.