“Not far at all. We’re just outside San Zenone now. My mother was born here. She died when Carlo was born.” And then, as if anticipating her next question, “I have six siblings still living. The eldest of us was Marco, but he was killed in Tobruk two and a half years ago. Then there’s me, then Rosa, then two babies who died. Then Matteo—he’s seventeen now—and after him there’s Paolo, Agnese, Angela, and little Carlo. He’s nine.”

So Rosa was his sister. The one who worried and would expect to be told everything. “Who took care of them after your mother died?”

“Rosa did, with some help from my aunts. I wasn’t living at home then—I went away to school when I was fourteen. I only returned after Marco was killed. Papà couldn’t manage the farm on his own, and Matteo and Paolo were still too young to take on the heavy work.”

“I’m sorry. About your mother, and Marco, and the babies, too. That must have been very hard.”

“It was. Still is. And I should also tell you—”

“What is it?” she asked, instantly apprehensive.

“I was in the seminary. I was training to become a priest. When I came home to help my family, that’s what I left behind.” His expression, already solemn, grew graver still.

She nodded, taking it all in, and then she remembered: Catholic priests weren’t allowed to marry. “And now you can’t ever go back. Because of me.”

“That may be how people see it, but you and I know the truth. As does Father Bernardi.”

“Your family will be upset. Your father—”

“He knows I’ve been questioning it. My vocation, I mean. He’ll understand.”

“What about your sister? Mario said she’ll have questions for you.”

“Rosa has a good heart. She wants the best for us, for all of us, and she’s never been happy that I left the seminary. So my having married may . . . upset her.”

“Upset her how?” Nina pressed. “Will she be sad? Or angry?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, and his accompanying smile was rueful. “I think a little of both? But she’ll come around. I know she will.”

“All right. Well, thank you for telling me.”