I reached out and petted the soft nose. The faint smell of milk drifted in the air as the cow’s large eyes watched me. “The country life suits you.” The cow nudged José’s arm, looking for more food. “And you have a way with animals.”

He laughed lightly, feeding the cow the last of what he had. He was quiet for a moment as he looked out into the field. The grass danced in the wind that pushed puffy white clouds through the sky. “Yes,” he finally said. “I could have made a fine gaucho.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “If only Destiny didn’t have other plans in mind.” José buried his face in my hair, breathing in deeply.

Destiny. She was an old crone weaving a tapestry out of my life. I wondered as we looked out over the field if we could be happy with a life like this, or if we were too used to Destiny’s influence over us.

Supper was a grand affair in the Costa household. Antonia and her daughters brought in platefuls of roasted vegetables and pastas, which were a new delicacy to me. I wasn’t allowed to help but was given the first share of every dish, whether I liked it or not. It was another rule of Antonia’s: An expectant mother had to have the first bite of every dish. “It’s good for the baby,” she said.

José nudged me as we sat at the table one night. “You should learn how to cook from Dona Antonia.” I eyed my husband suspiciously. Suddenly, I envisioned being trapped in a life like my mother’s.

“Has there been a problem with my cooking up until now, husband?” I asked, passing him a plate of pasta.

“I’d walk gently if I were you, brother,” Rossetti warned from the other side of the table.

“All I am saying is that the Costas are the first Italian family you have been around, and it is an excellent opportunity to learn before we go to Italy.”

I choked on my water. Go to Italy? José never brought up leaving Brazil to me, much less the Americas.

“Do you remember stoccafisso in agrodolce?” Rossetti asked after washing down his food with a large gulp of wine.

“Oh, I dream of it,” José said wistfully with a hand to his heart. “There is nothing like it in all the Americas, but what I miss is mussels alla marinara. My mother used to stuff the mussels with anchovies. It was a thing of beauty.” José turned to me. “Just wait until you get to Italy, Anita, you will grow deliciously plump.”

“If that is what you wish, husband,” I mumbled.

“We will eat like kings!” Rossetti proclaimed, raising his glass.