No one. Not one of her sons and daughters, let alone her alien grandchildren. Carla, with her Paris gowns, had made Sam take her to Castagna as part of their honeymoon trip and then fled as soon as she got there without understanding anything. And then there was one of Jake’s sons sending off money for a family coat of arms, the imbecile, as if they had come from signori instead of a shepherd and a goat girl. And some of the other grandchildren—that pale and dreamy Marguerite, named for her own lost child, and Anna’s northern Italian children, who looked more American than Italian . . .

She had won, but who could she tell the story to? At times the doubt came to her whether she really had won, after all. All her life had been a struggle for family, and now in her old age she saw some signs that made her uneasy. She knew of Ben’s feelings toward Paul and his envy of Jake’s five healthy sons after his only son—Ben, Junior—had died. As long as she was alive, she could keep him in line. But after? Would the brothers quarrel and divide? She saw poor Pina alone and treated with disdain; why hadn’t she taught Pina to be more resourceful and independent so that she could make her own way and not be a charity case the rest of her life? All was not well with Sara’s marriage. And there was a certain ruthlessness in Paul, her favorite. . . . She had always known it, but she hadn’t stopped it in time. Now there was war in Europe again—the Second World War, they called it. Maybe America would be called in another time. Would everything she had set in motion end all right?

Yes, she was treated like a signora, like the Baronessa Mancuso herself. But deep in her heart Umbertina knew there were mistakes she was leaving behind as well as the successes. Ah! Serafino, she said to him silently, her thoughts flying about behind the impassive exterior of her face. It is a mysterious thing to be born in this life, work hard, and then at the end see that it has been a mere moment and all that one has done can come undone like the briefness of a flower.

Umbertina thought often of Serafino in her own old age. She did not falter as he did and break down in tears and question the trials of her life. She regretted nothing. Even the mistakes she was too stubborn to regret—she merely acknowledged their presence. She was old, she would not start amending now; she was the way she was.