Keeping the Peace (2 page)

“Are you going into the paper today?” He stirred the milk into the steaming bowl pensively.

She joined him at the table with her own bowl of breakfast, shaking her head at his question. “No. We’ve got all the stories we need, and I can cut and paste here all day as long as we don’t lose power. Lisa’s got this issue pretty much ready for print.”

John was glad to hear her decision. Melanie and two employees published a small community newspaper,
The Town Crier
. They worked out of office space in a big brick Federal house in the center of town, property that had been left to Melanie by her grandfather. The newspaper was circulated for free and reported local marriages, births and deaths, college and high school honor roll students, municipal awards, and the area school lunch programs, as well as posting notices of items for sale, help wanted ads, and weekend tag sales. The office wasn’t more than three miles from the Giamo home, but Lisa and Roger, her two cohorts, both had to travel more than ten miles to get there. John knew the blizzard was only beautiful from a safe vantage point, that it could turn deadly in a heartbeat, and he gave thanks for this age of computers, cell phones, and fax machines. Still, there would be people out and about. Out-of-state skiers would abound, speeding along the highways in little cars or huge SUVs, oblivious to black ice, snow drifts, or sudden white-outs. And the locals weren’t much better. They would fight their way through the blizzard today in beat-up pickup trucks with studded tires or four-wheel-drive SUVs, thinking that the ability to drive safely in hazardous winter weather was theirs by birthright. He nodded his approval as he finished his breakfast and rose from the table. He wanted to get into town early and mobilize his officers in an attempt to get the jump on whatever was coming his way.

Melanie stood, and they kissed each other lightly on the lips. She touched his face softly with her fingers. “Please be careful today,” she said.

Reluctantly, he let her go and pulled on his overcoat, jamming a blue wool hat over his ears. “I’ll call you later,” he said. Then he went out the door.

Outside, he felt the full force of the blizzard. As with the most powerful nor’easters, it wasn’t terribly cold, just above twenty degrees Fahrenheit, but the snowfall was dense. The small, dry snowflakes fell quickly. John judged it to be over an inch an hour. Wind gusts created total white-outs as he trudged around the house and heaved up the garage door. He backed the police SUV out into the weather and popped it into four-wheel drive low. The vehicle made the trek down the narrow hilltop road through a foot of snow; the town plows had not been on the back roads yet. If it hadn’t been for the previously plowed snow banks, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the road. Still, the specially modified Suburban crawled solidly onward. At least it was all snow, the police chief reflected gratefully. There had been no rain or sleet, and there was no ice underneath.

As he turned out of his driveway onto the road, John glanced back over his shoulder at his house. It looked like a postcard. No matter the season, it always looked like a postcard, and depending upon his stress level, the sight of it could bring tears to his eyes.

The house sat surrounded by a hundred acres of high pasture and forest, snuggled into the protective lee of the hill that rose up behind it. Made of native granite quarried only a mile away, the house was two full stories, with the traditional New England single-story white clapboard kitchen ell. It had been built in the mid-nineteenth century. At that time, the great barn that stood behind the house was home to a team of draft horses, three saddle horses, ten dairy cattle, two oxen, laying hens, and a flock of thirty-two ewes. The floor above the animals burgeoned with carefully cured and stacked loose hay and ear corn. The floor below was given over to farming equipment and a manure pit. These days, the barn sheltered the Giamo family’s array of pet livestock: two horses, three sheep, a three-legged goat, and myriad assorted poultry and barn cats. And instead of using the damp below-ground level for machinery, John had built a separate shed that housed his beloved tractor and the various implements that kept him happy when he wasn’t on duty.

Under the snow, the lawns spread out gracefully around the house to the stone walls that separated the manicured yard and garden from the wilder meadow and pastures. Over the years, John and Melanie had added to the perennial borders planted by his grandmother. There were several varieties of lilacs, peonies, daylilies, and coreopsis, so there was always something in bloom from early May until November. The vegetable garden took up the lower portion of the back lawn and was surrounded by a white picket fence. In the tradition of the old world, the previous Giamos had planted a small fruit orchard as well as grape trellises. Melanie’s kitchen garden hugged the back porch, where they sat on summer evenings to watch the sunsets. As often as not, the cats would be stalking something among the herbs, and their movements released the sweet smells of basil, rosemary, tarragon, or mint. At the bottom of the property, where the land sloped south, there was a small pond. In the spring, the noise from the peepers could be almost deafening.

John loved the house for more than the obvious reason that it sheltered those dearest to him. The homestead had belonged to his paternal grandparents. John’s father, Joe Giamo, was born there, in the very bedroom he now shared with Melanie. As he drove toward town, his mind drifted back to the familiar family stories and the rich history of this home and this land.

Chapter Two

Paulo and Mia

P
AULO
G
IAMO
H
AD
B
EEN
a stone-cutter by trade. When he decided to come to America in 1937, he settled in Vermont, where some of the finest granites and fanciest marble in the world were quarried. There was money to be made, and although Paulo Giamo had come to work, he had also come for something else: land. Besides the granite and marble, there was land in Vermont, and it was Paulo’s dream to own some of it. By living with his sister and brother-in-law, who had moved to America before him, the young quarry worker was able to save most of his money, and in a lucky break that he could only attribute to divine intervention, Paulo acquired the beautiful stone house, its barn and, most importantly, the land.

In old country tradition, Paulo was now ready to marry. He was late getting around to it. At nearly thirty, he knew his sister had given up hope, but Paulo had an agenda, which he pursued ardently. For some time, he had watched a young girl who appealed to him. Her name was Mia Maronetti. He saw her in church, and sometimes he met her coming in or out of the grocery or drug store where she did bookkeeping.

“She’s too young for you,” chided his sister when he asked about her. “Too young and too pretty. She’ll never have you.”

“How old is she?” persisted Paulo.

“I don’t know,” his sister said, but of course she did. It was her duty to know these things.

In the end, she prodded her husband to make the introductions. He knew the Maronetti family. The old man was always up for a whiskey, so the men met in the bar. The next Sunday, Paulo was invited to dinner after church.

Mia did agree to have Paulo. She was twenty when they married a year later, and though she was young, she was more woman than girl. She loved the stone house, and they were happy together there for ten years. Then Paulo died, killed in a fall into the quarry. Mia Maronetti Giamo found herself alone on a hilltop far from town, with three young children and winter coming on.

Always resourceful, she swallowed her grief and went back to her former employers to do bookkeeping jobs, but it was hard to get in and out of town. She didn’t drive, so she depended on her brother for transportation. She had a cow and some chickens, and she canned plenty of food from her fertile vegetable garden. Mia’s young family would not starve, but the children were left alone every day until she made it home after dark. The money wasn’t that good either. The young widow lay awake nights thinking of something else she could do to add to her income. The answer came quite innocuously one evening as she was preparing to lock up the pharmacy office and meet her brother for her ride home. Roger Barrett, the pharmacist, appeared at the door, smiling awkwardly.

Mia blinked. “I thought you had gone home.”

“I was waiting to talk to you about something,” he said shyly.

Mia waited. Roger stared at the floor until she said, “Well, what is it?”

“My daughter is getting married soon. The man she’s marrying comes from a wealthy family from Boston. They are used to the best of everything.”

“How does this involve me?”

He shifted on his feet. “Well, I,” he stammered, “I have been told, that is, my wife wanted me to ask you this…”

“Well, ask,” Mia replied in her direct fashion.

“You see, what with the war and all, things are very expensive now. All manner of things are hard to get. I cannot afford the wedding dress my daughter wants, and she does not want any of the ones I can afford. My daughter is in tears, and my wife is beside herself with frustration. My wife says that you are a wonderful seamstress. She says you made the wedding dress for your cousin and that everybody who saw it was impressed. She…she thought that perhaps you could look at the dress my daughter wants and perhaps sew one like it for her. Would you do that, Mia? It would mean so much to me, and I would…I would pay you a fair price. I can get the fabrics and lace you would need.”

Mia blinked at him. People had complimented her on her sewing before. She had done wedding dresses and other projects for her relatives, but she had never thought it of any importance. It was just something any good housewife was trained to do.

Roger shifted uncomfortably on his feet again.

“Your wife does not sew?” she asked.

“No. No, she doesn’t.”

Poor man, she thought as she considered his predicament. Sometimes in their quest for the good life, they overlooked where it was actually to be found. “Okay,” she said simply. “I will do it.”

And so, as Mia was particularly talented at what she considered to be just a household chore, her new business took off. She made and sold wedding dresses, bridesmaids’ dresses, and other fancy formal women’s wear. People came from all over the state, sometimes with designs they wanted copied, sometimes to order a custom design from the beautiful Italian dressmaker. Mia prospered, buying a car and learning to drive. She kept her little farm. Her children were all able to finish high school. However, her children never felt the pull to the land as their father had. They married, took jobs at the marble companies, and built brand new houses in nearby Barre, becoming steadfast members of the comfortable, post-war middle class. Grandchildren came, and Mia loved them all, but there was something different about Joe’s youngest son John. He reminded her of Paulo, and she had a special bond with him. He spent as much time with her on the farm as he could, never seeming to tire of her stories of “the old days.” In him, she saw the legacy she and Paulo had hoped to create. It pleased her that he promised to raise his family someday on the homestead Paulo had bought all those years ago.

The blinding snow snapped John out of his reverie. He slowed the big vehicle and crept down the hill. He could just make out his in-laws’ house as he passed. His father-in-law, Tom Dearborne, the seventh Thomas Dearborne in a direct line to own Dearborne Farm, was crossing the road to the big dairy barn. He waved as John chugged past, and John waved back.
This weather should make the old man happy
, John thought
.
The Dearbornes loved the cold. Sunshine made them nervous and giddy, and giddiness for any reason made them uncomfortable. They were Yankees, after all, and they were nothing if they could not control their emotions. John remembered with a sardonic smile the staid Dearbornes forced into friendliness when he had married their daughter. The Dearbornes could literally trace their lineage back to the Mayflower, and the marriage of their beautiful only daughter to the son of Roman Catholic Italian stone cutters was hard for them to swallow. The fact that John went to Boston College appeased them somewhat, as they had a begrudging respect for the Jesuits, but his career choice was beneath them. He did not join the family dairy business when they offered him a place. Medicine would have been acceptable, or education, or law itself. The Dearbornes respected lawyers and had been known to use them cleverly here and there over the years, but in their eyes, law enforcement was something not quite acceptable.