The clerk at the counter was staring at her.
She stole a furtive glance at him- yes, she was sure now. He had tried to be discreet for her sake, but again and again she could feel his eyes track her.
He seemed slightly ashamed of his own stare, would try to keep it down and yet, as if separate from his body, the eyes would raise and—
Ah, this time their eyes had met.
Carmela could feel the flush blooming across her face and lowered her head, busying herself with the vegetables.
Good Sicilian girls, especially good Sicilian girls of marriageable age were not supposed to match glances with strange men who kept staring at them- even if the strange man happened to be darkly handsome, black hair framing a too thin, too serious face.
She hadn't been in the country overlong, had trouble with English (its hard square words tripped on a tongue used to the round lyrical warmth of Sicilian), didn't yet know what America had in store for a 16 year old orphan relying on the generosity of her Godmother, but one thing she did know- Little Italy might as well be Sicily as far as its people were considered, and it would not do to bring dishonor on her family by making eyes at an unrelated man.
She had spent too much time at the grocery already, her aunt would be angry. She started towards the cash counter, hoping the clerk would not be there (and yet a tiny rebellious part of her did wish to see him again) but a familiar smell stopped her in her tracks.
A crateful of oranges let off their fresh citrusy scent, reminding her of balmy summer evenings back home,- her, sent to pick out the best and the ripest with her brother, her father carefully peeling them, handing one first to her mother and then to his children, all the while they sang old Sicilian songs together.
All gone now of course, even the orange groves of her childhood. Tears pricked at her eyes and she forced them back, becoming practical again.
She paid for the food, silently tracking the cashier as he counted the money.
"No oranges?", he asked, his face open, a smile playing on his lips. It was an honest face, the face of a brother, and Carmela liked it.
She wordlessly shook her head no and collected her parcels. Her aunt needed help with the washing, and lunch needed to be prepared.
Beside, Oranges were too expensive.
As she opened the door another voice interrupted her, "You forgot a parcel, signorina." Cool, smooth, deep- Carmela felt something stir within her at the voice.
And there he was, holding a parcel she must have forgotten in her hurry, his face impassive. Only his eyes gave him away- deep brown, they compelled her to stay, to watch him watch her.
The cashier must have cleared his throat, and Carmela felt the blush burning up her face.
She stammered a barely audible "Gracie" at the man, almost tearing the parcel from him as she hurried out of the Grosseria.
Walking back to her aunt's home, she prayed, hoping the cashier wasn't a gossip- she had endured enough humiliation for the day.
She had calmed down by the time she reached the flat and could think clearly.
She was sure she had all the parcels before the man interrupted her and counted them twice for good measure.
Three parcels with her groceries and an extra, every time. Curiosity finally got the best of her and she opened it.
A single orange- perfectly ripe, its surface smooth and unblemished- stared back.
Sleep came late that night.
For one, the citrusy bitterness of the orange peel kept her reminiscing.
For another, a pair of deep brown eyes haunted her dreams.
--
"You forgot a parcel, Signorina", Genco mimed for the hundredth time, his naturally high voice ridiculous with the effort to deepen it like Vito's.
Right on cue, the Abbandando family burst into peels of laughter.
Vito was forever indebted to them for taking him in when he had nowhere to go, and loved Genco with all his heart, as a friend and as a brother.
At this moment, however, he was moved to understand Cain's proclivity for fratricide.
Perhaps something in his face had given away his irritation, because Signor Abbandando glared at Genco, who finally stopped with his comedy.
He clapped Vito around the shoulder, pouring some more Grappa into his glass. "Come now Vito, Genco is only happy for you. You are at the age to get married, and the girl comes from a good family."
Signora Abbandando was a gossip, and had revealed the girl's entire biography during dinner.
An orphan at 16, she had grown up in a village near Corleone before coming to America. She resided with her widowed Godmother in a flat quite near to the Grosseria, and her family was distantly related to the Signora's.
Vito had felt a bit cowed at the family's enthusiasm for his future matrimony, but that was more than warranted- they had essentially raised him and thus were entitled to meddle in his personal business, and besides, he needed them to vouch for him to the girl's family.
He thanked them profusely for the dinner and for the information (particularly for the latter) and braced at the slight chill in wind.
"Aye, paisan, wait for me", Genco called out after him, and Vito picked up his pace just to irritate him.
This was quite unlike him, but the whole day he had been unlike himself.
His cheeks were still smarting with embarrassment- he had always been calm, controlled, yet one look at the signorina and he had felt compelled to follow her like Mary's little lamb.
He had gawked at her, her an unmarried woman of age with no familial relations to him.
Such things could bring about dishonor on the girl, and the last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize her life.
Genco, all caught up, swung a bony arm around Vito.
"I oughta clear out from the flat now, huh?", this referring to the bachelor flat they shared together.
He was still smiling, but his eyes remained serious and Vito was overcome with affection for his friend.
"No", he teased as the smile dropped from Genco's face.
He interrupted Genco before he could launch into a lecture, "I was thinking of moving into another set. One more suitable for a family."
They both broke into peals of unintended laughter, and Genco marvelled at how relaxed his always composed friend looked already, how much his eyes twinkled, how carefree his laugh was.
He sent a Hail Mary hoping it would remain so, always.
That night, as they prepared for bed, Vito wondered if she had liked the orange.
As he finally hunkered down to sleep, there was only one thought in his mind- Carmela Corleone had a really nice ring to it.