And then she saw him.
He’d lost his hat in the crush, and his chestnut hair was damp with sweat. But his eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed. Fritz was beautiful in his passion, arms raised, leading the crowd in a chant. Her heart swelled. He might very well lose everything, and yet here he was, standing by his men. He was loyal and true. He was undaunted by difficult consequences.
Her heart thundering in her chest, she kept her eyes on his face and pushed ahead, shoving men unceremoniously out of the way. When she had nearly reached him, he saw her.
His face changed instantly. A softness swept over his features followed by concern. He leapt down from a raised platform, rushing to her, pushing his way to her. Calling her name.
“Francesca!” he shouted.
“Fritz!”
At last she reached him and threw herself into his outstretched arms. “Amore mio,” she said, clutching him with all her strength.
“You’re shaking.” He pulled her closer, nuzzled her neck. “It’s all right. I’m here.” He found her mouth and pressed his lips to hers, kissed her nose, her brow, cradled her face in his hands. “I can’t believe you’re here. It’s too dangerous. The baby…” He covered her belly with his hand. “We have to get you out of here.” He pulled her to the side out of the stream of men that flowed like a tide to shore and wrapped her in his arms once more.
She could feel the strong beat of his heart thumping against her chest. Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried to imprint this moment on her mind. Ave Maria, how would she ever walk away from him?
He raised a hand to her face, gently wiping the tears that coursed down her cheeks. “Fran, I’ve done some thinking. I don’t care about the baby. I mean, I want to be a part of this, whatever that means. I’m in love with you.”
She basked in his scent, his strength, his affection for just one moment. And then shook her head. “Fritz, they’re going to investigate me at Ellis Island. They’ll deport me.” She met his eyes. “I’m leaving the city. I can’t stay in New York.”
“No,” he said vehemently. “I can’t accept that. Surely they’ll see the truth. You owe it to yourself to at least try. Please, if not for you, try for me. Please, Fran.”
How could she explain to him that her life—that of an immigrant woman—meant little to the men who held her fate in their hands, and her word even less. Fritz couldn’t begin to understand the obstacles she faced.
She swallowed hard. “No, Fritz. This is the only way.”
“I won’t say goodbye to you,” he said hoarsely, his face contorted with pain. “I can’t.”
“Shhh.” She placed her hand gently over his mouth. “Ti amo.”
He tilted her chin back and lowered his face to hers, taking her mouth hungrily. He brought her closer, twisting the fabric of her shirt in his hands, needing her to be nearer still.
She melted into him until they both gasped for air.
Several men whistled and called Fritz silly names, breaking the spell.
“It’s late,” she said, stroking his hair, wishing with all her heart things were different. “And you’re doing important work here.”
He wiped his eyes. “Please say you’ll at least think about it before you make any decisions.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
But they both knew it was a lie.
At that moment several men pulled Fritz away, swept him to the front, and pushed him back onto the podium where he belonged. A sea of men filled in the space around her and she stumbled, the surge of energy too great. Several began to shove one another, and the unrest caught like dry kindling for a fire until much of the crowd had turned to a writhing melee.
Policemen on horseback thundered into view and surrounded the crowd on all sides.
Francesca’s lungs constricted in fear and she pushed against the men, darting around and through them, and, at last, racing to the opposite side of the street. Away from the crowd, away from the police, to Alma.
“Hurry!” Alma said, grabbing her by the hand.
Francesca didn’t look back as they fled, afraid she would throw herself into the crowd again to find Fritz, to beg him to give up all he’d ever known and to follow her. But she couldn’t ask him to sacrifice so much on her behalf, and she wouldn’t break her promise to Maria: to do what she must to be safe in America, to thrive.
When they’d walked a safe distance away, Francesca glanced back at the podium. Fritz’s face was stamped with fury and purpose, even as the police descended, beating back troublemakers and urging the crowd to dissipate. Her heart eased a little. He was a fighter, just as she was—and she’d done what she had to do. He would be all right, no matter what happened.
“Are you sure you have to go?” Alma asked as they walked toward the Lancasters’ home one last time.
The sounds of the angry mob grew distant, and the moon began its ascent in a slow arc across the sky, its face beaming white light upon the onlookers below.
“Sì, cara, I must,” Francesca said.
She would find her way, as she always had. And perhaps she’d get lucky a second time—make wonderful, generous friends who saw her for who she was, not what they assumed she would be. On this night, she was grateful for her courage to do what must be done. But as she envisioned climbing the steps to the train platform the next morning, alone, her travel case in hand, she felt a pang of sadness.
She looked at Alma and smiled through the pain. “We always have a choice—” she began.
“Even if it’s not the easy one,” Alma finished, slipping her hand into Francesca’s. “But I’m sorry for this one, Fran,” she said softly. “I wish you could have everything. You deserve it.”
“I do, don’t I?”
“You do,” Alma replied, her expression solemn.
“Maybe one day I’ll have it.”
Alma glanced at her and smiled through the tears.
As Francesca rested her free hand on her belly, she looked up at the night sky washed with city lights, so different from her island home, and knew sometimes one had to say goodbye to have the chance to start over again, to find the next great thing. She had only to follow the new dream where it took her.
For Francesca, that dream lay ahead in Chicago, on a new frontier.
Epilogue