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contain her exasperated sigh but couldn’t. “Papa, I didn’t ask to marry the man. I don’t even know him.”
    “All the more reason for me to meet him, then, and get to know him better. That’s the best I’m willing to offer, Rosemary. Take it or leave it.”
    Rose stood, her eyes not leaving her father’s. After twenty years of living with this man, she knew when she’d gotten as far as she was going to get.
    “All right, Papa. I’m sure he won’t understand. I will be embarrassed, but I will invite him and let him know the reasoning, as foolish as it is.”
    It was a few moments before Mr. Archer sat back down behind his desk. He took his spectacles off and laid them on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. “You may think it’s foolish, my dear, but it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of my daughters, especially now that I am alone in that responsibility.” He looked up at her and smiled as she opened the door, nodding slightly as she closed the door behind her.
    “And I love you, too, Papa,” she said under her breath with a smile.

Chapter 8
    M ichael worked a few more hours after the ladies left and he finally sat down for a break. He shook his head and wiped back a stray lock of his wavy, dark hair as he turned around to look at the schoolhouse he’d agreed to manage and teach in, way out here in Arizona Territory. It almost couldn’t be further away from Boston, both geographically and culturally, and he smiled wistfully at the thought of his parents back in the North End, working hard at their restaurant.
    He crossed the room to his new desk, picking up his two favorite books and turning them over in his hands. One he’d had for many, many years—as long as he could remember—since his Uncle Sal had slipped it to him one day on the way to the cheese market. He ran his fingers over the worn leather and dog-eared pages, the small book fitting neatly in his palm, its size the only reason he’d been able to conceal it from his parents for so long.
    He peered out the window and down the main street once more as horses passed quickly, sending up plumes of dust. From his vantage point he could see the mercantile, an ice cream parlor, a restaurant, the Occidental, and a laundry. He let out a sigh, realizing that what he missed most about home and the North End, he would not be able to find here. Nor did he hold out much hope that anyone would make his dreams come true and open an Italian restaurant for him to spend his time in, reveling in the sights and smells that were so familiar to him.
    In the short time he’d been here, though, he had persuaded Tripp, the owner of the Occidental restaurant, to include some Italian cuisine in his weekly cosmopolitan menu where he routinely experimented with new cuisine, and he was looking forward to the time when Tripp would include an Italian dish of his choosing. He only hoped it wouldn’t be lasagna, because no lasagna in the world could be better than his mother’s.
    His mother. He reached into his pocket and removed a leather billfold, opening it and pulling out a faded photograph of a smiling couple, she in white and he in a black suit, his mustache waxed and his dark, wavy hair combed back. He smiled and rubbed his thumb over the picture of his parents, his most ardent supporters who enabled him to attend school as soon as he was able and never stop until he was qualified to be a teacher on his own. Education was paramount to them and he nodded in gratitude, even if it was just a photograph, for their commitment to him.
    The schoolhouse door slammed with a thud and he started, looking up toward the sound. He smiled at the cheerful face of Suzanne as she strode toward him, waving a newspaper in the air.
    “It’s time, Mr. Tate,” she said, smiling as she set the newspaper down on the desk.
    He looked at it, shoving both of his hands in his pockets as if it might leap up and bite him. “It is?”
    Suzanne sighed,