The Godmothers

A Novel

Camille Aubray

• Publisher: William Morrow
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9780062983701
• eBook ISBN: 9780062983718
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

“A group of deeply complex and beautifully written women . . . Aubray marries history, suspense and womanhood in a story perfect for devouring.”—Newsweek

For readers of Naomi Krupitsky's The Family! An irresistible, suspenseful novel about four women who marry into an elegant, prosperous Italian family, and then must take charge of the family’s business when their husbands are forced to leave them during the war.

Meet the Godmothers: Filomena is a clever and resourceful war refugee with a childhood secret. Amie, a beautiful and dreamy French girl from upstate New York, escapes an abusive husband for a new life. Lucy, a tough-as-nails Irish lass, runs away from a strict girls’ home to become a nurse. And the glamorous Petrina, the family’s only daughter, graduates with honors from Barnard College despite a past trauma that nearly caused a family scandal.

All four women become godmothers to one another’s children, finding hope and shelter in this prosperous family and their sumptuous Greenwich Village home.

But the women’s secret pasts lead to unforeseen consequences and betrayals that threaten to unravel all their carefully laid plans. And when they must unexpectedly contend with notorious gangsters like Frank Costello and Lucky Luciano, the four Godmothers learn to put aside their differences so that they can work together to protect their loved ones and find their own unique paths to the futures they’ve always dreamed of. 

Book Two

The 1940s

9

The Family

Greenwich Village, September 1943

Filomena’s ship arrived in New York Harbor on a bright, cloudless September day. She felt as if she’d been hurtled into not just another country but another universe. The pier and processing center were a deafening hubbub of noise and confusion. At first she stood alone with her small suitcase, anxiously peering at the long lines that were quickly forming in every direction; then she shuffled on with the others. Everyone talked so rapidly that Filomena gave up trying to follow it all; she simply went where they flagged her to go, in a blur of customs and immigration.

But soon, on the other side of the cordon, she saw two men holding up a handwritten sign with Rosamaria’s name on it. She waved to them, and the pair strode confidently toward her. They spoke in English and Italian, and introduced themselves as Johnny and Frankie, the sons of the lady who’d arranged her passage. These two cheerful, well-groomed men seemed to know how to do everything, including getting her through the throng of other new arrivals and helping her with the immigration officials.

She was already used to being called by her cousin’s name, first on the boat, and now here. It was on all her papers. So she was ready to forever call herself Rosamaria, to think of herself as Rosamaria might, and to do whatever Rosamaria would do to survive. She held her breath until she was told that her papers were in order and she was free to enter this great city.

The two brothers showed her to a fancy black car that apparently belonged to them but whose door was opened by a hulking man wearing a cap and gloves. They called him Sal, and he was evidently their driver—and something more, because when he reached out to take her suitcase, Filomena saw a gun in a holster under his coat.

For a brief moment she wondered if either of these young men was the one she was supposed to marry; they looked older than she’d expected. But then the taller one, Johnny, said to her reassuringly in Italian, “You’ll meet our younger brother, Mario, tonight.”

“You’ll like Mario. Tutte le ragazze lo chiamò a ‘dreamboat,’” Frankie could not resist saying teasingly. She had no idea why “all the girls” called Mario that, but she understood the playfulness of Frankie’s tone. Then, in Italian he said more soberly, “You’ll keep him out of the army, so Ma doesn’t get a heart attack, okay? We must get you married before his birthday.”

Johnny nudged him. “Ease up,” he advised.

Mentally Filomena reviewed everything that Rosamaria had said about her arrangement with the matriarch of this family, via the matchmaker in Naples. The son, Mario, was seventeen, about to be eighteen at the end of this month, so he’d been born in the same month as Filomena. Was that a good omen? Filomena had already become seventeen a week ago, but then she remembered that, since she was supposed to be Rosamaria, she must pretend that she had actually turned eighteen, in the month of May. She must not make an error out of fatigue or confusion.

Based on what Frankie had just said, there was a connection between Mario’s age and the army. America had entered the war, and Filomena comprehended the anguish of families who didn’t want to lose their sons to this madness. Perhaps being married would protect Mario? Now she thought she understood more about why she was here.

They drove through Manhattan amid cars honking their horns incessantly while swooping expertly and daringly around one another. Filomena had never seen such towering buildings, so tall that she could not see the tops unless she ducked down in her seat and craned her neck for a glimpse. In this slanting light, it was like driving through gilded, man-made canyons.

Then, unexpectedly, they entered a leafy area of town houses that were only three or four stories high. Frankie told her they were in a place called Greenwich Village, which was a relatively quieter and cozier part of this roaring city. They passed a lovely green park ringed with mature trees, called Washington Square, and soon, they turned down an attractive street where, at last, they came to a stop in front of a row of three attached, red brick homes set off by wrought-iron fencing.

“Number One is where Frankie and I live with our families,” Johnny told her, pointing to the town house on the left. “Number Two is where our parents live.” This was clearly the biggest of the three houses. “And Number Three is for our guests, like you,” he concluded, gesturing toward the smallest of the houses, which was on the corner.

The men now left her in the care of Donna, a young maid with a long braid down her back, who said, “Buongiorno, come with me,” and led Filomena up a staircase to a small guest room. Donna explained that the driver, the cook, and Donna herself had rooms in this “guest” house, so they could help her if she needed assistance. Filomena could not help wondering if she was really a guest, as the brothers said, or if this family simply thought of her as just another servant. Well, she’d soon find out.

The maid showed her a tiled bathroom at the end of the hallway, a miraculous place with astonishing indoor plumbing, a bathtub, and a basin with a spout for water that ran hot and cold with a mere turn of the faucets. Donna said, “Dinner is at eight, in the main house. All three houses are connected by corridors. I’ll be around to show you.” She smiled and shut the door behind her as she went away.

Alone at last, Filomena breathed a sigh of relief. Even now she could feel, in all the cells of her body, the relentless vibration of the ship that had carried her here. She opened a window to breathe in the fresh air and to feel the setting sun, which made the brightly-colored trees dazzling. September in New York was cooler, crisper than in southern Italy. Her room had two windows, one of which overlooked a well-tended garden. She noticed a stone fountain in its center, and she was unexpectedly touched by this; for the first time, she felt a kinship with this family, sensing that they’d poignantly re-created what they loved and missed of Italy.

Overwhelmingly fatigued now, she undressed, washed, and collapsed gratefully on the bed—which was small but so comfortable, with a four-poster frame and heavenly soft bedding that even the signora back home would have coveted. As soon as Filomena closed her eyes, sleep settled on her like a warm blanket.

MEANWHILE, FILOMENA’S ARRIVAL IN AMERICA WAS HERALDED AS A major event in the family.

“Mario’s girl is here!” Lucy’s daughter, Gemma, announced excitedly as everyone congregated before dinner in the big parlor of the main house. “That lady wore a funny-looking scarf on her head, tied under her chin!”

“Gemma, be quiet, she’ll hear you!” Lucy admonished. Her daughter had been born a year after Lucy and Frankie got married, so now the little girl was a precocious five-year-old. Gemma had Frankie’s dark eyes and pale peachy complexion without a single dot of Lucy’s freckles, but her hair was strawberry blond, a paler version of Lucy’s red color.

Nine-year-old Christopher enjoyed having a little sister to protect and boss around, but they were so rambunctious today, chasing Amie’s twin boys around the room and coming perilously close to tipping over fragile vases and lamps. They were behaving like dogs who sensed something festive and foreign in the air, aware that the adults were more distracted than usual, so the young ones were ready to take advantage of the situation.

“Ahoy, mateys!” Chris intoned to the twins, swaggering like a pirate, coercing them into sliding along the floor behind the sofa, as if rowing a boat in unison.

“Chris, Gemma, you be nice to your cousins,” Lucy scolded.

Amie looked up alertly at her twin boys. “Vinnie! Paulie! Get off the floor, you’ll get all full of dust,” she admonished. She could not believe that these little wild creatures were hers. Vinnie and Paulie didn’t have a shred of Amie’s innate shyness; they looked a lot like Johnny, but they had not yet acquired their father’s calm gracefulness. Well, they were only four years old. Amie wished that she had a daughter, too, as Lucy did. Surely there was still time for that. Amie felt like Cinderella, whisked off by a noble prince and brought into this mysterious kingdom of his family.

Johnny had waited only a month before courting her. Until I met you, I didn’t care if I got married or not, he’d confided. I see now, I was just looking for you to come into my life.

Amie had tried to resist him at first, but it was impossible to refuse a man like Johnny. From the beginning he’d always acted as if she were a fair maiden who needed to be freed from her prison with Brunon. After “the accident,” as she preferred to think of it, Johnny had taken charge of the bar and hired people he trusted to help her manage it. Amie had only a supervisory role there now, watching the income, no longer having to do the backbreaking work of waiting tables double-shift and cleaning up.

There were times when Amie thought she saw Brunon out of the corner of her eye—coming up from the basement with a box, or sweeping up in a corner—but when she turned her head, startled, she realized it was just one of the men that Johnny had hired. Even in church, sitting in the pew, she closed her eyes resolutely, and silently told Brunon she felt sorry for him, as if indeed he’d been hit by a truck and it had nothing to do with her. But she simply could not deny that she felt relieved to be freed from all the fear and mind-numbing dread.

It helped that Johnny had made their courtship seem so natural—bringing her to meet his parents, and then, after their wedding day, to come and live in his beautiful town house, next door to his parents. He and Amie now occupied the spacious first-floor apartment. Frankie and Lucy had a separate entrance that led them directly upstairs to their equally spacious second-floor apartment in the same house. The walls were thick and soundproof, so everyone had their privacy. The furniture, inherited from Johnny’s parents, was all handmade, solid, high quality, especially the beautiful rosewood armoire with beveled-mirror doors.

For the first time in her life, Amie felt like a cherished wife. And Johnny’s lovemaking was a revelation. He was tender and patient, leading her into a crescendo of easy pleasure that struck her as a warm, inevitable wave from a playful sea. Once, after Johnny left to make his rounds of work, Amie was folding their clothes, and upon remembering their night of lovemaking, she burst into tears, thinking of all the time she’d lost being miserable; she had nearly missed out on love entirely, and might have spent a whole lifetime never knowing this natural joy.

But she still found his family rather daunting. The parents ruled supremely and seemed to tolerate their non-Italian daughters-in-law, Lucy and Amie, with a wary air of resignation. Yet, when Tessa spoke to Johnny in Italian, Amie could never know for sure if Tessa was talking about her. Also, the strong bond among these three brothers was so vital that it was as if they believed they could not exist without one another. Lucy understood this, too, so she and Amie had become natural allies, helping each other adjust to living so closely with their in-laws. They’d even taken classes in Italian together, to better understand their husbands’ family.

“I’m hungry,” Frankie said now. “What’s for dinner?”

“Your mother and Cook kicked me out of the kitchen this morning,” Lucy confessed. Turning to Amie, she murmured ruefully, “They both say I can’t cook to save my life, so they think my opinions are useless. But I do know what Frankie likes to eat!”

“At least you can sew straight,” Amie whispered. “I’m too nearsighted. I keep sticking myself.” She sighed, then whispered, “Why do we have to know these chores, when the servants do such a good job? Tessa is so old-fashioned.” Lucy nodded conspiratorially.

“Are we waiting for Mario?” Frankie asked impatiently. “He isn’t going to try to skip this dinner, is he? Bet he’s halfway to Frisco by now,” he joked.

“He’ll show up,”...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Prologue: Nicole
• Book One: The 1930s
• Book Two: The 1940s
• Book Three: 1957–2019
• Epilogue: Nicole
• Acknowledgments
• P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
• Praise
• Also by Camille Aubray
• Copyright
• About the Publisher