Hey there, history lovers! You’re about to step into a very special moment – the unveiling of Lucie Santoro’s origin story. Remember her from the Moonshiner Mysteries, teaching school in Montana’s Pony Gulch? Well, we’re turning back the clock to 1919 East Harlem, where it all began.
What you’re about to read is Chapter One of The Promise Trilogy’s first book, fresh from its sixth draft. Picture it: graduation day, 1919. The air thick with dreams and duty, chalk dust and nervous muttering, and one young woman standing at the crossroads of tradition and transformation.
This isn’t just any peek behind the curtain – you’re among the first readers to see how Lucie’s journey begins. How does a girl from a traditional Italian family end up trading the familiar streets of East Harlem for the wild horizons of Montana? Sometimes the most fascinating journeys start with a single step… or in this case, a graduation ceremony.
**Special Opportunity:** Want to be part of bringing this story to life? I’m looking for beta readers for all three books of The Promise Trilogy. If you’d love to be part of the writing process (and see your name in the acknowledgments when the books are published!), drop me an email. Your insights could help shape Lucie’s journey from its very beginning. If this idea intrigues you, click here to get more information.
Remember, this is a work-in-progress – like watching a painter’s first strokes on canvas or a chef’s early taste tests. Your feedback could be the secret ingredient that makes this story sing.
Ready to meet young Lucie? Settle in with your favorite beverage (coffee with a splash of anisette, perhaps?) and enjoy this first glimpse into The Promise…
Despite all her family’s best efforts, Lucie Santoro was somewhere she was not supposed to be. Just offstage and behind the curtain, capped and gowned, she stood clutching her carefully planned future like a shield. The scratchy fabric at her neck felt like her mother’s disapproving stare, but Lucie lifted her chin, anyway. She was about to shake the hand of her high school principal and receive her diploma – proof that a girl could want more than just a hope chest and a husband.
Her mother had fought against the idea of Lucie going to high school. With so many young men lost in France and others returning home from the Great War broken, Mama insisted this was no time for a girl to waste on education. A woman’s place was in the home, she declared, and Lucie should be grateful there was still a good match like Carlo when half the neighborhood girls would never find husbands.
For the last four years, Lucie had heard endless warnings about the dangers of thinking too highly of herself. Just last week, she’d overheard Mrs. Esposito telling Mama that educated girls made terrible wives. “Look at the Rossi girl,” she’d said. “Three years of high school, and now she thinks she’s too good to help her mother with the cooking. Acting like those suffragettes, filling girls’ heads with nonsense about independence.” Lucie had scrubbed the kitchen floor extra hard that night, as if she could wash away the truth in those words.
Deep down, Lucie suspected that Mama feared that getting an education would make Lucie rebel against Santoro family traditions and values. Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong. After all, hadn’t Lucie already started dreaming of a different kind of life? One where she could make her own choices, like Marie Romano had done – the only other girl in their graduating class who hadn’t dropped out to get married or help support her family. Marie was going to be a nurse.
Through the gymnasium’s open windows, Lucie could hear women calling to each other in Italian from their fire escapes, the scratch of push-brooms on sidewalks, the sing-song voices of children playing stickball. This was the world she’d grown up in, but not the one she planned to grow old in. The women from church and the Daughters of Isabella didn’t see the point of more schooling for girls like Lucie. For them, family duties were all that mattered.
Thank goodness Papa had overruled Mama. To him, being part of America meant adopting its values, and education, even for girls, was part of that new outlook. Yet even this morning, when she’d laid out her report card showing straight A’s on the kitchen table, he’d merely nodded and returned to his newspaper. As if excellence was expected, but not worth celebrating.
The speeches droned on, each word thick as the humid June air trapped inside the gymnasium. Waiting in the wings, Lucie’s eyes flicking toward the stage, then back to the line of graduates waiting for their diplomas. When would they get to the part that mattered crossing that stage, diploma in hand. Proof. Everything else was just noise.
But then, New York Alderman Fiorello H. La Guardia s voice cut through the haze, sharp with conviction. The America of tomorrow needs all its citizens, he declared, his words striking like a spark in dry air. Men and women alike, to build something greater than we’ve ever known. These graduates enter a world of unprecedented opportunity if they have the courage to seize it.
Lucie stilled, her gaze snapping to the stage.
“The war has shown us what American women can achieve, La Guardia continued, his voice rising over the restless crowd. They’ve driven ambulances through shellfire, run our factories, taught our children. And now, our great state recognizes their right to help shape our democracy.”
Her heart thudded once, hard and certain. Women shaping democracy. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to hear it until she had.
Lucie’s heart quickened. Last November’s referendum victory still echoed through New York’s streets, women voting for the first time, claiming their place not just at ballot boxes, but in offices, schools, and factory floors. She searched the crowd for her mother’s face, remembering how Mama had dismissed the suffragettes as troublemakers. Too much noise, she’d said, when a woman’s real power comes from her family .
Now, there Mama sat, rigid in her Sunday best, hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles whitened. The fierce hunger that had once driven her from the shores of Naples was nowhere to be found. She had crossed an ocean to give her children a better life, but what kind of American woman would her daughter become?
“Giovanni Amato,” Principal Morris called, interrupting Lucie’s thoughts and suddenly, after all the prayers and speeches, it was time. His deliberate pronunciation gave the Italian name a clumsy, unfamiliar weight in the stuffy gymnasium. Beside him, Father Joseph stood ready, pressing a Saint Christopher medal into each graduate’s hand, a symbol of protection for travelers, a blessing for the journeys ahead.
One by one, the graduates crossed the stage to accept their diplomas. While the official text may have been printed in English and Latin, but the murmured prayers and hushed congratulations from the audience were unmistakably Italian.
In line and waiting her turn, Lucie smoothed her scratchy graduation gown, remembering Mama’s words at breakfast. The morning light caught on the silver threading through her mother’s dark hair as she pressed another spoonful of eggs onto Lucie’s plate, her movements sharp with purpose. “Mangia, you need your strength today.” Her gaze pinned Lucie in place, steady and unyielding. “Education changes people, Lucia” she said, her voice edged with warning. “It takes them places a mother’s prayers can’t follow. Stai attenta, figlia mia.”
Lucie had pretended not to hear, focusing instead on her plate where eggs cooled beside fried peppers, but the words settled into her bones. Soon it would be her turn to cross that stage, to take that first step away from morning espresso and evening rosaries, from the rhythm of life that had sustained their people for generations. And she could hardly wait.
The idea of what that future might be was causing butterflies to dance the Charleston in Lucie’s stomach. Unlike most of the other graduates, whose paths were already set by family expectations and arrangements, her future felt thrillingly uncertain.
The faint clang of the streetcar bell drifted through the gymnasium windows, a sound that seemed to whisper, ‘Hurry up. Move forward.’ But Lucie’s feet stayed rooted, waiting for her name to be called, waiting for her chance to step onto the tracks of her own life.
Alessio De Luca headed out from the wings, bound for Columbia University. Like most of the boys in their class, his future had been mapped out since birth – though at least he’d earned his place with brains instead of family connections. Lucie could only dream of such privilege, but it remained out of reach for a girl like her. The boys in her class didn’t just graduate with diplomas; they graduated with certainty. Whether it was Columbia or construction work, the world opened its arms to them. For girls, it folded its arms across its chest, expecting them to return to compliance, daring them to defy its rules.
She had tried to convince Papa Santoro to let her continue her studies at college, showing him pamphlets about teaching programs and scholarship opportunities. But Mama had put her foot down, claiming it was time to put childhood pursuits behind her and get serious about the future. A good man like Carlo Colucci wouldn’t wait forever.
But what Lucie wanted instead was a life of purpose and fulfillment. She could almost see it: a cozy yet sophisticated apartment filled with books and art, the perfect setting for gatherings with friends and intellectual conversations. Not like the crowded brownstone where she shared a bedroom with her younger sisters, the sounds of neighbors’ arguments filtering through the window.
She could almost hear Mama’s voice whispering in her ear, sharp and disapproving: ‘Dreams don’t put food on the table, Lucia. Husbands do.’
But Lucie wasn’t dreaming. She was planning.
Please don’t trip. Please don’t trip. Lucie’s silent prayer to the Virgin Mary competed with her mother’s voice in her head, warning her that pride went before a fall.
As she began the long journey across the stage, Lucie flashed Sister Agnes a tentative smile and was rewarded with the quickest of nods. That tiny gesture felt like a promise: if she could excel here, why not everywhere?
Each step brought her closer to the brilliant future she’d envisioned, though that future felt both tantalizingly close and impossibly distant. The diploma’s weight in her hands was at once substantial and fragile – tangible proof of her capabilities, yet so easily dismissed by those who mattered most. As Father Joseph pressed the Saint Christopher medal into her palm, Lucie felt its cool metal like a promise: with enough determination, any door could open. But would determination be enough against generations of tradition?
Turning to face the audience, Lucie’s gaze sought her family. Her brothers looked bored, shifting restlessly in their seats. Her mother sat rigid and unyielding, handbag clutched in her lap like a shield, her scowl a permanent feature. The joy of achievement warred with a familiar ache in Lucie’s chest – why couldn’t Mama see this moment as a beginning rather than a betrayal? The diploma felt heavier now, weighted with all her mother’s unspoken fears about education changing her daughter in ways that couldn’t be undone.
Not even Mama’s disapproval could dim Lucie’s triumph. She d worked too hard, dreamed too long, to let anyone shrink this moment.
“Yay, Lucie! Way to go!” Ines’s voice rang out, bright and clear, slicing through the polite applause. Lucie spotted her best friend waving wildly, her bright red ribbon a vibrant splash of color in a sea of gray coats and dark hats.
Her smile stretched wider as Lucie clutched her diploma, certainty blooming in her chest. Let them see it for what it was, proof that a girl could want more than a hope chest and a husband’s name. And now that she d tasted this kind of victory, how could she ever go back to being the dutiful daughter they expected her to be?
A sharp harrumph from the principal jolted Lucie back to reality. Taking her seat beside Marco, she couldn’t help but smile. It was done. She was a high school graduate. The first step toward something extraordinary.
On the sidewalk outside the school, Lucie clutched her diploma tighter. The June breeze carried the familiar sounds of East Harlem horse-drawn carts competing with farting automobiles, women calling in Italian from stoops, the distant clang of a streetcar bell.
“There you are, Lucia. Come, we must get home. Your papa will be wanting his supper.” Mama’s voice cut through Lucie’s thoughts.
Her brothers Bruno and Alonzo roughhoused at the edge of the crowd. Eduardo, always the dutiful one, stood apart with Father Joseph. Mama’s face softened seeing them together, her most promising son, a university student soon to be a priest, perfectly bridging their old world and new.
“Lucie! Wait for me!” Ines barreled through a knot of De Lucas, flinging her arms around Lucie. With a dramatic flourish, she thrust an envelope into Lucie’s hands. Inside was a beautiful graduation card and a one-dollar bill carefully taped inside.
“Oh, Ines. You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”
“Nothing s too good for my best gal,” Ines said with a grin, her eyes sparkling. She leaned in close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I told my mama I spent the money on fabric for curtains. As if I d waste it on sewing! And guess what I got you something else. It s a book. Just don’t let your mama know where it came from; she already thinks I’m a bad influence.”
A throat cleared behind them, and Lucie turned to find Carlo Colucci waiting patiently, his dark hair slicked with pomade, his new suit straining slightly at the shoulders. Something in his gentle brown eyes made her heart twist with guilt – he was impossible to dislike, even when she wanted to.
“Speaking of good things,” Ines whispered, giving Lucie’s arm a knowing squeeze before stepping back. “I’ll let you two lovebirds have your moment.”
Lucie watched her friend slip away, leaving her alone with Carlo – stable, kind Carlo, from a good family, heir to the jewelry store. He was everything a girl was supposed to want. So why did her future with him feel like a beautifully wrapped gift she was afraid to open?
Carlo held out a small package. Inside was a tortoiseshell fountain pen with an engraved band. “See? It has your name on it. Lucia Santoro.”
Mama huffed. “It’s a waste if it can’t be undone. She won’t be a Santoro forever.”
Carlo fumbled in his pocket, nearly dropping a gleaming silver watch as he pulled it out.
“Is that a family piece?” Lucie asked, noticing how his fingers kept tracing the polished surface.
“My grandfather’s.” He clicked the case open and shut, eyes darting to her face and away again. “From when he first opened the jewelry store. Found it last month, all tarnished and forgotten in the back of a drawer. Took hours to clean but…” He held it out for her to see, his hand trembling slightly. “Now it runs like new.”
“You see, Lucia?” Mama said pointedly. “A man with roots like that knows the value of family, tradition.”
Sister Agnes’s calm voice cut through the chaos, her dark habit swaying gently as she joined their circle. “”Congratulations, Lucie. Now that graduation’s behind you, have you thought about what comes next?”
Lucie caught her mother’s sharp glance before answering. “I’ve been thinking about my future,” she said carefully, the words measured. “It feels like I’m standing on the edge of something… important.”
“The only thing you’re standing on is a floor that needs sweeping,” Mama cut in, her tone carrying that familiar mix of love and iron. “All this dreaming of tomorrow when today’s work sits waiting.”
“You’ve shown remarkable promise, Lucie,” Sister Agnes pressed on. “You’d make an excellent teacher.”
Mama Santoro bristled. “Italian girls don’t become teachers. It’s not for us.”
“The war changed everything,” Sister Agnes continued, her smile gentle but determined. “Our schools desperately need teachers, especially those who understand our immigrant families. The city’s offering scholarships ”
“Scholarships?” Mama’s laugh was sharp as vinegar. “Lucia will be teaching her own bambinos, not some stranger’s students, Sister Agnes. What good is a scholarship to a girl who needs a husband, not a classroom?”
Under her mother’s sharp criticism, the diploma in Lucie’s hands suddenly felt lighter than air, its promises floating away like dandelion seeds in the summer breeze. “Grazie, Sister Agnes I love the idea of teaching,” Lucie said, drawing strength from Ines’s steady presence beside her. The morning’s prayers still echoed in her mind. All those whispered devotions for a daughter’s success – though perhaps Mama’s definition of success differed from her own.
“I’ve worked hard for this, Mama. Every perfect grade, every hour of study – it wasn’t just for a diploma to hang on the wall. I want to make something of myself, something more.”
“Oh, listen to Miss Serious!” Ines bumped her shoulder against Lucie’s, her dark eyes dancing with familiar mischief. Already planning the next ten years of your life. You’re finally done school – live a little first!” She grabbed Lucie’s hands, spinning her around despite Mama’s disapproving glare. “You can’t schedule everything, you know. Let life happen, Lucie. Sometimes it tosses your precious plans right out the window!”
Sister Agnes chuckled, the sound warm as afternoon sunlight through stained glass. “Ines has a point. Life will test your faith in ways no textbook can prepare you for. But determination and prayer go a long way.”
“Enough.” Mama Santoro’s voice could freeze sunshine.
Thank you, Sister, but Lucia won t be needing scholarships, or any other help from you. All this schooling nonsense ends today. Her gloved hands smoothed invisible wrinkles from her neatly pressed dress. She drew herself up, every inch the proper Italian matriarch, but her eyes darted around the crowded street, quietly taking note of who might have witnessed her daughter’s small defiance.
“It is time for Lucia to settle down. Carlo,” her tone warmed suddenly, “you should see her embroidery. When she remembers her proper place, she has such talented hands.”
As Lucie withered under her mother’s stern gaze, Ines leaned close. “And here I thought my mama was dramatic. Yours could teach classes in guilt at church.”
“Where are your brothers? We need to go. You have duties in the kitchen, Lucia.” Mama’s voice moved as swiftly as her eyes. “Carlo, will you join us for dinner? You must try Lucie’s pasta e patate pasta, potatoes, and garlic all in one. It will fill a strong man like you right up. Her papa and brothers can’t get enough of it.”
Somewhere in the distance, a streetcar bell rang out, its crisp note slicing through the crowd’s chatter. The sound trembled in Lucie’s chest, sweet and sharp as possibility. Beyond East Harlem’s narrow streets lay a world where ambitious girls weren’t scolded and dreams weren’t packed away like linens in a hope chest. The bell was fading now, leaving her with a choice: stay safe in the life planned for her, or run toward something more.
“I said now, Lucia,” she barked, her tone sharp enough to snuff out the flicker of Lucie’s daydreams. “Come. We have supper to make for your Papa.”
*takes deep breath*
Okay, fellow history lovers, I need to get something off my chest. You know that flutter of nerves when you’re about to share something deeply personal? That’s me right now, sitting here with my coffee (okay, maybe it’s wine), wondering if I’m really ready to share this story with you.
Here’s the thing – Lucie’s been living in my head for years, first as that fascinating teacher in the Moonshiner Mysteries who always seemed to have more to say. Now I’m finally telling her origin story, and whew! It’s like introducing your best friend to your family, hoping they’ll love her as much as you do.
Will you understand why a young woman would risk everything – family, security, tradition – for a dream? Will Lucie’s struggle between duty and desire resonate with you? I’ve poured so much into these pages – the sights and sounds of 1925 East Harlem, the weight of family expectations, the intoxicating promise of independence. But most of all, I’ve tried to capture that moment when a woman realizes she can’t shrink herself to fit someone else’s dreams anymore.
So here I am, heart on my sleeve, sharing this first chapter with you. Think of it as us sitting together, maybe over espresso and biscotti, while I tell you about this remarkable young woman I’ve gotten to know. I’d love to hear your thoughts – what grabbed you, what made you curious, what made you want to know more.
No pressure though! (Okay, maybe a little pressure – I’m only human! )
With ink-stained fingers crossed,
Sherilyn
P.S. Did anyone else feel like giving Mama Santoro a piece of their mind? Just checking… 😏