The Letter Carrier: A Novel
What would happen if you finally met your soul mate—but they were married to someone else?

In a novel that has become a bestselling phenomenon in Italy, The Letter Carriershows how a little town in southern Italy might be just like every town—with women and men, husband and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, all trying to navigate the world while staying true to their hearts.

Salento, Italy, June 1934: A coach stops in the main square of Lizzanello, a tight-knit village where everyone knows each other. A couple gets off: The man, Carlo, a child of the South, is happy to be back home after a long time away; the woman, Anna—his wife—is a stranger from the North. Carlo’s brother is there to meet them, and he and everyone else can’t help but notice that Anna is as beautiful as a Greek statue.

But Anna is not like the other wives. She doesn’t gossip or attend church. She reads books no one else has ever heard of, exploring ideas that some find threatening. She even wears pants, just like a man, and thinks a woman should have rights, just like a man.

There aren’t many options for a woman with Anna’s sensibilities, so when she learns that the post office is hiring, she leaps at the opportunity. A female letter carrier? It is unthinkable! But Anna passes the postal exam and soon becomes the invisible thread connecting the town as she delivers letters between clandestine lovers, families waiting to hear news of loves ones away at war, and even helping those who can’t read.

Letters connect people, and they convey information and emotion. But for some in Lizzanello, letters are too little and too late.

The Letter Carrier taps into the universal feeling of connection—and what happens when that connection perhaps comes at the wrong time.
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The Letter Carrier: A Novel
What would happen if you finally met your soul mate—but they were married to someone else?

In a novel that has become a bestselling phenomenon in Italy, The Letter Carriershows how a little town in southern Italy might be just like every town—with women and men, husband and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, all trying to navigate the world while staying true to their hearts.

Salento, Italy, June 1934: A coach stops in the main square of Lizzanello, a tight-knit village where everyone knows each other. A couple gets off: The man, Carlo, a child of the South, is happy to be back home after a long time away; the woman, Anna—his wife—is a stranger from the North. Carlo’s brother is there to meet them, and he and everyone else can’t help but notice that Anna is as beautiful as a Greek statue.

But Anna is not like the other wives. She doesn’t gossip or attend church. She reads books no one else has ever heard of, exploring ideas that some find threatening. She even wears pants, just like a man, and thinks a woman should have rights, just like a man.

There aren’t many options for a woman with Anna’s sensibilities, so when she learns that the post office is hiring, she leaps at the opportunity. A female letter carrier? It is unthinkable! But Anna passes the postal exam and soon becomes the invisible thread connecting the town as she delivers letters between clandestine lovers, families waiting to hear news of loves ones away at war, and even helping those who can’t read.

Letters connect people, and they convey information and emotion. But for some in Lizzanello, letters are too little and too late.

The Letter Carrier taps into the universal feeling of connection—and what happens when that connection perhaps comes at the wrong time.
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The Letter Carrier: A Novel

The Letter Carrier: A Novel

The Letter Carrier: A Novel

The Letter Carrier: A Novel

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Overview

Notes From Your Bookseller

Weaving herself into the fabric of a southern Italian village during WWII, Anna challenges the status quo as the first female letter carrier in town. A connective string between its inhabitants, she not just delivers mail but the winds of change. Emotionally deep and transportive, this bighearted novel offers a fresh perspective on women's roles in history.

What would happen if you finally met your soul mate—but they were married to someone else?

In a novel that has become a bestselling phenomenon in Italy, The Letter Carriershows how a little town in southern Italy might be just like every town—with women and men, husband and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, all trying to navigate the world while staying true to their hearts.

Salento, Italy, June 1934: A coach stops in the main square of Lizzanello, a tight-knit village where everyone knows each other. A couple gets off: The man, Carlo, a child of the South, is happy to be back home after a long time away; the woman, Anna—his wife—is a stranger from the North. Carlo’s brother is there to meet them, and he and everyone else can’t help but notice that Anna is as beautiful as a Greek statue.

But Anna is not like the other wives. She doesn’t gossip or attend church. She reads books no one else has ever heard of, exploring ideas that some find threatening. She even wears pants, just like a man, and thinks a woman should have rights, just like a man.

There aren’t many options for a woman with Anna’s sensibilities, so when she learns that the post office is hiring, she leaps at the opportunity. A female letter carrier? It is unthinkable! But Anna passes the postal exam and soon becomes the invisible thread connecting the town as she delivers letters between clandestine lovers, families waiting to hear news of loves ones away at war, and even helping those who can’t read.

Letters connect people, and they convey information and emotion. But for some in Lizzanello, letters are too little and too late.

The Letter Carrier taps into the universal feeling of connection—and what happens when that connection perhaps comes at the wrong time.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780593800898
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Publication date: 07/01/2025
Pages: 416
Product dimensions: 6.38(w) x 9.54(h) x 1.35(d)

About the Author

Francesca Giannone has a degree in communication science and studied in Rome at the CSC, the oldest European film school. She has published various short stories in literary magazines, both in print and online. Giannone currently lives in Milan, but her heart is still in her native Lizzanello, a seaside town in the Salento region. She hopes to live there again one day.

Read an Excerpt

1

Lizzanello

June 1934

The blue bus, battered and rusty, screeched to a halt on the searing asphalt one early afternoon. A hot and humid breeze rustled the fronds of the great palm tree that stood in the middle of the deserted square. Three passengers emerged: Carlo, unlit cigar in his teeth, was dressed to the nines in a waistcoat and shiny brown leather oxfords that had come out unscathed from the two-­day journey by train and bus. He smoothed his mustache, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, inhaling his town’s distinctive smell—a mixture of fresh pasta, herbaceous oregano, wet earth, and tart red wine. He’d missed it while living up north, first in Piedmont and then Liguria; recently, the nostalgia had become constant and painful, a weight on his chest. He removed his Borsalino hat and tried to fan himself with it but only managed to displace hot air—the sirocco that blew from Africa in the summer was as merciless as he remembered.

Anna discovered this as her foot hit the ground. She wore a long black dress, a sign of mourning she’d been insisting on for three years now, and was barely managing to hold Roberto, their spirited one-­year-­old.

Carlo held out his hand, but Anna shook her head. “I can do it,” she said, unable to hide her irritation. She couldn’t understand Carlo’s joy and enthusiasm. He was like a child who’d finally gotten what he wanted after a long sulk. All she cared about was sleep—the journey had been exhausting. She looked at the empty square, the strange straw-­yellow buildings, the faded shop signs, the gray castle tower looming above: the new backdrop to her life, so different from what she’d always known. With a pang, she realized just how far away her Liguria was, her Pigna on the hill, her chestnut forests.

“­Antonio should be here by now,” Carlo grumbled, looking around. “He knows the bus gets in at three.” He looked up at the large clock hanging outside the town hall. “And it’s three-­fifteen.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the clocks moved in slow motion around here,” Anna responded, wiping Roberto’s sweaty forehead with her cuff.

Carlo gave her an amused look, then shook his head, chuckling; he loved everything about his wife, even her biting sarcasm.

­Antonio arrived a few minutes later, out of breath, dripping with sweat, and with a strand of otherwise slicked-­back hair flying loose in the hot wind.

“There he is!” said Carlo, beaming. He ran toward ­Antonio, threw his hands around his neck, and pulled him close—and then he jumped on him, causing ­Antonio to lose his balance and nearly fall.

Anna watched them laugh like children and didn’t move; that moment belonged to them. Carlo hadn’t let a day go by without mentioning his brother, saying, ­Antonio would think this . . . ­Antonio would do that . . . Have I ever told you about the time ­Antonio and I . . . Despite the years apart—and the slew of care packages filled with groceries and olive oil that arrived regularly from the south along with postcards, letters, and telegrams—their relationship hadn’t suffered. It had only grown stronger.

Carlo took ­Antonio by the arm and led him to Anna.

She was struck by his resemblance to her husband, especially up close. He had a few more wrinkles and no mustache, but it was the same angular face, pitch-­black irises, round-­tipped nose, and a bottom lip that was a little fuller than the top one—a faithfully rendered imitation.

“This is my Anna,” Carlo said, joyfully. “And this beautiful little boy is your nephew. You finally get to meet him!”

­Antonio smiled awkwardly and held out his hand, which Anna shook meekly. But his expression is different, she thought. That had nothing to do with Carlo’s sly and charming gaze. ­Antonio’s eyes were intense and melancholic, and in that moment, they appeared to burrow into her. Anna felt herself going red and looked away. Here we go, blushing again. Just what I needed, she thought.

­Antonio looked away too. “I’m your uncle,” he said to Roberto, smiling and patting the child’s head. His gold wedding band flashed in the sunlight. Still looking away, Anna handed the boy to ­Antonio.

“What a cutie-­pie you are,” he said, lighting up and taking the child under the arms.

“Just like his mama,” Carlo added, caressing Anna’s cheek with the back of his hand. She didn’t pull away, but she was clearly not in the mood for compliments.

The bus driver, whose shirt was soaked through and sticking to his torso, finished unloading the suitcases and large cardboard box, tipped his hat, and took leave of the group. Breathing heavily, he lumbered off to Bar Castello, the only bar in the square.

Carlo grabbed the suitcases. “You get the box,” he ordered ­Antonio, and walked off.

Anna extracted Roberto from ­Antonio’s arms. “Careful,” she said. “That box contains my most precious possessions.” With a stab of embarrassment, she realized those were the first words she’d ever spoken to him.

“I’ll be careful,” he said. “I promise.” He gently picked up the box, holding it steady at the base with both hands, and followed his brother. Anna fell into step with him. The pitter-­patter of her heels on the slippery, polished cobblestones seemed to join in concert with her slightly labored breathing.

“We’re almost there,” ­Antonio assured her, flashing her a faint smile.

Carlo and Anna’s house was in via Paladini, a few steps from the square. It had belonged to Carlo’s maternal uncle Luigi, known as lu patrunu, the lord, because of the many acres of land he owned. He’d made money but never had any children, so he’d left everything to ­Antonio and Carlo: his land, houses, and a hefty sum—enough to keep them comfortable.

That blasted patrunu was the reason Anna had had to let go of her life in Pigna and leave her students for the south. She’d hated him, dead as he was.

­Antonio set the box down by the entrance and rummaged through his pockets for the key. He slid it into the lock of the big wooden door and opened it wide. A wayward strip of light revealed a charming courtyard with a vaulted ceiling and honey-­colored stone walls. A small, round marble table stood in the middle with two wrought iron chairs. A terra-­cotta vase containing a withered plant had been long since forgotten in a corner.

Carlo dropped the bags in the courtyard and started to wander around the house, up and down the stairs, examining every nook and cranny and pulling the sheets off the furniture by the fireplace. ­Antonio leaned against the entryway and watched him. He suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion. How he’d missed his playful little brother and his wonderful bear hugs! With Carlo by his side, he’d never needed anyone else: Carlo was his brother, sure, but he was more so his best friend, his partner in mischief, the only person who truly knew him. When he’d left, ­Antonio had felt alone in the world. No one had been able to relieve his loneliness or bring color back to his life. Not even—he thought with a pang of regret—his wife Agata or his daughter ­Lorenza.

Anna looked around, holding Roberto close. This house is too big for just three people, she thought. The ceilings were way too high for her taste, and love didn’t need all these rooms, anyway. Or locked doors for that matter: She and Carlo had spent their first few years as newlyweds living in a three-­room apartment with low ceilings and they’d been happy—so happy. Physical space, when there is too much of it, increases the distance between hearts: What princess has ever lived happily in a castle?

“Anna, come look at this,” Carlo cried, pulling her by the hand. “Antó, you too.”

He led her across the living room, through the dining room, and finally into the kitchen, from where they emerged into a small garden full of pomegranate trees.

Anna smiled for the first time since she’d climbed onto the train going south. That sight was the first real sign of hope this village had given her: the red chalice-­shaped flowers with their yellow corollas; the sharp, deep green leaves; the bright color contrasts; the twisted trunks—she loved it all. Maybe she could plant some basil and saturate the air with its freshness. Enough to make us feel at home. At least a little.

“Quel délice! Mon jardin secret!” she said in French before planting a kiss on her son’s chubby cheek.

­Antonio looked at her in confusion and then at Carlo.

“Yeah, sometimes my Anna comes out with a few French words. You know—”

“It’s pretty common where I’m from,” Anna interrupted, turning to look at ­Antonio. “I grew up on the border of France.” Her big eyes, the color of olive leaves, were magnified by her black hair, which she kept tied in a loose braid. Her delicate, translucent skin, of a creature not of those lands, went bright red. ­Antonio didn’t know if it was the heat or if he’d been the one to make her blush again.

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