Celina was learning that in Amalfi, dining on the terrace under a starry canopy with the ocean crashing beneath them in accompaniment to operatic recordings was a typical summer evening. Tonight, a recording of tenor Enrique Caruso’s “Vesti la Giubba” from Pagliacci by Leoncavallo played on the record player. The record had been played so many times the scratches had become part of the score, but it didn’t diminish the astounding performance.
“There will never be another Caruso,” Carmine said after the song ended and silence hung thick in the balmy evening air.
Celina sipped her red wine, savoring the earthy notes and trying not to let her eyes linger on Lauro, whose gaze was unnerving. “I saw Mario Lanza in a film called The Great Caruso. He’s incredibly talented.”
“And handsome,” Sara said, fanning her face.
“Not too bad,” Carmine said, sniffing in annoyance. “But not Caruso.”
Sara flicked her hand dismissively. “I still think he’s magnificent.”
Celina was growing accustomed to the friendly bickering between them. Maybe that’s what kept them interested in one another after all these years. “Caruso visited San Francisco, but after he survived the great earthquake in ‘06, he vowed never to return.”
“The night before,” Carmine began, gazing into the distance. “Caruso had appeared at the Mission Opera House and sang the part of Don José in Bizet’s Carmen. And you’re right, he never returned, God rest his soul. If only you could have seen him, Celina.” He kissed his fingers for emphasis.
Celina smiled at her father-in-law. Carmine and Sara had made her and Marco feel at home, and she was beginning to feel like they were part of the family. Watching the flickering candles on the rough-hewn table before her, Celina breathed in the fresh sea breeze. A strap of the coral sundress Adele had given her slipped from her shoulder, and she quickly shifted it back in place.
Watching her movement, Lauro quickly averted his eyes and lifted the wine bottle. “Care for more?”
“A little.”
He poured a splash of wine into her glass. “You like this vintage?”
“I do,” she said, casually meeting his direct gaze. “It’s a little smoky. What is it?”
“Taurasi, another one of our regional wines of Campania. It’s from our Aglianico grapes, and blended with a little Sangiovese—sanguis Jovis, the blood of Jupiter in Latin.” He lifted the glass to his nose to inhale, never taking his eyes from hers. “What chocolate would you serve with this?”
Celina touched her tongue to her lower lip in thought. “Hmm, dark chocolate…infused with smoky Lapsang Souchong tea.”
“Chinese tea?” Lauro leaned toward her, intrigued.
“We have a lot of Chinese teas and herbs in San Francisco,” Celina said. “I like to experiment with different flavors.”
“Maybe you can introduce that here,” Sara said, casting an inquiring glance toward her and Lauro.
When Celina didn’t answer, Sara went on.
“Adele told me about your idea for a cioccolateria.” Sara passed a basket of freshly baked olive bread to her. “It sounds exciting. I’m sure Lauro wouldn’t mind helping you source the chocolate you’ll need for your confections.”
Lauro arched an eyebrow at her. “You’re planning to stay here?”
“It’s a consideration,” Celina said, wondering why Sara was encouraging Lauro. “But I’m sure I can manage on my own. I’ll write to the owner of the chocolaterie I worked in San Francisco for referrals. I plan on roasting the beans myself.” She could also buy processed chocolate like the pastry chefs and most chocolatiers used, but she wanted to experiment with different roasts.
Celina tore a piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil for Marco, who was eagerly alternating between antipasto of mozzarella and prosciutto, and linguini with basil pesto and delicate green beans. She’d never seen him enjoy food so much as since they’d arrived. He was active all day, too, playing with Adele’s children or following Sara as she looked after the gardens every morning. He loved to help pick fresh vegetables from the garden and fruit from the orchard.
“Nonsense,” Carmine said. “It’s no trouble for Lauro to help you.”
“I can arrange Trinitario through our supplier,” Lauro said.
“I prefer the delicate flavor profile in Criollo or Porcelana.” She loved the Venezuela chocolate, which her mother had favored, too. It blended well with violet and bergamot, equally smooth flavors that created the lightest of delicacies. For most of her work, it was superior.
Lauro wore a serious expression she couldn’t quite read. Celina reflected on what Adele had said about Tony at the boutique. Serious, studious, intense. That described Lauro more than Tony. But had her husband once been more like Lauro? If so, whatever had affected him must have been profound. Although many veterans had returned feeling withdrawn or fighting recurring nightmares, Tony had overcome his demons and more, evolving into a gregarious personality.
Carmine and Sara shared a fleeting look.
“Why don’t we take care of Marco tomorrow,” Sara said. “So you can visit our chocolate factory with Lauro.” She glanced at Lauro as if to punctuate her sentence. “I insist.”
From the tone of Sara’s voice, Celina realized saying no wasn’t an option. Lauro must have sensed that, too, because his face flushed, but he said nothing.
Marco tugged on her sleeve. “A chocolate factory? Mom, I want to go, too.”
Sara and Carmine traded bemused expressions. Celina noticed that they seemed to communicate perfectly in a silent language of glances and touches, much the way she had with Tony.
Carmine ruffled Marco’s hair. “Then we’ll all go.”
The boy beamed at his grandfather, and Celina couldn’t say a word. To see the obvious attraction and budding love between Marco and his grandparents added weight to the decision she knew she must soon make. The weeks of summer had slipped from the calendar.
After they finished supper, Celina excused herself. “I have a surprise for dessert.” She hurried to the kitchen, where she retrieved a tray of fresh strawberries she’d infused with orange liqueur and drizzled with dark chocolate. After arranging the berries on a platter, she returned to the table.
“I thought you might enjoy these,” Celina said, serving a juicy red strawberry to each person at the table. “And a special one for my big boy, sans liqueur.”
“These look and smell divine.” Delight lit Sara’s face for a moment before she frowned a little. “Marco can eat strawberries?”
“Can he ever,” Celina said, laughing. “He loves them, just like his father. The two of them used to churn strawberry ice cream together in the summer. I had to be fast to get any at all.”
Marco grinned and dug into his dessert.
“What a sweet memory.” Sara lapsed into a thoughtful, melancholy gaze.
Celina watched her, wondering what was on her mind. Memories of summers past, perhaps. She didn’t press it.
Sara shook herself and turned her attention back to Marco, who was devouring the large strawberry. “Marco, you’re a fortunate young man to know how to make ice cream. We could pick some berries from the garden this week.” Sara brought a bite of strawberry to her lips and tasted it. “That’s heavenly.”
“The chocolate is well flavored,” Carmine remarked.
Across from her, Lauro met her gaze and nodded. “Exquisite.”
“I’m glad you all like it.” Celina smiled modestly. A new sense of excitement over what the future might hold was bubbling up inside of her.
When the conversation turned to plans for a cousin’s wedding, Celina saw Marco stifling a yawn. She excused herself to put him to bed.
After helping Marco change into pajamas and brush his teeth, she tucked him into bed.
Even as his eyes were closing, he cried out, “Where’s Rocky?”
Celina checked under his blanket and looked under the bed. Thankfully, the ever-grinning monkey was sprawled under the bed. She fished it out and tucked it next to Marco. With a satisfied sigh and the smile of an angel, he wrapped his arm around Rocky and closed his eyes.
Lightly stroking Marco’s back, Celina watched over him for a few minutes to make sure he was asleep. Since they’d arrived, he’d been sleeping better here than he had in San Francisco. He’d often been agitated when she picked him up from Mrs. Jackson’s, but even though she asked him what was wrong, he would never tell her. And when she asked Mrs. Jackson, the older woman just shrugged and said she had no idea what she meant. Celina assumed that Marco was still grieving his father, just as she was.
When Marco shifted and mumbled, Celina began humming a soft lullaby. As she did, she thought about how lucky they were to have been accepted by Tony’s family.
She reflected on the time they’d spent here, satisfied that she’d decided to come. Marco had forged a relationship with his grandparents and cousins, and if nothing else ever came of this visit—though she hoped it would—she would be content that she had helped Marco discover the family she could never give him.
Sara, Carmine, Adele, and Werner looked upon her as family, too. Even Lauro had come around. My new family, she thought, her heart swelling with emotion. Although the circumstances of their arrival had been unusual at best, she was deeply comforted that they had welcomed her and Marco. My family. Silently, she rolled the words around on her tongue, smiling to herself.
Marco’s breathing became steady, and Celina tucked the light summer blanket around his frame. Leaning over, she kissed his cheek. “I love you, my brave little boy.” She tiptoed from the room and eased the door closed.
As Celina had learned was often customary, they finished dinner close to midnight. Two of Carmine’s brothers she hadn’t met stopped by, and they all laughed and traded stories. Sara had insisted that Matilde go to bed, so Celina helped Sara clear the dishes from the table and carry them into the kitchen.
“Your dessert was delicious,” Sara said.
“Thank you. Chocolate-drizzled strawberries were one of Tony’s favorites, too.”
“Were they now?” Sara seemed to choose her words with care. “In families, my dear, what is not said is often more important than what is said.”
Celina eased the plates she carried onto the tile counter. “I don’t follow…”
“No, you might not.” Sara furrowed her brow and brought her hands up to Celina’s shoulders. “Whatever might happen, I want you to know right now that I love you and Marco, and I hope you will always think of us as your family.”
“As I was tucking Marco in, I was thinking the same thing.” Celina smiled. “But what do you mean by ‘whatever might happen?’”
“Never mind that.” Sara hugged Celina tightly. “You have given me the most precious gift—that of a grandson. We have big plans for Marco, my dear. You will never have to worry about college for him. Or anything else.”
Surprised by her generosity, Celina pulled back. “I appreciate that, but that’s not why we’re here. And I wish that Tony had contacted you sooner. I feel so guilty about that. I often think about all the time we missed out on.”
Sara waved a hand. “I don’t care about any of that. Seeing Carmine’s eyes light up when he sees Marco and knowing that he has accepted him as our Antonino’s child—why, that’s worth more to me than you can ever imagine. My husband’s spirit is reinvigorated—mine, too. We needed that, Celina. So you see, we all get what we want.”
Celina wasn’t quite following what Sara was saying. “I only wanted you to know your grandson, and for Marco to know you. Really, I don’t expect anything else.”
“Of course not, dear. Just so we understand each other.” Sara patted her cheek. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you came, and you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Which I hope will be forever.” With that, Sara hugged her again.
Later that evening as Celina made her way back to her bedroom, she thought about the strange conversation, its undertones, and what Sara could have possibly meant. Whatever might happen…always think of us as your family.
What indeed, might happen? Celina couldn’t imagine what she meant, or why she chose tonight to have this odd discussion.
Too tired to think about it anymore, Celina decided this must be another Savoia family secret of some sort. Would she ever piece them all together?