Naples, 1953
“Napoli Centrale,” a train attendant called out as the train slowed to a stop in the bustling city. Weary from the arduous journey that had taken them from the airport in Rome to the southwestern region of Italy, Celina slid her leather handbag over the sleeve of her light gray traveling suit and adjusted a chic crimson scarf Lizzie had given her. With care, she hooked a bag containing a box of chocolates over her arm. She’d made her best truffles for Tony’s parents.
She gripped Marco’s shoulder, determined in her mission, and stepped off the train. Passing through the crowded station, the smell of roasted espresso and sweet sfogliatelle teased her nose, accompanied by the whirring clatter of grinding beans. The flow of the crowd carried them outside onto the sidewalk, where she glanced around, looking for the person who would be meeting them.
With a gloved hand, she secured her hat against an early summer breeze, hardly believing they were here. She’d taken leave from her job and sublet the apartment to a pair of actress friends of Lizzie’s who were hoping to find theater parts in San Francisco.
Just two weeks ago, she could never have imagined this. The flight over the Atlantic Ocean had been scary at times due to frightening turbulence, but the stewardess attending them had put Marco at ease by giving him a small replica of the Boeing 377 Stratocruiser airplane they flew. He’d been enamored with it until he fell asleep after a dinner served on fine china with real silverware. Only then had Celina allowed herself a glass of wine to take the edge off her anxiety.
Screwing his face against the sunshine, Marco stumbled on a cracked cobblestone and let out a wail. He clutched a worn gray monkey Celina had stitched together from knitted socks. The crimson heels formed a wide mouth in a perpetual grin.
“You’re all right,” Celina said, kneeling to hug him and brush off his dusty trousers. “Be sure to hold onto Rocky. He’d be so sad if you lost him.”
She’d woken him from a deadened sleep. Despite the clacking rails and her thrill over the awe-inspiring countryside from Vesuvius to the shoreline rushing past, she’d also been lulled to sleep by the rhythmic movement. After the turbulence of the air flight, she was relieved to touch her feet to solid ground once again.
Their fellow passengers bustled past and melodic strains of the Italian language rose around them, flowing forth with the energy of the tumbling sea. “Ciao! Come stai?” People hugged and pressed their cheeks to each other, trading multiple kisses. “Benissimo! Che piacere!”
Celina kissed Marco’s cheek. “Listen. Hear it? There’s happiness in the air.”
Marco stopped crying, and the edges of his mouth curved upward.
To Celina’s relief, a tentative smile grew on Marco’s face. Gazing around with saucer-round eyes, Marco was enchanted. She had to admit she was, too. From the fresh sea air to the warmth of expressions bubbling around them, Naples was already sunlight to her soul.
Then, biting her lip, she thought of Tony, and how she’d always wanted to visit Italy with her husband. He’d never wanted to see his family again—yet they were family, and she couldn’t imagine how he could turn his back on them. As a spirited teenager, she’d sometimes argued with her parents, but she would never have thought of breaking off relations with them. Tony seldom spoke of his parents, and he’d always found an excuse not to visit Italy—any part of the country.
Taking in the beauty of her surroundings, Celina regretted that they’d missed experiencing the land of her husband’s birth together.
If only she’d been more insistent, perhaps Tony would have relented. How would she explain this to his parents? She swallowed against a lump that rose in her throat. She would do the best she could, though apologies would hardly absolve her of fault to a family robbed of their son and the chance to see him one last time.
Yet, maybe they were the ones who should be apologizing. Had the kind words in the telegram been a veneer over a scarred and ugly past? During the trip, it seemed the closer they got, the more nervous she’d become. Would his parents blame her? If she learned a dark family secret, would she wish she’d never come?
A train attendant placed their leather bags beside them.
“Grazie,” Celina said. She’d learned a spattering of Italian from Tony, but they’d mostly spoken English, although now she was glad that Tony had started teaching Marco a few phrases.
At least Tony’s parents would have the joy of seeing their grandchild. Despite what had transpired between Tony and his parents, she knew this was the right thing to do. She couldn’t help but wonder if Tony would have acted differently if he had known his time would be cut short.
Neither of them could have foreseen the events of that foggy evening that stole Tony’s life. Or that the last words they’d uttered to each other would have been so sharp—his so full of vitriol, and hers so full of accusation. She had lain awake at night in regret, but no amount of midnight prayers begging for forgiveness could erase the last words they’d spoken in anger. She’d wanted him to stay in and kiss her at midnight of the New Year, not charge out into the night after a mysterious telephone call.
Now that seemed such a trivial matter.
She let out a small sigh. Her mother had always told her that even the best marriages were complicated. Now she understood. Or at least, she was trying to.
After his death, she’d committed herself to remember only his generosity, his gregarious nature, and the good times they’d shared, but the truth was that when he had been in one of his dark moods, his fury frightened her, and his scathing comments sliced off slivers of her confidence and burrowed into the marrow of her bones.
As the distance in years from the war increased, his darkness had lifted, but she’d always felt he was concealing a part of himself that he could trust with no other soul. Not even his wife. She assumed this secrecy had to do with his military service, so she let it be. She wasn’t the only person whose spouse shielded loved ones from nightmarish memories. Maybe if he had unburdened himself… She swept away the questioning thoughts that could drive her mad if she let them.
Blinking, Celina shaded her eyes from the sun, growing worried that no one might meet them, yet she had to keep her wits about her. As thoughtful as Tony’s parents’ gesture seemed, this visit could be a disaster. At least she would know she had tried to do the right thing. And someday, Marco would understand that she had not kept him from his father’s family.
Celina knelt and wrapped her arms around Marco. When Tony was feeling good and in fine form, few could outshine his charm or his devotion to his little family. She’d never doubted his love for her or Marco.
Was his family like that?
To one side, a well-dressed man stood staring at her.
“Scusami, Signora Savoia?”
Angling her face toward the voice, Celina rose and tented her hand against her forehead. The sun framed the man who stood before her. “I’m Celina Savoia.”
“Buonasera.” He furrowed his brow and stared at her for a moment as if he recognized her. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly removed his hat, revealing sleekly groomed, ebony hair. “I am Lauro.” He glanced at the small boy who clutched her hand. “Your son?”
“And Tony’s. This is Marco. Your nephew.” She turned slightly from the sun to see Lauro more clearly, and as she did, she was startled, though not at his resemblance to Tony, but rather, at the lack thereof.
Wearing a fitted, dark charcoal suit, Lauro was as broad-shouldered as Tony, but there the likeness stopped. He was taller, and where Tony had a proud face, high forehead, and thick features, Lauro had a classically chiseled profile and well-proportioned features. Strong cheekbones balanced an aquiline nose and a full lower lip that undoubtedly drew women’s attention.
Lauro was undeniably attractive, but more than that, he stood comfortably in his space, exuding quiet self-assurance. Tony’s usual stance had been with his chest thrust out in forced confidence, daring to take on the world—or defend it. She could only surmise that they took after different branches of their family tree.
Celina smiled and held out her hand in greeting.
Though Lauro took her proffered hand, he also leaned in respectfully, kissing first one cheek and then the other in a traditional Italian greeting Celina knew well. The warmth emanating from his neck and his spicy, sandalwood scent drew her in. She was surprised to find that his closeness was pleasant. He was proper enough, though sadness rimmed his olive green eyes and he seemed aloof.
Based on Lauro’s telegram, this was not what she had expected. She would have thought that he’d be more like Tony, who was glib and outgoing. Lauro displayed more restraint. Perhaps this was what Tony had meant when he’d described his family as cold.
After pulling back, Lauro squatted on his haunches and peered into Marco’s face as though searching for physical traces of his brother. “Ciao.”
Embarrassed, Marco turned to hide his face in the folds of Celina’s light woolen skirt. Celina slid her hand over her son’s back. “He’s not usually like this, but he’s tired. It was a long trip.”
Looking up, Lauro stared at her again, unsmiling. “Your luggage?” He motioned to her suitcases. When she nodded, he hoisted them with ease and started toward a shiny Alfa Romeo sedan gleaming with chrome parked at the curb.
Celina took Marco’s hand and hurried after Lauro. He wasn’t unattractive, and his gaze seemed to reach her soul, summoning emotions long buried and not exactly welcome now.
After placing the bags in the rear, he opened the door for her. Celina tucked Marco between them, and they started off.
As they wound through the city, Marco pressed his hands against the window in curiosity. Celina followed his gaze toward a plaza, in the middle of which stood a stone fountain trickling with water. Marco laughed, pointing toward a couple of boys who were splashing each other as they passed the fountain and chasing each other in fun. Nearby, children clamored at a gelato shop, women peered into a boutique’s fashionable window, and men sat on benches talking and chuckling.
Lauro turned onto another street and Celina stared in awe at the delphinium blue ocean that spread out before them. Sunlight kissed the crystalline waves, throwing diamond sparkles across boats moored in the harbor.
Soon they were traversing a road that hugged the mountains and crossed inlets, suspended in air. Celina marveled at the views, though she edged away from the sheer drop-off over the ocean.
“This is the corniche road that runs from Sorrento to Amalfi,” Lauro said. Nodding toward the ocean, he added, “Il Mar Tirreno. A beautiful sea that flows into il Mar Mediterraneo.”
Celina had read about the Tyrrhenian Sea, which stretched out like an endless sapphire sparkling in the sun. Gazing above the winding road, Celina could see rock-terraced gardens.
Lauro followed her gaze. “Lemon gardens. Amalfi grows the finest lemons in the world.”
As incredible as the scenery was, she wasn’t a tourist here for the views.
“I suppose you want to hear all about Tony,” Celina began, picking at a seam in her glove.
“It can wait until you meet our parents. They’re quite anxious to talk to you. To learn more about what happened. Although my brother disappeared in ‘45, this is all quite sudden for us.”
“All of this. You mean Marco and me.”
Lauro darted a scowling glance toward her. “I will never understand why he didn’t contact us. Or why you never wrote to us. Didn’t he speak of us?”
Well, there it is. Celina cleared her throat. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Lauro glanced down at Marco and drew his eyebrows together.
Celina caught the quizzical look in Lauro’s expression. Quickly deducing his thoughts, she was appalled. “Except for having his father’s temperament, Marco takes after my side of the family. He quite favors my father.”
“And is he still living?”
“My father, also named Marco—Marco Romano—died of a heart attack when I was a teenager.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He patted the top of Marco’s head. “And your mother?”
Celina shook her head. “A couple of years later, she became ill.”
Even now, she found it difficult to talk about her mother. So great was Stella Romano’s grief over the death of her husband that the summer before Celina was to start college, her mother’s body had revolted against the thought of living without him. When Stella discovered a lump in her breast, her doctor had immediately ordered a procedure to remove the cancerous tumor.
Celina postponed college for a year to help her mother. However, during that year another, more aggressive tumor was found, and Celina put off school indefinitely to care for her. Lacking the will to live without her husband, Stella withered away, even losing her appetite for the chocolates Celina made for her that she had always loved.
Celina touched a gloved finger to the corner of her eye. It still pained her to think of how her mother had wasted away at the end. “She’s no longer with us.”
“Do you have other family?” Lauro’s voice held only a small note of concern.
Celina shook her head. Her mother’s labor and delivery with her had been so difficult that she could never have other children. Celina was the only child. With her arm wrapped protectively around Marco, she rubbed his arm. “It’s just us now.”
Lauro nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re Italian. Your family—where are they from?”
“My father’s family came from Italy a century ago. I don’t think we have any family left here. My mother’s ancestry was Italian, German, and French, but we’re American.”
“That explains it.” He turned onto a small lane that led up an incline.
When they reached the rise, the hillside fell away and on either side of the car, glossy green leaves and sunny yellow fruit framed the azure ocean beyond. Celina sucked in a breath at the vast expanse of the sea met by an endless canopy of sky.
Celina turned back to Lauro. “That explains what?”
He cast another odd glance toward her. “Your blond hair.”
Celina smiled wistfully and turned her face toward the passing landscape. Her mother had been a fair blond, and Celina had also inherited her gold-flecked hazel eyes. “How much longer until we arrive?”
“We’re on our property now.” Lauro gestured to citrus groves on both sides of the car. “It’s not much farther.” He paused. “My brother told you about our lemons, no?”
“He only mentioned the chocolate.” And that, hardly at all. Tony hated to talk about it, so she knew little. She imagined Tony’s family would find that odd. Lightly, she asked, “All this belongs to your family?”
“The land has been in the family for many, many years.”
Celina gazed from the window, awed at her surroundings and amazed that Tony had never told her about any of this. Why not? It was stunning. Lemon groves climbed the mountain slopes around them. She began to feel left out, and then an awful thought occurred to her.
Maybe the fault had been with her.
Could Tony have been ashamed to return with an American? An American with an Italian surname who stumbled through their language like a wild child out of control. Guilt sparked through her. Why hadn’t she tried harder to become fluent? Feeling color rise in her face, she pressed a hand to her cheek.
“He didn’t talk much about Italy,” she said, preparing herself for the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow.
Lauro shot a puzzled look at her. “The chocolate, the lemons, the olive oil—all this was his passion before the war. He was to follow our family’s traditions and manage the businesses with our father, particularly the fabbrica di cioccolato. The chocolate factory is our most profitable business for export.”
“So why didn’t he?”
Lauro set his jaw and stared ahead. “He left for America.”
“He worked hard to provide for us and secure our future,” she said, yet now she was confused.
It wasn’t like Tony to shirk responsibility. He was the most dependable person she’d ever known. She slid a glance toward Lauro. Whatever had happened between her husband and his family must have been tragic for him. Thinking back, perhaps Tony hadn’t been angry; he’d been hurt. Clinging to this thought, Celina pressed Marco close to her side. A wave of unease spread through her. How would his parents greet her?
Lauro huffed and went on. “Our ancestors were quite industrious. They established several enterprises, and we’ve been working hard to expand them. People need jobs here.” He sent a sideways look at her. “We could have used his help after the war. We are family, and this is what we do in Italy. He should have come home. That is, if my brother were of sound mind.”
“Which he was,” Celina shot back. “Tony was smart, and he worked hard to take care of us. We were his family, too.”
His tone was accusatory. If not for his American wife... An uneasy feeling rippled down her spine. Why would Tony have kept all this from me? Was his upbringing so horrible? Had he fought with his parents?
Lauro let out a dry laugh. “You call him Tony.”
Celina didn’t appreciate the intimation in his voice. “That’s what he called himself.” Were his parents as angry as Lauro was?
“Antonino was his name, but he was usually Nino to us. I guess he became Tony in America for you.”
“I didn’t take him from your family. He was living in the U.S. when we met.”
“You kept him there.”
Celina was tempted to tell him that Tony had no desire to return, that he had nothing but disdain for his parents—but what good would come of that?
Gritting her teeth, she turned to Lauro. “I know you’re grieving over him. We are, too.” She spoke as gently as she could, but she wanted to scream. Did you ask me here to interrogate me? But she couldn’t. No, she wouldn’t. She squared her shoulders. She had manners.
By now she knew grief took many different forms. Some days her anger at Tony for leaving them burst from its vault. Some days her sadness stretched to infinity. And some days, depression descended like the devil’s darkness.
But not today.
She took Marco’s hand and stroked his soft skin, drawing on his innocence to will compassion into her soul. Marco looked up at her with his father’s adoring eyes, and Celina smiled down at him. Tony lived on in his son’s quick smile. The light and trust in his eyes always gave her the strength to carry on, and today would be no different than the other dark days she’d faced down.
Closing her eyes and turning her head from Lauro, she tried to summon empathy for Tony’s family.
Lauro said nothing more until he turned the car into the entrance of a property at the top of a mountain that took Celina’s breath away. When they reached the villa, he parked in front of a pair of imposing, carved wooden doors. “Siamo arrivati.”
Celina and Marco didn’t move, enthralled by the view. Lemon and olive trees surrounded the expansive, sun-bleached yellow villa. Built on several levels, the house was topped with a tiled, pitched roof and situated to take advantage of the astounding view. Arched windows and walkways echoed the curved shoreline and hillside slopes. Riding stables flanked one side of the property, while a vegetable garden thrived in the sunshine on the other. Ruffled mounds of pink and blue hydrangeas spilled from urns near a long reflecting pool.
Beyond it all, the ocean swelled beneath them, its waves rolling ceaselessly onto the sandy shores below, the distant roar a constant symphony of nature. Celina sat, taking in the astounding beauty of the setting and wondering how Tony could have left it behind.
She grasped Marco’s hand. “This is where your daddy was born.” Even he was quiet, awed by the magnificent artistry of nature.
Perfunctorily, Lauro opened her door and held out his hand, his eyes lingering on her.
“Grazie,” she said, ignoring his studied gaze as she slid out. His insinuating comments and token courtesies seemed at odds with the warm message contained in his telegram.
In a flashing moment, she regretted their journey, but she tried to shake the feeling, telling herself it was important for Tony’s parents and little Marco. She would not let a surly-faced brother ruin that.
Now she dreaded meeting his parents. If they were anything like Lauro, she understood Tony’s reticence to return to Italy. She sighed in resignation. A few days, a week perhaps. She could change their tickets and return early. Lizzie’s friends would understand. Celina and Marco could sleep on Lizzie’s sofa if they had to.
Barely touching Lauro’s reluctantly outstretched hand, she stepped out, gravel crunching beneath her low-heeled T-strap shoes. She lifted Marco from the car and set him down, taking care that Rocky, the grinning stuffed monkey, accompanied them, too.
Following Lauro, they had not yet reached the entryway when the door was flung open. A modern-looking woman in her early fifties lifted her hand in a tentative wave. She wore a charcoal black dress, and her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a thick bun.
A tall, distinguished man appeared beside her, protectively sliding his arm around her shoulders.
Tony’s parents. Celina had pictured an older, domineering couple. A wave of guilt surged through her. They hardly looked like the monsters Tony had portrayed them to be, but who knew what went on in some families? Lauro was certainly handsome, but his manner could only be described as ugly. She was his brother’s widow. If nothing else, that deserved some modicum of respect. Celina clutched Marco’s hand and pulled him close beside her to shield him. He ducked behind her skirt.
“My parents,” Lauro said with a curt nod, introducing them.
Celina nodded, and Marco peeked from behind her skirt.
As soon as Sara Savoia saw Marco, she pressed a hand against her heart. “Cuore mio,” she cried. She held out her hands to them in greeting, and a smile grew on her face.
Celina stepped forward.
To her surprise, Sara gripped her hands with genuine warmth, and her husband Carmine, a silver-haired man with an imperious air, was nevertheless polite and engaging.
Celina was partly relieved, though still guarded. At once she knew who must have dictated the telegram Lauro sent. Only a grandmother would want to see her grandchild so desperately.
“And this is Marco, Tony’s son,” Celina said, her voice catching on a note of regret. She wished now that she’d at least sent baby photos. Tony had been adamantly against that, too.
“Che tesoro, che dolce.” Her face shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and joy, Sara hitched her slim skirt and sank to the little boy’s level. “Ciao, Marco. Sono tua nonna.” When Marco darted a look of confusion to Celina, Sara quickly added, “I am your grandmother.” She held her arms open to him.
Marco hesitated.
“We have a gift for you.” Bending over, Carmine Savoia held out a wooden toy train engine. “It was your papa’s.” He raised his eyes, which were now brimming with emotion, to Celina. “It was Antonino’s favorite toy when he was a boy.”
Lauro cut in. “He called himself Tony in America.”
Blinking back the sadness etched on his face, Carmine said, “That was probably easier for the Americans.”
Marco looked up at his mother, a question looming in his round blue eyes. “That was Daddy’s?”
Celina brushed aside Lauro’s snide comment. She nodded her permission and gently nudged her son forward. She’d told him they were going to meet his grandparents, and he’d been excited. He’d never had the pleasure of knowing any of his grandparents, but he sensed they were a special breed from watching his friends with their loving, pampering grandparents.
With a shy smile, Marco stepped toward Sara, and she took his hand. Tears gleamed in her eyes. As Carmine gave Marco the toy, the older man blinked heavily.
Sara gazed up at her with pure joy blooming on her face. “Mille grazie,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart. “I cannot thank you enough for coming. Marco is our only grandchild.” She hugged Marco to her, and his little arms swung willingly around her. As tears of gratitude spilled onto her cheeks, Sara closed her eyes and swayed with a blissful expression.
Sara’s joy was palpable. Celina watched as the wonderment of discovering the love of his grandparents illuminated her son’s sweet face. Her reticence dissolved, and she felt prickles of emotion behind her eyes.
She wondered what could have happened between Tony and these seemingly kind, caring people. Couldn’t the love of family have led them out of emotions wracked with anger and hurt?
Standing beside her, Lauro coughed into his hand and turned away.
“I only wish we’d come sooner,” Celina said, allowing the remorse she felt to shade her words. At that moment, she knew she had done the right thing by coming here, though due to Lauro’s behavior, she’d had misgivings.
Seeing Sara with Marco, Celina realized that whatever had happened in this family that had forced Tony away, his mother had suffered over her son’s disappearance. Being a mother, she empathized with Sara, yet she could only imagine the magnitude of her despair over losing a child. Sharing her son with Sara and giving the older woman the gift of time spent with her grandchild could hardly make up for her lack of contact. For this, she was genuinely sorry.
“I hope you can forgive me for not contacting you earlier to tell you about Marco,” Celina said. To blame Tony now seemed insensitive to their memory of him.
“We were shocked by your call,” Carmine said. “We’d held out hope for so many years. While this is not what we expected, we’re glad you came.”
Sara rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “At least we know he experienced the joy of having a family before he died.”
To his credit, Carmine didn’t ask why she hadn’t bothered to contact them before. Celina had no doubt they wondered and would ask her about this at some point. Now that Tony was gone, did it matter what had happened between them?
Lauro turned back to her. “As you might imagine, my parents have a lot of questions about my brother. They’re wondering why he didn’t come home. Why he returned to America.”
There it was.
A flush crawled up Celina’s neck. Clearly, Lauro was more vocal. “Tony said America was his home. He didn’t tell me why he never returned.” She looked helplessly from Lauro to his parents, fervently wishing Tony had left her with something that she could share with them. Tentacles of resentment slithered around at her heart, restraining the finer memories of her husband she tried to keep fixed in her mind.
If only her husband had at least written to his family. She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t—not even once to let them know he was alive. Why had Tony cultivated this situation? What’s more, Tony’s family seemed just as perplexed—and angry, she thought, casting a glance at Lauro—as she was at Tony’s neglect. Even if Carmine and Sara were more restrained than Lauro, they must have those thoughts, too. Surely Tony could have imagined the pain his actions would cause.
“The stress of war affects men in different ways,” Sara said to Lauro. Standing and turning to Celina, she said, “Let’s go inside.” Folding Celina’s hand warmly in hers, she added, “You must be hungry and tired from your long journey.”
Taking Marco by the hand, Celina followed Sara inside. She stepped into a cool, terracotta-tiled foyer, its walls splashed with hues of celestino blue, terra rossa, and pale yellow. Frescoed ceilings soared above, and the scent of yellow roses arranged in a vase on a round antique table filled the air. Beyond the foyer, tall windows framed the panoramic view as a spectacular backdrop to the expansive rooms, which were lavishly, though comfortably, decorated with Italian antiques and patterned textiles.
“This isn’t the way Nino would have remembered his home,” Sara said, following Celina’s gaze. “We’ve only just finished redecorating this part of the house.”
“My great-grandfather built Villa Savoia to gather the family for holidays by the sea,” Carmine said. “His wife was born here, too. He started the chocolate business in Torino, but he loved the ocean breezes so much that he moved their business here.”
“Come with me,” Sara said. “I’ll show you to your rooms so you can relax.”
Celina and Marco followed Sara through an arched, brick-ceilinged hallway to a pair of connected guest rooms. Lauro trailed with their luggage.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Sara said, swinging open the rustic door to a view of the ocean beyond.
A breeze cooled Celina’s face and lifted the sheer curtains by the windows. She turned to a four-poster bed nestled between marble-topped nightstands. An armoire stood on one side, and doors stood open to a balcony on the other. Lauro deposited the bags and left the room.
In awe at the sheer beauty of the setting, Celina stepped onto the balcony, which overlooked a terraced garden of fruit trees. “It’s so beautiful here.” She breathed in, catching the scent of fruit trees below. “What type of fruit are you growing?”
“Mostly lemon,” Sara said. “But also olive, grapefruit, orange, fig, and pomegranate. With our temperate climate, most everything thrives.”
Celina peered over the balcony’s edge. To one side, a cliff dropped to the sea, while on the other, a terrace sprawled along the hilltop perch. Flaming pink bougainvillea and snowy white jasmine curled around the corners of grapevine-covered archways that framed the shimmering ocean view.
Breathing in air that had a softer, sweeter quality than that of the San Francisco Bay, Celina admired the stunning view that had probably inspired artists for years.
How could Tony have left this magical seaside land?
Sara picked up a silver-framed photograph from a nightstand and flicked specks of dust from it. “You can probably guess who this is,” she said, nostalgia thickening her voice.
“Tony?” Celina joined Sara in looking at a sepia-toned photo.
Two young boys stared solemnly into the camera.
Sara drew her fingers over the glass and nodded. “With Lauro.” Smiling, she traced their faces. “We had such good times then. This is a wonderful place for boys to grow up.” Sara shifted the photo so that Marco could see, and he peered at it with curiosity. “This was your papa, Marco. He grew up here.” She tousled his hair and hugged him to her side. “You remind me so much of him.”
Celina was touched by Sara’s thoughtfulness in placing Tony’s photo in their room and thanked her.
“I have more photos to share with you later.” Sara indicated another framed photo on the other side of the bed that stood on a nightstand in the shadows. “That one was taken not long before he left. It was the last time we ever saw him. I thought you might like to have it by your bed while you’re here.”
Celina slid her hand softly over the other woman’s. “It’s usually by your bed, isn’t it?”
Sara embraced her. “You’re quite perceptive. And I’m so glad you came.”
Carmine appeared behind them with a glass of white wine and a plate of homemade bread, olives, and slivers of parmesan cheese. “Thought you might like an apertivo while you relax.”
“Grazie,” Celina said, gratefully accepting the lightly chilled wine. Inhaling the bouquet, a memory sprang to mind. “I recognize this,” she said, as Carmine and Sara exchanged pleased smiles. “It was one of Tony’s favorites, and mine, too.” He’d sought out a small wine purveyor in the Italian district of San Francisco to find it.
“It’s our Falanghina wine, a specialty of Campania, our region,” Carmine said with pride. “Light and refreshing on a warm day. Tonight we’ll have the special Piedirosso wine we’ve been saving,” he added with a meaningful glance at his wife.
Celina caught the look between them and wondered about the significance.
“And there’s fresh limonata and biscotti for Marco,” Sara added, motioning toward the table.
“I brought something for you, too,” Celina said, reaching into the bag she carried. She withdrew a box of her best chocolates that she had taken special care to wrap. “Something I made, I thought you might like.”
“Why, how thoughtful,” Sara said, pressing her cheek to Celina’s. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy it. We’ll let you freshen up now.”
After Sara and Carmine left, Celina unpacked their clothes and changed Marco into a fresh, checked-cotton shirt and twill trousers. Tony’s parents had kindly furnished the smaller room with toys that must have belonged to their sons, so Marco was busy investigating the trains and cars and wooden blocks.
While he played, Celina splashed her face with water and brushed her hair. Nibbling on the almond-flavored biscotti, she felt her energy return. As she sipped the wine, she changed from her traveling suit into a dress she’d just finished making from a new Vogue pattern and fabric she’d bought at the opening of Britex Fabrics on Geary Street. Made of navy polished cotton, the dress had a fashionable full skirt and fitted bodice. She slipped on the matching bolero jacket with three-quarter length sleeves and stepped into a pair of peep-toe pumps. Leaning toward the beveled mirror, she nestled her cherished locket into the neckline of the dress.
As she sipped her wine, she studied the photo that Sara had shown her. Peering closer, she found she could hardly tell the boys apart. Tony and Lauro favored each other, and she guessed that Lauro was just a couple of years younger. Closer to her age, probably. If she didn’t know better, she wouldn’t have seen Tony’s resemblance in this youngster. She smiled, thinking how the skinny young boy had grown into such a solid, stocky man. She replaced the photo and then walked around to see the other photo on the far nightstand.
“Mommy,” Marco called out. “I’m hungry. When are we eating?”
“Soon,” she replied. Marco had such an appetite, and he had already polished off the snack Carmine had thoughtfully left for them. Lifting the photo, she peered at the shadowy image.
“Mommy, can we go now?”
“Just a moment.” Tracing the frame with her thumb, she thought about how thankful she was that she’d contacted Tony’s family. She loved her husband, even though over the years their marriage had been emotionally complicated, but then, no more so than many others. The war had taken a toll on many men and women. Adjusting to civilian life had been hard on them—Tony included.
Celina pressed a finger to the corner of her eyes. The warmth of her husband’s love seemed even stronger here in the home where he’d grown up. She sighed and brought the image closer, anxious to see the image of the man she’d known.
She flicked on a nearby lamp. Her beloved Tony, a man sometimes worried, but always loving, passionate, and well meaning. Her husband, the man who could charm—
She frowned and drew back. Sinking to the bed, she sipped her wine, shifted the frame, and squinted at the photo in frustration. For the life of her, she couldn’t find the resemblance she’d expected. Trying to see it better, she shifted the photo’s protective glass pane against the glare of the lamp until it came into stark view.
As an unfamiliar image of Tony stared back at her, a hollow, sinking feeling grew inside of her. His appearance had changed drastically, but then, he must have been so young when this photo was taken, she thought. She tried to calculate the years, guessing this might have been taken in 1940. Thirteen years ago. A man could change a lot in that amount of time.
Couldn’t he? She blinked, intently focused on the black-and-white image. Without the scar that ranged along one temple and cheek, Tony looked so different that she might not have even known this was the same man. As a chill coursed through her, a sudden thought dazed her, and she gasped. The frame slipped from her hand, shattering on the terracotta floor.
“Mommy, are you okay?” Marco ran into the room.
“Stop, there’s glass on the floor.” Gathering her full skirt, she knelt to the floor.
Marco leaned against the doorjamb watching as Celina picked up shards of broken glass and put them into a waste bin.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Flustered, Celina replied, “I’m not hurt.”
“Then why are you crying, Mommy?”
“Am I?” She brushed moisture from her cheeks. Confusion roared through her mind, yet she steeled her emotions. “Mommy will be through in a minute. Go play until I’m ready.”
Marco hesitated, then turned around and returned to the toys in the side room.
Her hands shaking, Celina wiggled a shard of glass, attempting to dislodge it from the frame. “Ow,” she cried, jerking her hand back.
Blood dripped from her forefinger onto the photo. “Oh, no,” she murmured, grabbing the inside hem of her dress and dabbing blood from the image, although it left a small, discolored spot on her husband’s neck. Pressing her throbbing finger between her lips, she rocked back and forth in agitation. What had she done?
Her heart raced as words formed in her mind. For a split second, she’d thought that this man couldn’t possibly be Tony. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? She pushed the picture aside and took a drink of wine to quell her nerves.
Of course that’s Tony. Her eyes flicked across the photo again. It was how he looked before his injuries.
How silly of me, she thought, chastising herself. Just when she thought she had reined in her grief, she often lost control again. She shot another glance at the photo. Besides, who else could it be?