San Francisco, 1953
“Thanks for letting us stay with you,” Celina whispered to Lizzie. She unlaced Marco’s shoes and removed them without waking him, and then she unfolded a chenille blanket over his exhausted, still-clothed frame. As soon as they’d walked into Lizzie’s flat, he’d immediately snuggled onto the divan and fallen into a deep sleep.
“I wish I could’ve given you more notice,” Celina said, following her friend into the kitchen. She’d called Lizzie from the airport in Rome just before they’d boarded the airplane. Since Lizzie’s friends were still subletting her flat, she and Marco had nowhere to stay.
“Don’t worry. I’m used to surprises. I’m an actress.” Lizzie’s hair was now a flaming shade of red. She opened the icebox, eased out a bottle of champagne onto the black-and-white hexagonal tile countertop, and popped the cork out with a loud bang.
Marco didn’t budge.
“Tired little fella.” Lizzie poured champagne into two ordinary drinking glasses and slid one in front of Celina. “I was saving this for a celebration—I don’t even have decent barware—but you look like you need a drink now. Or I will after I hear your story. So spill it, sister.” She brought out a baguette of sourdough bread and camembert cheese.
Celina unbuckled her T-straps and slipped off her shoes, relieved to sit down and relax. “Wish it were a celebration.” She sipped the cold drink and broke off a piece of bread.
A knock sounded at the door, and Lizzie raced to answer it. “Shh,” she said, holding her finger to her lips.
“I came as soon as I could close up the shop,” Marge said, opening her arms to Celina. “Why, sakes alive, just look at you poor tired thing!”
After having kept up her steely resolve throughout the long journey from Italy, at the sight of her dear friend, Celina collapsed into the older woman’s arms. Marge had known Tony and encouraged her to marry him. How long ago that seemed now. “I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin.”
“I thought you’d find yourself some sexy Italian man, and we’d never see you again,” Marge said, settling onto a stool. Lizzie poured a glass of champagne for her.
Celina drew her hands over her face and shook her head as tears welled in her eyes, releasing her pent up emotions. “Worse.”
“Oh, goodness gracious,” Marge exclaimed, hugging her again. She took a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to Celina. “Unburden yourself, honey. Tell us all about it.”
As she wiped her eyes, Celina told Marge and Lizzie about Lauro, the Savoias, and Stella di Cioccolato. And though it pained her to do so, she shared the worst of it—Tony’s deception, Carmine’s mandate, and her decision to leave Italy.
“I had to,” Celina explained, her chest tightening as she recalled her last night there. “Not because Carmine would have asked me to, but because I couldn’t stay in Amalfi knowing the suffering I had inflicted on them.”
“Tony lied to you?” Marge’s eyes were wide, and her red-painted lips formed an O.
Lizzie flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Men will tell you anything to get their way. I’ve sure learned that.”
Marge sat back, dazed at Celina’s saga. “Then who in heaven’s name were you married to?”
“I’m almost afraid to find out,” Celina said. Doubt crept into her mind. What if she made another mistake? What if her husband’s family were con artists? She had to protect her son, too. “But I must track down the real Antonino Savoia. He might still be alive.”
Lizzie raised an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?”
“For Lauro and his family. Am I right, honey?” Marge patted her shoulder with empathy. When Celina nodded, she added, “I know how you think. You’re a good egg. That might be difficult, though.”
“It’s the only way I can hope to redeem myself in his father’s eyes.” If even that. On the flight back, Celina had been thinking about what to do. “First, to confirm it, I’ll contact the military to get a copy of any records they can release. Technically, I’m Antonino Savoia’s widow.”
The two women nodded.
“And then, I’ll contact Tony’s friends and people he worked with. He might have confided in someone. I could also go to Santa Monica to see Tony’s uncle. If he’s not dead, that is.” She told them about the visit that they’d made to Arturo Romani.
Marge let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot to do. How would you go to Santa Monica?”
“We’ll take the train to Union Station in Los Angeles and transfer.” Celina had worked it all out. “There’s a little inn on the beach in Santa Monica where Tony once took me. That’s when we went to see his uncle. I’m sure I could find his house again. It wasn’t too far from the beach. Just off California Avenue on one of the numbered streets. Third or fourth, maybe fifth. But I’ll know it when I see it. I was navigating while Tony was driving.” Surely she could find it again.
Lizzie grinned. “Here’s to the lady with a plan.” The three women clinked their glasses.
Celina prayed that her plan would work.
“Just remember, if you need your old job back I’m sure Monsieur would love to have you.” Marge chuckled. “He hasn’t found another chocolatier who suits him, and he’s been complaining about your absence for months.”
“But you’d have to find someone else to watch Marco,” Lizzie said. “Old Mrs. Jackson died of a stroke a couple of weeks ago right in her apartment.”
Celina sighed, dismayed at this news. She’d planned to confront Mrs. Jackson to ask why she’d been so mean to Marco but now she would never know. Still, she would have to think about school for him. At least he was ahead on his reading and arithmetic. Another week wouldn’t matter. Soon the schools would be on break for Thanksgiving, followed by the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. If she kept up with his studies, he wouldn’t miss anything.
As she looked at Marge she could see herself, twenty years from now, still working for La Petite Maison du Chocolat. She shuddered at the thought. Since she’d opened the shop in Amalfi, she’d learned what she was capable of, and she loved it. Returning to her old position would signal defeat to her, but she would do it if she had to.
However, having access to the kitchen at La Petite Maison du Chocolat could help her set another part of her plan in motion.
“Could you watch Marco for a couple of days this week when the theatre is dark, Lizzie?”
Lizzie agreed, and Celina was delighted. Though Celina couldn’t afford a shop in San Francisco, she could make chocolates and pastries to sell to restaurants. She could start in her kitchen or rent part of a kitchen somewhere. At Stella di Cioccolato, she’d learned how to be creative.
The next day, Celina called the Veteran’s Administration office to obtain information on her husband and the real Antonino Savoia. She needed documents right away, so she scheduled an appointment as soon as she could. The day after tomorrow. She hated waiting even that long.
In the meantime, she sorted the mail Lizzie had been collecting for her, but it wasn’t much, just a few receipts from the funeral home and condolence cards from acquaintances from their old neighborhood who’d heard about his death. She called them and asked if Tony had ever confided anything in them, but no one could remember anything that might prove helpful.
She made a point of turning on the radio to one of Marco’s favorite afternoon shows to distract him while she spoke, but someday she would have to tell him the truth.
When Marco got cranky, Celina took him to the library, or they rode the cable car to the docks. Even though the weather was cool and breezy, they bundled up and watched the ships in the bay while they munched on lobster rolls and sipped creamy clam chowder. Every time Marco asked when they were returning to Italy, she tried to divert his attention. They were both feeling the pain of separation from people they had grown to love.
In her quest for clues that might help her understand her husband’s motives, Celina retrieved a box of Tony’s belongings that she’d left in her flat from her sublet tenants. Sorting through it, she found Arturo Romani’s telephone number. Although it had been disconnected the last time she’d tried it, she dialed the number again.
The telephone trilled several times, and Celina was about to hang up when the call went through. An older man answered.
Celina gripped the receiver. “Hello? I’m calling for Mr. Romani. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken with him, but I’m Mrs. Savoia. We met—”
“I remember you. Art here. What do you want?”
She was shocked. “I thought that…I mean, I called before, but this number had been disconnected.”
“Yeah, yeah, sometimes I forget to pay the bill. Like I said, what do you and Tony want?”
He didn’t even know that Tony had died. “I’m terribly sorry, but your nephew passed away.”
The old man cursed, and then he asked when and what had happened.
“New Year’s Eve, last year. He had a heart attack. I tried to reach you for the funeral.” She gave him the details, but Art only grunted and blew his nose. Maybe he had feelings after all. Or a bad cold.
Celina rummaged through the box next to the phone and pulled out an old set of dog tags that Tony said had belonged to a friend of his who died in the war. “I have something here that belongs to someone named Antonio Baldini. Do you know if he is a friend or relative of my husband’s?”
There was a long silence on the line. “An old acquaintance.”
“Is there any way I can contact him?”
The old man coughed. “He left years ago.”
“Where did he go?”
“Peru, for all I know. No way to reach him, capice? Listen, real sorry to hear about Tony, but I got nothing to give you.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “I only want to know more about this person, Antonio Bal—”
“Don’t call me again.”
The line clicked, and the dial tone bleated in her ear. He had hung up on her. Celina put the receiver back in the cradle and thought about what he’d said.
Antonio Baldini. Maybe that was Tony’s real name. But then she thought about what Art said about Peru. That struck her as too much of a coincidence. Of all the countries he could have mentioned, why Peru? Was that a slip of the tongue?
She massaged her temples, trying to recall Nino’s journal entry. Where a man could get lost… She wished she could read the journal again. What else had he written?
Celina glanced at the clock. She was due at the Military Veteran’s Administration offices in half an hour. Despite her telephone plea for information, they couldn’t tell Celina anything about her husband’s service except date of discharge. After tucking Tony’s death certificate—for Antonino Savoia—into her purse, she hurried to the offices with Marco in tow.
In a clerk’s bare-walled, linoleum-floored office, she presented the certificate, and an efficient-looking young man gave her an official copy of Antonino Savoia’s honorable discharge and military record. Balancing it on her knees, she flipped through the sheaf of papers. He’d had an impressive military career with several exceptional honors. She thought about how much this would mean to his family.
One page had an old photograph clipped to it. The image of a strange young man in uniform stared back at her. Even though she’d been expecting this, she gasped.
“What’s the matter?” Marco tugged on her skirt. “I’m bored.”
“Oh, Mommy’s just surprised.”
The clerk leaned across the desk and peered through the half-glasses perched on his nose. “Did I give you the right file?”
“Yes, of course.” She turned to Marco. “Daddy looks so young, that’s all.” Gazing at the photo, she chewed the inside of her mouth in thought.
Marco peered at the photograph. “That’s not Daddy.”
“It was before his injury, sweetie,” she said, thinking quickly. “And he was very young then.”
The clerk nodded in sympathy.
Marco kicked the legs of the chair. “Is that Lauro?”
“No, sweetie.” But she saw the resemblance, too. How she missed him. Only the memory of their love and their magical hours in the hidden cove kept her going.
Celina ran her fingers over the grainy photo. The man looked a little familiar, but then, she’d met so many men in uniform at the shop, it could have been any of them. What was pertinent was that it was not Tony.
Another thought struck her. “My husband had a friend named Antonio Baldini, who was with him. I was wondering if I could see his file?”
“You’re not family.”
“No, but if he does have family, I can contact them.”
The clerk stared at her, considering.
“Please. It would mean so much, after everything…”
“Okay lady. I’m not supposed to do this, but I understand.”
He returned in a few moments and handed Celina another file. “That’s a copy you can have.”
When Celina opened it, a photo of Tony stared up at her. He had also been recognized for exemplary service. Only his uncle was listed under next of kin. She glanced at Marco, who was growing impatient. When her son was older, she would share this with him. She thanked the clerk, gathered the papers, and hurried from the building. Faced with the evidence, she could hardly breathe.
“On the way back, we have to stop at the post office and Western Union. Ice cream after that?” She wasn’t above bribery to keep Marco placated.
Marco brightened and skipped beside her as she hurried toward the nearest post office. She needed to mail these documents to Lauro right away.
While she stood in line at the post office, she scribbled a note to Lauro saying that she was trying to find out where Nino might have gone after leaving San Francisco. At least he and his family could have that hope again.
After mailing Nino’s military file, Celina hurried from the post office. For good measure, she also stopped by the Western Union telegraph office to compose a short telegram.
Sent Nino’s military records with photo in the mail.
Marco tugged on her skirt. “You promised ice cream.”
“We will, just a moment.”
“Mommy, hurry up,” he whined.
“Have patience.” Feeling harried, she dashed off another line. Investigating a lead to Peru.
She paid for the telegram and then snapped her purse shut. “Let’s go get that ice cream.”
Over the next couple of weeks, Celina contacted Tony’s few friends who had come to the funeral. As uncomfortable as it was, she told them the story and asked if they had any information that could help her.
No one knew the name Antonio Baldini. Or knew anything about Peru.
She had exhausted all leads, save one. She would have to confront Art Romani.
In the meantime, Monsieur Jean-Jacques asked if she could come in and make some of her specialties. She agreed, and as Lizzie had promised, she looked after Marco for a few days during the week when the theatre was closed for performances.
After completing her work for Monsieur, she made some of the specialties she’d developed at her shop in Amalfi, including her gianduiotto, raspberry truffles, and lemon-shaped sfusato amalfitano truffles dusted with sea salt. She tucked these into gold paper-covered boxes, along with her delicately flavored violet truffles, the blood orange and roasted pistachio truffles, and the basil, mint, and limoncello in dark chocolate. On the top layer, she nestled her chocolate stars.
Dressed in her best navy suit with a white blouse, a star-studded scarf, and pumps, Celina took her creations and rode the trolley to Union Square. She visited department store gift buyers she’d called to introduce a new line of chocolate truffles from Italy: Stella di Cioccolato.
After waiting for hours to visit buyers at The Emporium, City of Paris, and The White House, Celina was dismayed at their reactions. The buyers were reluctant to take a chance on a new vendor. Worse, they didn’t even sample her truffles. Finally, at I. Magnin, she waited again.
As with the other buyers, the fashionable woman was reserved and reticent. “You haven’t sold into any other stores yet?”
“Stella di Cioccolato is in Italy but new to San Francisco.” Speaking quickly, she went on. “I’m not only a salesperson. I’m a chocolatière. I used to work at La Petite Maison du Chocolat.”
Her interest slightly piqued, the woman said, “I love their chocolates. Did you actually make them?”
Celina nodded. “My mother was a chocolatière in Paris, and I learned everything from her. Here, I’d love for you to try just one.” Celina offered her a raspberry-infused dark chocolate truffle.
The woman’s attitude shifted in Celina’s favor, and she nibbled at the offering. “Oh, that’s delicious,” she said, her eyes widening. “What else do you have?”
“I use Italian flavors in many of my truffles. These are my unique creations that your customers won’t find anywhere else.” Gaining confidence, Celina selected another one. “This truffle is made with limoncello, basil, and mint. It’s as cool as a cocktail in Amalfi.”
“Amalfi,” the woman replied with a dreamy note in her voice. “I’d love to visit Italy.”
Celina leaned forward. “I hope you do. It’s the home of Stella di Cioccolato. You’d love it there.”
“You live there?”
Did she still? “That’s where my husband’s family lives.” Even that was a lie, she realized now. She forged on to close the sale. “My first available delivery is for Valentine’s Day. Your customers will love to give Italian chocolates. How many would you like to start with?”
“Let’s start with our largest stores in San Francisco and Los Angeles.” The buyer immediately wrote an initial order.
Celina left the buyer’s office thrilled. I. Magnin was one of the finest stores on the west coast. This was the break she had been hoping for. She knew that once I. Magnin offered Stella di Cioccolato truffles for sale, other stores would want them, too. One way or another, she would fulfill this order.
And this is only the beginning. Someday she would ship her truffles to the finest stores across the United States and Europe and beyond. Walking back to Lizzie’s apartment, she envisioned every aspect of her glittering empire of the future. She was ready for the work she’d need to do. Next year, whether here or in Italy, she would ship her first order to the exclusive I. Magnin department store. Stella di Cioccolato was on its way.
If only she could sort out the rest of her life, too.
The next afternoon, Lizzie came home after an audition brimming with excitement. “I got the lead in a new theater production,” she gushed. “Say good-bye to red hair, hello to platinum blond again. It’s a traveling production that starts rehearsals right away, so you can stay here and have the run of the place. No more sleeping on the divan.”
“Congratulations,” Celina said. “It’s a shame we finished off the champagne.” Although her sublet tenants had extended the lease of her flat until the end of the year, they’d offered to find another place if she needed it sooner. But Lizzie was hardly ever here anyway.
Lizzie laughed and waved her hand. “More where that came from. Say, have you turned up anything?”
“Not much. I need to go to Santa Monica to speak to Tony’s uncle. I think he knows more than he would tell me on the phone.” Celina glanced at Marco, who was playing with Rocky and the trains Lauro had insisted he take with him. Now she knew that those had belonged to the real Antonino. It hurt her to even look at the toys because she thought of Lauro every time, but Marco wouldn’t be separated from them.
“Think the crazy uncle will talk to you?”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“Leave whatever you want here,” Lizzie said. “When are you going?”
“Tomorrow.” She had nothing to stay for, and she needed to find information fast. Soon she would have to start working again. She’d made a commitment to supply truffles, either from a kitchen here or in Italy.
The next morning, Celina packed a small overnight suitcase for her and Marco. Clutching his hand, she locked the door to Lizzie’s flat and left the apartment building.
On their way out, Celina raised her hand and hailed a taxi. As she waited a few seconds for the cab, a telegraph boy on a bicycle swerved hard to avoid colliding with them and tumbled to the ground.
“Are you hurt?” Celina held out her hand to help the boy.
“No ma’am,” he said, reddening with embarrassment. He picked up his hat and tugged it back on.
“Be careful on the sidewalk.” Taking Marco’s hand again, she slid into the taxi, shut the door, and gave the driver the address of the train station.
As the taxi pulled in front of the crowded train station, she couldn’t help but wonder what Tony’s uncle knew, if anything. And if he did, would he tell her?
The driver tapped the steering wheel while she juggled paying him, fidgeting with the suitcase, and tending to Marco.
“We’re here,” Marco yelled, anxious to go. In a split second, he slipped from her grasp and opened his door into the lane of passing traffic.
“Stop!” Celina snatched his collar and yanked him back in the cab, her heart pounding. “The other door. Please stay with Mommy.”
With so much on her mind, she still had to watch over Marco. If anything happened to him, she would never forgive herself. Yet she couldn’t forget that their tenuous future hinged on this trip and the good humor of a crotchety old man.
She wondered if Art would even see her.