Santa Monica, 1953
“Hold my hand and stay with me, Marco.” Tired but determined, Celina clasped her son’s hand and pushed her way through the crowd on the train platform. After arriving by train that morning at Union Station, they had transferred to the local train to Santa Monica. She prayed this expedition to visit Tony’s cantankerous uncle, Arturo, would illuminate the mystery between her husband and Nino.
Marco tugged on her hand, but she held her grip. On the train trip from San Francisco, Marco had been whirling with energy and mischief, darting through the aisle while she chased him. But when he finally fell asleep, he had slept soundly to the clacking rhythm of the railcars. Celina knew this ordeal was a lot for a little boy to understand.
At last, they reached the beach. Even though the sun was warm on her shoulders, it was November, the off-season for beach-goers. A few people strolled the beach, and a group of teenagers with surfboards paddled out in the ocean in search of waves. Otherwise, the beach was fairly deserted.
“Race you, Mommy,” Marco called as he broke loose from Celina and took off in the direction of the grand hotel on the beach.
“Wait, stop.” Celina dropped the suitcase and ran after him. When she caught up to him, she scolded him. “That’s not where we’re going. You’ve got to stay with me. Come this way.”
“Okay,” Marco replied in a sullen little voice. “But I want to go there,” he whined.
Squinting in the sunshine, the boy pointed to a sprawling white Georgian Revival mansion that Celina recalled had belonged to actress Marion Davies. Now signs proclaimed it a luxury hotel and private club.
“We’re staying at another inn.” Celina ruffled his hair and hugged him. She didn’t know what she’d do if anything ever happened to him. Regardless of the outcome of this visit, her son was most important in her life. “It’s where Daddy and I once stayed.”
Celina lifted her face to the moist ocean air, aching with bittersweet memories. Though she had loved her husband and wanted to believe he’d meant well, she had to learn more about the reason for his deception.
As much as she loved Lauro, her first responsibility was to Marco. Providing her son with a stable, safe home was critical. He was becoming more active and inquisitive. In Italy, he had loved having cousins and grandparents and a variety of activities and places to explore. Here, it was just the two of them.
If she could locate Nino and redeem herself to Carmine, she and Marco might enjoy that life again. Though Lauro had pledged himself to her at any cost, if his father banished them, Lauro would suffer the separation. While not a guaranteed solution, finding Nino could be a step toward solving her problem with Carmine. It was a chance to set the past right for everyone.
With renewed resolve, Celina took Marco’s hand and set off again. Still clutching Rocky and the canvas bag of wooden trains, Marco gamely stayed with her.
She led him along the path toward the Sunset Poppy Inn, which hadn’t changed much since her last visit. Purple lantana and pink hydrangea still bloomed in profusion, and more brass wind chimes hung from the eaves of the white clapboard house.
Near the entry, she knelt on the sandy path to face Marco. Taking him by the shoulders, she asked, “Are you up for another adventure today, sweetie? I’m serious now. You will need to mind me at all times, understand?”
Marco turned his face up to hers. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
“We’re going to see a very old, ornery man soon. I’m afraid it won’t be much fun, but it’s important for our future. Can you promise to behave and let us talk?”
“Does that mean I’ll get ice cream?”
Celina couldn’t help but smile. Ice cream had become his preferred exchange for good behavior. What’s one more time? “It’s a deal. Ice cream on the pier later.”
She opened the door to the inn. Vivid paintings still graced the walls, and the reception desk still displayed its namesake poppies. But she could hardly recall the young, trusting girl she had been then, eager to fall in love and make a life with Tony.
Marco tugged her hand. “May I look at the pictures? I won’t run away.”
Celina relented. She liked to trust him; she only wanted him to be safe.
“A young art lover, I see.” The proprietor emerged and took up her position at the reception desk.
“A reservation for Savoia, please.” Celina gazed at the salon, which looked like an indoor garden of flower paintings, floral fabrics, and potted plants. “My husband proposed to me here in ‘45. It’s still so lovely.”
The woman ran her finger down the reservation list. “Here it is. Do you need a cot for the youngster?”
“It’s just us now,” she said as she signed the guest registry. “My husband passed away.”
They chatted while Marco gazed transfixed at the woman’s paintings by Cassatt, Kahlo, and others. Celina watched him, relieved that he was behaving himself.
After Celina settled Marco in the room, she called the proprietor and asked her to arrange a taxi to ferry them around Santa Monica. It wouldn’t do to call Tony’s uncle first to get the address. After hanging up on her, she doubted old Art would tell her where he lived. But she was sure she’d know the house when she saw it.
A half hour later, Celina and Marco were in a taxi exploring Santa Monica and searching for Tony’s uncle’s home.
The taxi driver had been crisscrossing the numbered streets in the village of Santa Monica for quite a while when he asked, “Are you sure it’s around here, lady?”
Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth. Celina clutched the seat, racking her memory. “I know it’s a neat white stucco house with palm trees and pink bougainvillea shrubs.” Could the white stucco house have been painted? Maybe the palm trees were replaced, or the bougainvillea uprooted.
The driver tapped the meter. “I’ll spend as long as want, but time is money, lady. Your money.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said, growing impatient with the process.
The cab driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe it’s south of California Avenue, ma’am.”
“I remember seeing hills to the north.” The sun was setting over the ocean. She was sure of it. But where was it?
The older man heaved a sigh. “Just saying, still could be south of here.”
“No, I’m sure of it.”
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror and shrugged.
Marco peered from the window on the other side. To him, this was a game. “That one, Mommy?”
She shook her head and pressed a hand against her temple. What else could she dredge up from her memory? “There might have been a birdbath.”
The driver chortled. “The wife’s gonna love this story.”
Suddenly, Celina had a flash of insight. “Wait, I remember that large old house. Turn left here.”
A neat row of bungalows punctuated by a sad-looking stucco house came into view.
“Mommy, a birdbath,” Marco yelled. Bouncing on the seat, he pointed out the window.
“I see it. Slow down, please.” Could it be?
The abandoned bird bath was little more than a parched stone bowl sitting lopsided on a pedestal. Two wind-whipped, skirted palm trees stood like bedraggled sentries at the sidewalk. Dirt dulled the white stucco, and rambling bougainvillea vines had overtaken the porch and obscured the front windows.
“Please, wait here,” she said to the driver, stepping out. Marco scrambled from the car with her.
“I got all day,” the driver mumbled. He turned the radio knob to a station and pulled his cap over his eyes.
Holding Marco’s hand, Celina started up the steps. She didn’t want to leave him in the cab, but she was nervous about who might answer the door. On a street of well-kept beach bungalows, this one was the eyesore.
“Stay close to me, sweetie.” Drawing him to her side, she knocked on the door. Through a screen door, she could hear an announcer calling a horse race on the radio.
She knocked and waited.
“Who’s there?”
“Mr. Romani, it’s me, Celina. Tony’s wife.” A foul odor was blowing through the screen. Wrinkling her nose, she stepped back. Marco made a face.
“Got nothing to say.”
She knocked again. “If you don’t come to the door, I’ll call the police and tell them I think you’ve died in there.”
“Said all I had to say on the phone. Go away.”
This is ridiculous. She jiggled the screen door handle. Locked.
A round of hacking coughing ensued. When he’d cleared his throat, he croaked, “I’ll tell ‘em you’re trying to break in.”
“Please, I just have a few questions. This means an awful lot to me and your nephew’s son.” For several minutes she stood arguing with him through the screen door until Marco tugged on her skirt.
“Mommy, he doesn’t sound nice. And it stinks here. I want to go.”
She wasn’t getting anywhere with this unpleasant man. Frustrated, Celina called out again. “Have it your way. We’re leaving.”
“Good riddance,” he replied, laughing.
Instead of leaving, she led Marco through a rusty gate to the rear of the house. Devoid of grass, the backyard was even more run down than the front.
“Shh,” she told Marco. “Follow me.” She crept toward an open window and stood on tiptoe to peer in.
The kitchen was a mess, but she could see straight through to the dining room and front parlor. There she could see Art, who was lying on a sofa and smoking, with the radio blaring nearby. His bald head faced away from them, and he seemed fully clothed. At least he wasn’t in his boxer shorts. She blew out a breath.
“Come on,” she whispered. Marco followed her.
She tried the rear screen door. Open.
Turning, she winked at Marco. “Bingo.”
Marco clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.
What would Art do when surprised? Celina hesitated, weighing the risk. Could he have a gun? She gathered her skirt and knelt by Marco.
“I want you to stay in the kitchen until I tell you to come out. It might not be safe for you. Do you understand?”
Marco nodded, his eyes as wide as walnuts.
Celina sighed. And now I’m teaching my son how to break into homes. It couldn’t be helped though.
She eased open the screen door and held it for Marco, who crept in behind her. He wrinkled his nose against the stench, which was even worse inside. They tiptoed across the filthy floor, which was covered with tiny, black-and-white hexagonal tiles. Stained, red-checked wallpaper was peeling from the walls. She peered ahead.
Art hadn’t moved.
She motioned for Marco to wait behind the dividing wall.
Through the doorway, Celina spied framed photographs on a mantle in the dining room. She had an idea. Opening her purse, she slid out Tony’s war record and flipped to his picture.
Holding it in front of her like a shield, she crept through the dining room. When the wooden floor creaked, she froze. Art didn’t move. The radio continued to blare the horse race.
She stepped closer.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Art hollered. “Home run.”
At Art’s outbreak, Celina’s heart pounded, but she kept on going. She reached the archway between the dining room and the parlor.
She drew a breath and charged in. Thrusting Tony’s war record toward his face, she demanded, “Who was Antonio Baldini?”
Shocked, Art fell from the couch, spilling a glass of whiskey on his shirt. The Daily Racing Form he’d been reading flew from his hand. “Good God, woman. What the hell are you doing in here?” Before she could answer, he let out a sizzling string of expletives. She was glad Marco was hiding in the kitchen.
“Get up and answer my questions. I have a right to know.” As much as she hated to touch him, she held out her hand to help him up. He was fairly decrepit. She could defend herself against him if she had to.
Ignoring her offer, he pushed himself back onto the couch and retrieved his lit cigarette that had rolled between the cushions. He ground out the smoldering fabric and sat back to refill his glass. “Thought you gave up.”
“I never give up.” She held up young Tony’s photo. “Antonio Baldini. Who was he?”
“Your husband.”
“I know that now. Where was he from?”
Art mumbled something, then spat out, “New York.”
“Does he have other family? Parents, siblings?”
Art drew on the cigarette and blew smoke toward her.
It was all Celina could do to keep from choking. “Look, I traveled from San Francisco, and I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”
Art grumbled. “Only me. His mother was my sister.”
“Where are his parents?”
“Both dead of influenza. Tony was an orphan, but he did real good for himself.” An expression of pride crossed his face, and he raised his glass to her. “Smart boy. Went to pharmacy school. He loved that stuff, y’know.”
Tony had told her he’d lost interest, but that hadn’t been the case at all. What a shame.
At least she wouldn’t have to contact another set of parents. She lowered her voice, keenly aware that Marco was in the kitchen, and hoping he couldn’t hear above the announcer’s voice still blaring on the radio. “So why did he steal Antonino Savoia’s identity?”
“Why does anyone do anything?”
“Stop it. Answer me.”
Art heaved a sigh and threw a look that sent shivers through her. “He’d just gotten back from Japan. Decided to stay in San Francisco, start over. The boys in New York—tough guys, y’know—were after him. So, he sensed what you call an opportunity. Smart, see?”
Celina hated to spend one more second here, but she needed more. “What did they want with Tony?”
Art shrugged. “Pills, I guess. Big money in that.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Your secret’s safe.” She couldn’t imagine the pressure her husband must have been under. “How did he know Antonino Savoia?”
“Does it matter?”
She was so angry she felt like throttling him. “On the phone you mentioned Peru.”
“Yeah. That Savoia guy was running off to Peru. So Tony used his five-finger discount and got himself a brand new military identification card.” He tapped his temple. “Smart boy.”
Celina thought back to the night he died. “Did the men from New York ever find him again?”
Art waved her question away. “Not important.”
“It is to me. The night he died, he got a phone call. I answered, and it was a man with a thick New York accent. It was New Year’s Eve, but Tony said he had to go out. He didn’t want to. Later that evening, he had a heart attack. He never came home.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, maybe they did find him. But they didn’t get his whereabouts from me. Tony called me, see? He was worried. Asked me to mediate, but…” Art held up a hand and let it drop.
Celina swallowed against the heart-breaking sorrow she felt for her husband.
Art looked up at her. “That all?”
She swore she saw redness in his eyes. Maybe Art had some feelings for his nephew after all. “He’s buried in San Francisco.” She gave him the name of the cemetery. “And just so you know, Tony was a fine man and the best father to Marco. If you had ever seen them together, you would have been proud.”
Art drew his fingers across his eyes. “Thanks for that.” He sniffed, then waved his arm at her. “Now get outta here before I get upset with you.”
She hurried toward the kitchen, where Marco was hovering by the door. She swept him into her arms and raced outside.
As they rode back in the taxi, Marco snuggled next to her while she closed her eyes in relief. She had gotten what she came for, but more than that, she had a clearer understanding of her husband.
Tony had stolen Nino’s identity to protect himself and continued the deception to protect her and Marco. Even though he had lied to her, he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d probably had little choice.
Celina thought about that last night when Tony had gone out. She could tell he was worried, but when she asked, he wouldn’t say what was bothering him. In the end, the stress had overwhelmed his big heart.
She believed he was a good man. That was all that mattered. Though she wished he would have shared his past and his worries with her.
After the cabbie dropped them off at the Sunset Poppy Inn, Celina walked with Marco to their room. She felt utterly drained. Stopping at their door, she slipped the key into the lock.
Not far away, the proprietor was sweeping sand from the path. She waved at her. “Oh, Mrs. Savoia. Your family just arrived.”
“Family?” She frowned. Surely not Uncle Art.
Marco looked up at her and shrugged.
Maybe Lizzie had decided to join them. She was just impetuous enough to do that.
As soon as she opened the door, Marco raced inside ahead of her and bounced onto the bed. She heard footsteps behind her.
“Celina.”
Was she hearing things now? That sounded like… Celina touched her forehead. It couldn’t be. She was just tired. She put her head down to go in.
“Amore mio.”
She whirled around. “Lauro!”
He crossed the short distance to her and enveloped her with a kiss that flooded her with joy. Flinging her arms around him, she held him tightly—as if he were a mirage that might slip through her arms.
Lauro pulled back. “Celina, we have to talk. It’s urgent.”