“You haven’t told us how you and Antonino met.” With a smile of understanding, Sara passed Celina another fresh napkin for Marco, who was relishing chocolate cake from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his chin, as only a six-year-old can do.
Carmine chuckled at Marco, while Sara clasped her graceful hands and waited with expectation. Lauro hadn’t changed; he was still quiet and sullen.
They had just finished supper on the terrace overlooking the ocean. An intermittent breeze filtered the mild evening air, ushering in the scent of jasmine like a sweet digestivo of nature. Candles flickered, illuminating the focused interest on faces of those gathered around the rustic wooden table, over which an azure blue and carnelian red cloth had been draped.
Awaiting her story, they sipped a rich, ruby-colored Piedirosso, the last wine that Tony had harvested in nearby vineyards with the family. Carmine told her they’d been saving it for his return. It was a fine wine and paired well with the dark chocolate they’d put out. A thought nagged her while she fortified herself. The terraced lemon gardens, the chocolate, the olive oil. Everything they made and exported to countries around the world. Why hadn’t Tony ever mentioned any of this?
With Sara staring at her expectantly, Celina replied, “I was working in San Francisco, and he came into the shop.”
Celina dabbed a smear of chocolate from Marco’s chin with a napkin. Though usually finicky, tonight he’d eaten with gusto once he’d begun, devouring the antipasto, ziti, and salad, and he was now working his way through a slice of Torta Caprese, a dark chocolate almond cake with a moist center. The little boy stifled a yawn. It was late for him, and the time change had disrupted his usual schedule. Out of habit, Celina smoothed the chestnut-colored cowlick on his crown and then turned back to Sara.
“A friend of Tony’s brought him to the shop one day, insisting that he try his favorite chocolaterie in San Francisco.”
“Cioccolato?” Sara tilted her head with interest. “Professionally? This is what you do?”
“I tried one of the truffles she gave us,” Carmine said. “It was excellent.”
“I hope you left some for me,” Sara said.
Carmine nudged his wife. “You’ll have to find where I hid them first.”
Celina realized she hadn’t told them much about herself. They’d been sharing stories about Tony—or Nino, as his mother called him—for the benefit of Marco, who seemed intrigued at his father’s escapades as a boy. The tricks he and Lauro had played on each other, the sunrise harvests, the fun they’d had galloping through the countryside. Much to her relief, Sara, Carmine, and Lauro all spoke English well, due to their long-standing business relationships in England.
“My mother trained me as a chocolatière,” Celina said. “She learned the trade in Paris.”
“She is French?” Sara seemed to take an avid interest in everything.
“American, with Italian and French heritage, and a little German. She visited Paris, fell in love with it, and apprenticed there.”
“And this friend Nino was with,” Lauro interjected. “Who was it?”
“Just another soldier back from the war.” Celina kept her reply light, though his comment stung her. Lauro had been challenging her throughout supper—on Tony, where they’d lived, what he did, everything. She paused, checking her annoyance in consideration of his grief. “Why?”
Lauro shot her a frown. “So we can find the truth about why he never contacted us again.”
“Don’t be rude,” Sara said. “We can talk about that later,” she added, darting her eyes in Marco’s direction.
Celina didn’t like the tone of Lauro’s voice. He seemed bent on accusing her of something—she had no idea what—but she only had one truth to tell. “I’ll get Marco ready for bed. We can talk afterward.”
Excusing themselves, Celina took Marco to their suite. Kneeling before her son, she unbuttoned his shirt. “It’s been a long journey for you, my young man. And you met a new part of your family.”
“I like them a lot,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “They miss Daddy, too. I wish he could still be here. Can we ever visit him in heaven?”
Celina’s heart clenched. “Someday we’ll all be together again.”
“When?”
“Not for a long time. You have an awful lot of growing up and living to do first.” She managed a smile and tapped his nose.
“I wish I could talk to him again.”
“I know, sweetie. Me, too.”
He fidgeted for a moment. “I feel bad. I forgot what his voice sounds like.”
“Just remember what his love felt like.” Aching at his comments, Celina cradled him in her arms and kissed his cheek. The one thing he yearned for was the one thing she was incapable of providing. Drawing on her reservoir of emotional strength, which had run as low as a trickle, she blinked back her emotion and kissed him on his forehead. “You look sleepy. This bed will feel so good, won’t it?”
Marco was so exhausted and full from supper that he didn’t fuss at all. She’d hardly managed to put his pajamas on him and brush his teeth before he nodded off. Hefting his deadened weight, she carried him to bed. Marco was long and gangly for his age and already quite a big boy for her to carry, though Tony used to flip him over his shoulder like a flour sack, sending the little boy into a riot of laughter.
She tucked Marco into her bed, positioning Rocky next to him. Marco flopped an arm across the smiling stuffed monkey. Stroking his back, she thought about leaving him alone in a strange room without her. What if he woke and she wasn’t there?
As if in answer to her thought, a tap sounded at the door. Celina covered Marco with the downy duvet and rose to open the door to a portly woman. Her gray hair was wound into a bun, and her face was wreathed with a smile.
“Buonasera, signora,” the woman said. “Mi chiamo Matilde.”
With a few words, Celina quickly ascertained that Sara had sent her housekeeper to stay with Marco so she’d feel comfortable leaving him alone. The family had many more questions of her, and she was anxious to share everything she knew, too.
“Grazie,” Celina said.
Matilde eased into a chair and tucked a skein of blue yarn onto her lap while Celina finished tucking him in.
Celina was impressed with Sara’s seemingly effortless household organization. Had she developed that skill out of necessity? In the last decade during the war, many women in the states had stepped into men’s jobs, working in factories and running farms.
Celina recalled her part-time work for the San Francisco library, raising money to send thousands of books to military personnel overseas. After the final armistice, most women had returned to their roles as housewives and mothers. Celina didn’t have the luxury of choice now, but then, she had always enjoyed working.
If only other women didn’t make her feel so guilty about it. One new neighbor had even derided her for working and called her son an eight-hour orphan until Lizzie had set her straight about Tony’s death.
Soon Matilde’s knitting needles were clicking softly to Marco’s rhythmic slumber. Celina bent to kiss him again and then tiptoed from the room.
The family was still on the terrace, and even before Celina stepped outside to join them, she could hear Lauro thundering on in some sort of diatribe. Not that she could follow such rapid-fire Italian, but when she heard her name uttered, she caught the gist of his displeasure.
Hesitating at the doorway, she felt her doubts rushing back at her in a force equal to his anger. A chill licked through her veins. Trembling, she pressed her fingers against her temples.
Tony was right. This is why he’d tried to shield me. A thought dawned on her. Maybe the problem hadn’t been his parents, but his brother. She was stepping back into the shadows when Sara spied her.
Lauro’s mother made a sharp hand gesture toward him. Abruptly, he stopped speaking.
Carmine waved for her to join them. “Perdonalo, scusaci,” he said, rising from his chair to pull hers out for her. As she joined them and sat down, he added, “It’s a tragedy to lose a brother. Please forgive our son.”
Lauro crossed his arms and fell against the back of his chair.
Celina perched on the edge of her chair, poised to take flight should Lauro explode like Vesuvius—as Tony sometimes had. What a shame, Lauro might have been handsome if not for his attitude. No wonder he didn’t have a wife. She’d had enough of that ugly behavior from Tony, mostly right after they’d married—and mainly attributed to his military service—but she would not stand for it from a man she hardly knew. Any man now, in fact. She tilted her chin up at him. “Go on. I might as well hear it.”
“My son is in pain.” Sara folded one of Celina’s hands between hers. Her eyes sought conciliation in Celina’s. “He doesn’t understand our desire for you to join our family.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Celina said.
Sara’s eyes gleamed. “If you want, we would love for you to stay here and truly become part of us.”
This offer deeply touched Celina. “Why, that’s so generous of you—”
Lauro cut her off with a snorting sound. “How do we know she is who she says she is?”
Feeling her chest tighten, Celina rose from her chair and marched back to her room.