“This wine that we will enjoy today was harvested by the hand of my brother, the man whose life we honor today.” Standing on the bougainvillea-shaded patio at a long, hand-hewn table worn smooth by the kiss of salted air and years of use, Lauro eased a cork from a well-aged Piedirosso, releasing the musky scent of aged fruit into the air.
“Antonino Savoia had the finest taste of anyone I’ve ever known.” He poured the robust wine into waiting glasses of family and friends who had gathered on the patio at his family’s estate after the memorial service for Nino, which had been held at the Duomo in the village. Always appreciative of exceptional artistry, Nino had often sketched the cathedral’s old Byzantine tower.
As the wine swirled into the glasses, Lauro shared his memories of the brother he’d loved, and even, for a while, hated.
“Nino told me this was the finest Piedirosso vintage from Campania he’d ever tasted,” Lauro said. “He told me that after the wine had a chance to age, it would complement our chocolate. I think all of us can agree that when it came to chocolate, wine, olive oil, and lemons, Nino had a savant-like knowledge, as if he’d inherited the cumulative learnings of our ancestors on this land.”
Around the table, Nino’s beloved family and friends murmured their approval and brought the glasses to their noses and lips.
Nino had grown up refining his palate on the agricultural specialties of the region. The vineyard that produced this wine adjoined their property and was owned by a widowed cousin. He’d always made time to help her with the harvest.
And yet, he’d wanted something different for his life.
Taking a sip, Lauro nodded to himself. “The wine needs to air to smooth the edges, but Nino was correct. Dark chocolate, indeed.” He slid a glass toward Celina.
“To Nino,” he said, lifting his glass.
At the other end of the table, his father’s silver-shot hair gleamed in the slanting sun as he raised his glass.
“To our beloved son, husband, brother, father, nephew, and cousin,” Carmine said in a thick voice. He touched his wife’s glass and Celina’s, before acknowledging each person there and what they had meant to his son.
When his father’s voice faltered, Lauro continued. “We are all the better from having known Nino. He was the best brother and the finest friend we all knew. More than that, my brother’s encyclopedic knowledge and quiet persistence elevated our craft.” During his summer breaks from school, he’d introduced daring, unique new flavor combinations with chocolate and improved processes for hand- and machine-molded chocolates. He’d even bred a finer strain of lemon to marry with chocolate and use in limoncello.
And still, it wasn’t enough for him.
Around the table, family members responded. “To Nino.”
Lauro tilted his head heavenward toward the endless skies where he imagined Nino’s soul floated freely, watching the family gathering.
This mourning felt surreal; it seemed he ought to feel the loss of his brother’s soul more, and be certain of its departure from terra firma, shouldn’t he? He’d heard people say they had known the moment their loved one had died, no matter where they were in the world, and yet, he’d detected nothing. No sudden void, no devastation, not even a twinge. He and Nino had once been so close, but that was before Isabella. This was even more mystifying because he still felt his brother’s presence.
Now he felt only sadness because the hope of Nino returning was gone. As Lauro had come to regret their parting words, he’d clung to that hope for years.
After Isabella and Nino had left him, Lauro had felt his reason for being wither. Besides his parents, the two people he had shared everything with were suddenly gone. Now, he managed the fabbrica di cioccolato for his father, and he was devoted to his parents as he should be, but his life seemed hollow without a family of his own making, as his other friends were doing. Still, he clung to hope that someday that might change.
Glancing at the faces around the table, at the family and friends he’d known all his life—save two new faces—he could only imagine that Nino’s soul surrounded them. A cacophony of whistles and warbles erupted from the old trees shading the veranda. Even the sparrows and warblers seemed to sing Nino’s praises.
“What’s that?” Celina shaded her eyes against the sun, smiling. “Oh, robins. Look, Marco, how pretty they are.”
“Pettirosso,” Lauro said, nodding toward the carnelian red birds that shimmered in the sun under spring green canopies. “He needs to learn Italian.”
“He is.”
Celina’s retort held a defensive edge. Wasn’t she even a little embarrassed that Nino’s son could barely speak their language?
Reaching for bread from the basket in front of him, Lauro tore off a piece, dipped it in olive oil, and offered it to Marco. “Pane e olio?” Marco took it and nibbled, his eyes registering his delight.
“What do you say?” Celina prompted him.
“Thank you,” Marco said between bites.
“Grazie,” Lauro replied, correcting him.
Marco grinned. “Gra-zee.”
While the cousins and aunts and uncles reminisced about Nino, Lauro slipped off his dark jacket and helped himself to an antipasto platter brimming with olives and artichokes, as well as a basket of fresh-baked bread that his mother had placed on the table. Tending to last-minute details, he’d only had time for a steady diet of caffè today, and it had put him on edge.
As he ate, he watched little Marco. Crouched on his knees near his mother’s chair, the boy played in a world of his own, his nimble fingers prying the small wheels from one railway car and switching them to another. Adult conversation swirled around him on the patio, but he seemed intent on renovating the train cars—just as Lauro had recalled doing when he was a boy. Testing the new set of wheels on the stone floor, Marco emitted little engine sounds to accompany the clacking wheels.
He could have had a son that age. The thought struck him with regret.
Was this really his nephew? The boy looked nothing like Nino and barely like his mother. Unlike his parents, who saw what they wanted to see, he had a hard time buying the idea that Marco was a blood relative. Fortunately, the boy and his disturbing mother would soon return to the United States, and life would return to normal.
“Maria, Gino, have you met your new cousin?” Adele, Lauro’s cousin, sent her children to meet Marco. Curious about the new boy, the two children scooted next to him.
Adele was the firecracker of the family. As children, she’d been the adventurous one, always the first to take her horse into the lead or tackle the steepest snowy incline when their parents had taken their families skiing at their nonno’s chalet in the Alps just north of Torino. Not that he hadn’t quickly gained the lead as he grew older and stronger, but Adele was smart and kept him alert.
She had new ideas about a woman’s place in the home, too. Adele had opened a fashion boutique near the cathedral catering to tourists who visited Amalfi and locals along the Sorrentino coast.
Adele’s husband, who was seated next to her with his arm draped around her, seemed proud of her accomplishments, too. Werner was a man who was confident enough to allow his wife the freedom to do what she wanted. He called their marriage a partnership, which sounded quite modern to Lauro, and he liked that. Maybe someday he’d have a relationship like the one they enjoyed.
“Marco seems like a sweet soul, so much like Nino,” Adele said, smiling at the boy’s easy interaction with her son and daughter.
A sweet soul like Nino. That much was true, Lauro allowed grudgingly, his gaze trained on the boy. Why would Nino have kept his young family from them? “There the resemblance ends,” he muttered.
Frowning, Adele poked his side. “What’s the matter with you? Of course Marco looks like his father.”
At the sound of his name, Marco stood and flung his arms around his mother. “I like Daddy’s home,” he said, an innocent smile lighting his face.
“Glad you’re having fun, sweetheart.” Celina smoothed her son’s light brown hair. She cast a glance in Lauro’s direction.
Had she heard his comment? Not that he cared much if she had.
“We’re playing,” Marco replied, skipping over the toys to return to his new playmates.
Adele smiled. “Marco, did you know that I used to play with your papa like that?”
The boy shared a shy smile again and turned his face to Lauro.
Second cousins, Lauro thought, watching young Maria and Gino playing with the new boy. Marco had light brown hair but so did many of their extended family in the north. As he studied Marco’s face, he noticed the boy did take after his mother.
Lauro stole a glance at Celina. Her dark lashes and brows were a striking contrast to golden hazel eyes that seemed to glow with mystery.
Averting his gaze, he reached for more olives. Distracting, that’s what she is. Nino must have fallen hard for those mesmerizing eyes. He’d always liked beautiful women.
The children turned their attention back to the carved wooden toys that he and Nino had played with as children. While the children played, Adele and Celina worked out that the children were stair steps in age, with Maria a year older than Marco and Gino a year younger.
“They get along so well,” Adele said to Celina, her face lighting with motherly pride. “We’ll have to spend more time together.”
“I could take Marco fishing with the kids,” Werner added.
“He’d like that.” A faint smile lifted Celina’s full lips.
Adele inclined her head. “Sara tells me you and Marco are welcome to stay here. I hope you will.”
“We’re trying to convince her,” Sara said, leaning in toward the conversation. “Marco is so much like his father,” she added. “And my uncle Enzo.” She trailed her hand along Marco’s shoulder as he scooted past her on his hands and knees, guiding a trio of train cars beside him.
Lauro watched as his mother stared happily after Marco. Sara had hardly left the boy’s side since he’d arrived. Seeing how she gravitated toward her new-found grandson—if that’s really who he was—and showered him with love, he felt crushing guilt for not marrying and giving his parents grandchildren before now. Yet even after all these years, Isabella’s laughter still rang in his ears. He swallowed against the lump in his throat that had plagued him all day.
While Sara watched her grandson play with Adele’s children, her face softened. “Marco is our precious gift from heaven.”
Lauro swirled his wine, listening. He wasn’t entirely sure where Marco was from. To him, Marco looked like the scrappy young American he was, though his heritage could be Italian. He was puzzled, though. He couldn’t see the Savoia family resemblance or that of his mother’s family.
His father held out his arms to Marco. “Vieni qui, figlio,” Carmine said. When the boy didn’t respond, Carmine repeated his request in English. “Come here, son. I have something for you.”
Marco’s face lit with a shy smile, and he hurried to his grandfather.
Lauro narrowed his eyes, disturbed that the boy didn’t know their language. Leaning forward, he caught Celina’s eye. “Why doesn’t your son speak Italian?”
His mother shot him a look. “Marco knows some Italian,” Sara said in the boy’s defense. Turning to Celina, she added, “I believe he understands more than he speaks, no?”
“I think so,” Celina said, casting her gaze toward her son.
Lauro tapped his fingers on the table. “I’m surprised Nino didn’t make sure his son spoke his family language.”
“He tried, of course,” Celina said with a slight shrug of a slender shoulder under a closely fitted dark jacket. “But we wanted to make sure he knew his letters and had a head start on reading and writing in English before he began school.” Staring again at the white handkerchief she’d been twisting during church, she added, “We thought we’d have plenty of time. I haven’t kept up his studies as I should have. There’s just been so much to do since...” Her voice trailed off.
Sara quickly covered Celina’s hand with her own. “We understand. I’m sure Marco will learn Italian just as quickly as Nino learned his languages. He is his father’s son, after all.”
Celina nodded. “Tony spoke English well. Almost as if he’d been born to it.”
“And French,” Sara said with pride. “Better than mine.”
When Celina looked nonplussed, Lauro asked, “How many languages did your Tony speak again? I’ve forgotten.”
Celina seemed uncertain of his question. “Well, besides English and Italian, he’d learned a little Japanese in the war.”
“That’s Nino for you.” His father let out a hearty laugh. “Always the modest one of the family. Top of his German class, too, he was.”
Sara’s expression softened. “He spoke Spanish beautifully as well, didn’t he?”
“So do I, but we spoke English at home,” Celina said, as her neck and face flushed. “I’m afraid I was to blame.”
The conversation veered into another direction, and Lauro leaned back, bent on observing Celina’s interactions with his parents and other family members who had returned with them after the priest’s service at the church.
Lauro could hardly believe how much their lives had changed in the past few weeks—and not for the better. From the moment he’d received that strange telephone call from America and told his parents about Celina Savoia—or whoever she really was—his family’s life has been altered beyond what he could have imagined.
His mother had prepared the house as if royalty were expected. Bedrooms were aired and painted, old toys were unboxed, and childhood photographs were framed and placed throughout the house. Sara had donned the traditional black clothing in memory of Nino, but her heart was full of anticipation for their newly discovered grandchild.
The thought of a grandson also filled his father with pride. While getting a close shave at the barber, Lauro had overheard him telling his friends at the barbiere his father had patronized for years that he had a new grandson. With reluctance, Lauro admitted to himself that the idea seemed to reinvigorate his father. Carmine had even suspended a swing from one of their tallest, stoutest trees on the property. He was never too tired to swing little Marco high into the air, filling them both with forgotten joy.
Lauro had taken over most of the daily responsibility at the factory, but since Celina arrived, his father had hardly been in the office.
As far as he was concerned, Celina was not a good influence on his family’s productivity.
Still, despite his parent’s delight, Lauro couldn’t see Nino in the boy. And he certainly couldn’t excuse Nino’s silence all these years.
With Nino gone, the first grandchild should have been his child. Lauro shouldered the duty to carry on the family line now, and he had promised himself that one day he would fulfill that responsibility. If only Isabella hadn’t been so fiery and reactive, though that was one of the many things he’d loved about her. To this day, he hadn’t been brave enough to replace her in his heart. And, unlike Nino, he was not one to shirk his duty.
The children’s quick laughter bubbled through his thoughts. As if feeling his attention on him, Marco looked up at Lauro and grinned, the sunny innocence of the boy’s expression dislodging the tightness he’d felt in his chest since this morning.
Immediately, Lauro felt guilty for his attitude. Whatever Celina had done in alienating Nino from his family—or had in mind now—the fact remained that this boy had lost his father. If Marco was actually his nephew, shouldn’t he be relieved that Nino had removed the burden of having children from his life?
Sipping his wine, Lauro studied Celina. He had to admit she was attractive, and he could see why his mother embraced her. Celina’s voice had a unique pitch, a velvety smooth quality that was mesmerizing, and she spoke in a forthright manner that reflected her American upbringing. His mother liked people who expressed themselves. Like Isabella. Yet for someone who said they worked with chocolate, Celina was curiously lean. Svelte, he supposed, was the fashionable word, like a Parisienne. Or an athletic American. Her legs were nicely toned.
Not that he should notice. He averted his gaze and sipped his wine.
Sara rapped the table in front of him. “Aren’t you going to offer our guest something to eat?” She angled her head toward the antipasto platter.
Sheepishly, Lauro slid the platter and bread basket toward Celina.
Sara shook her head at him. “Would it kill you to serve her? She’s your sister-in-law.”
Feeling his mother’s eyes on him, he scooped a few olives and artichokes onto a small plate for her. “There’s more if you want it.”
Inclining her head, Celina took it from him. “Grazie.”
Those lips turned up again. Was she laughing at him? His mother had admonished him like a child.
Her call had irritated the family’s still gaping wounds. After the war, he and his parents had held out hope that Nino would soon come home. He’d sent a short letter years ago, telling them he had become an American citizen and was shipping out with the army to the Pacific region. They’d contacted the military in the United States, but their records had been incorrect. They told his father that Nino had been released. If that were true, he would have contacted his family. Perhaps he’d been injured, or imprisoned, or was in the care of a kind Samaritan somewhere. Something was terribly wrong, they were sure of it.
Miraculous stories of survival were circulating, and if anyone was deserving of a miracle, it was Lauro. Hadn’t he once considered the priesthood? Hadn’t he taken up the causes of those in need, from managing the harvest of a widowed neighbor to taking up arms on behalf of his adopted country?
Still, Nino was an independent thinker. None of them had imagined that he’d actually move to America or join the army. Nino had changed, that was true. Lauro stroked his chin. Had he really known his brother after all?
Lauro glanced around the long table of the family who’d endured so much together. Here they were, sending to rest the soul of the brother he’d looked up to his entire life. His parents had insisted on putting up the death announcement posters in town, as was the custom. As a result, a basket in the entryway held condolence telegrams, and flowers and food covered every surface in the kitchen and dining room.
He noticed that though Celina had accepted his plate of antipasto, she didn’t touch it.
Their friends and family were curious about Celina, too. Most of them seemed to accept her and dote on Marco, especially his mother’s sisters and Adele.
Celina was dressed in what Lauro supposed was a modest enough outfit for a funeral, but she could have worn anything and heads would turn. When she thought no one was watching her, she moved gracefully, deliberately, as if in time to a slow tempo adagio. Or a brisk allegro, as when he’d spied her playing outside with her son. Her sylph-like figure gave her an advantage over many, yet she carried her height with confidence.
For the past few days, she’d worn scarves around her thick, coppery blond hair, which fell in waves to her shoulders, but not today. Twisted at the nape of her neck, her hair was brushed back from her face, revealing strong cheekbones and an angular jawline that gave her a look of determination in contrast to the sometimes faraway look in her eyes.
Without a doubt, Nino had excellent taste. Lauro brought his wine to his lips and gulped.
If indeed, she truly had been married to his brother.
Sure, Celina had all the right documents. He’d examined them with care. But couldn’t she have had those created? Document forgery had been elevated to an art form during the war.
Lauro couldn’t help wondering, what did she want of them? Support for her son, probably. She seemed cultured—as if she came from a family of some standing, but many in America had lost assets in the stock market crash or during the war.
Or she was a damned fine actress. How close was San Francisco to Hollywood?
Too close. Even though she didn’t seem like the type.
Why had she waited six months to call about Nino’s death? She said she had sent letters, but they’d received nothing.
However, sometimes letters were lost in international mail.
As he sat staring at Celina, she seemed to feel his gaze on her. She looked up, her gold-flecked, ambery eyes as luminous and chilling as those of a tiger eyeing its prey. He shifted under her sudden scrutiny.
“Yes?” She stared, unblinking.
“Don’t you have to return to work?” At once, Lauro realized the brusque tone of his voice. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother purse her lips in admonishment. “Or to your home in San Francisco?”
“I took a leave from my job. But I miss being busy.”
“We can keep you busy,” Carmine said. Standing behind him, his father clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Lauro, you should take Celina to see the fabbrica di cioccolato.”
That was easily the last thing he’d want to do with her. “I can’t imagine she’d be interested. Our process is quite different from what is done in America.”
“Actually, I’d like to see it.”
Of course you would, he thought to himself.
She beamed at Sara and Carmine. “I’d like to see more of the area, too.”
“Why, yes, you should.” Sara clapped her hands. “Lauro, why don’t you take a couple of horses and show her the groves?”
And that was the second to the last thing he’d want to do with her. Both his parents were looking at him with pleased expectation. As was Celina, with those great, luminous eyes.
“I don’t have much time,” he began.
“Don’t be silly, of course you do,” Sara said. “Celina isn’t only our guest, she’s our new family. You must take her out tomorrow. And be nice.”
Lauro nodded his assent, though he couldn’t help but feel he was venturing into dangerous territory.