FIFTEEN

BLESSED with a full head of iron gray hair, a naturally lean physique, and a spine still straight as a flagpole, Gus greeted us with surprisingly powerful hugs for a man pushing eighty.

He still made jewelry by hand, melting, molding, and beating gold and silver with the ancient tools of his craft. The work gave him the wiry muscles of a blacksmith, along with scars from a hundred forge burns that freckled his forearms, and a face that appeared etched out of still-lustrous amber.

He led us inside and we settled in an airy parlor with a gleaming wood floor and tall windows facing the sunny courtyard. The Italianate furniture had cushions embroidered so finely that I hesitated to sit down.

Instead, I opened the pastry box to show off my cupcakes, made from scratch using the most buttery, melt-in-your-mouth Golden Cupcake recipe I’d ever baked.

(The first time I made them for Quinn, he asked why I didn’t use a boxed mix. “Wouldn’t that be easier?” My response was “Not really.” Then I handed him the final product. One blissful bite and he never asked me about boxed mixes again.)

On top of these little golden cups of joy, I mounded my sweet, smooth Cannoli Cream Frosting. Some of the iced cakes I left plain, others I topped with grated dark chocolate or mini chips, and the remainder I finished with sprinkles of finely chopped pistachios.

When I showed them to Gus, he pretended to swoon.

“Bella Clare, you have brought me edible treasures!” He hugged me again and kissed my cheeks. “Grazie!”

“You are more than welcome . . .”

Then Matt presented him with three bags of our newest single-origin beans, and Gus looked genuinely overjoyed.

“Okay, you two,” I said. “Sit down and catch up on family business, and I’ll make us coffee . . .”

*   *   *

GUS’S modern kitchen was spotless. Mason jars of cold brew were steeping in his fridge, each with a label marking their “ready” times, and bags of Village Blend roasts were lined up on a shelf.

I added Matt’s premium offerings to the stash, found the burr grinder, and got to work.

Gus had several sizes of the famous Alfonso Bialetti stovetop espresso pot—an eight-sided marvel with the clean, faceted lines of a perfectly cut gemstone.

I put the largest one to use.

Ten minutes later, the glorious scent of strong coffee was drifting through the courtyard, and I was filling tre demitasses for our little party of three.

Settling in with the men, I caught my ex-husband’s eye.

Okay, Matt, time to steer this conversation toward our reason for this visit . . .

“I’m sorry, Godfather . . .” he said, shifting uneasily. “I know you don’t like to talk about the shipwreck, but—”

“But it would help our research”—I quickly jumped in—“if you could talk to us a bit about your memories. Maybe you can start with the reason you made the crossing. I know it was soon after World War Two, and Italy was still struggling to get back on its feet, is that right?”

Gus nodded, sitting back in his chair. “You are very right about the war, Clare. It destroyed so much. Angelica and I were sent to America to relocate the family business.”

“Your jewelry business?” I assumed.

“The Campanas worked as goldsmiths and jewelers for generations in Florence, but the war was devastating, and moving to New York seemed like a good idea. So Angelica and I left Italy with a handsome young apprentice named Silvio . . . ah, I forgot his last name. I’m so old . . .” Gus smiled weakly.

“We three were supposed to get things settled before helping the rest of the family come over. But . . .” He paused, voice catching. “When the ship sank, poor Silvio drowned, and Angelica and I lost everything—everything but the clothes on our backs and our little Perla.”

As a shadow crossed the old man’s face, I spoke up again.

“I’ve seen photos of the Andrea Doria, but was the ship really as beautiful as they say?”

“Oh, yes . . . sì, sì, sì!” Gus smiled, this time more cheerfully. “We boarded in Genoa, and the city was still scarred by the bombs and fires of the war. But not the Andrea Doria. I still remember the first moment I saw her. She gleamed like a flawless diamond above the sad ruins of that port. So white and clean and pure, it made me proud again to be Italian.”

“What was it like to walk the decks?”

“Mamma mia! Polished wood, marble, crystal in the bar, sterling silver in the dining rooms. And the public spaces were decorated with a fortune in art and sculpture.”

Gus laughed. “There was fun, too. The Andrea Doria, she was the first ocean liner to have swimming on her outside decks—three different pools! For an Italian bumpkin like me, it was like life in an American magazine, or some glamorous pool party with the Beach Bums—”

“Beach Boys,” Matt corrected.

“Yeah, them. It was a beach party every day, a nightclub every night. Entertainment. Fine dining. Eccellente! Superb service, notte e giorno—night and day.”

“Night and day,” I echoed, suddenly getting a bright idea—one that just might win us this coffee competition.

“I remember a gala dinner party,” Gus went on. “The ship glowed on the black ocean like a golden city floating in space. Elegant women danced with dashing men. At midnight everyone gathered on deck to watch the lights of Gibraltar fade from view. We were on our way to a new life, a new world . . .”

Matt refilled his godfather’s cup. “I’m surprised you remember so much after all these years.”

“You mistake silence for forgetfulness, Matteo. What happened on that ship is burned in my memory . . .”

With eyes misting, Gus gazed at a picture on the white marble mantel of his cold fireplace, where an image of a woman stood frozen for all time.

“No, I could never forget . . .”

When Gus rose and moved to the mantel, I joined him.

The picture he picked up was extravagantly framed in yellow gold. Inside that frame, a sad-faced woman wore an elegant evening gown. She was a dark-haired beauty, lovely and delicate, and so very young, yet with an expression of hardship that seemed to age her beyond her years.

“Is that your late wife?” I asked gently.

He nodded as I took a closer look—and blinked in surprise.

“That necklace she’s wearing, is it a replica of the Occhio del Gatto?”

I’d first admired the legendary “Eye of the Cat” when I was a teenager, poring over art books in our small town’s library. I saw it again in an Italian textbook when studying in Rome, and a few months ago on the Internet.

The huge, near-flawless ice blue diamond had been cut and set in Italy with a design that mimicked a cat’s eye. It was one of the world’s most famous lost gems. And I expected Gus to tell me about the replication process.

But my surprise turned to shock when he spoke again.

“That is no replica, Clare. That is the lost diamond.”