TWENTY-EIGHT

“I don’t understand any of this,” Madame said with a baffled frown. “The only legacy Antonio left me was this building, and the mortgage that went with it.”

We sat near the brick hearth. While Madame pondered these questions in the crackling flames, Esther served us a second round of espressos. The unopened envelope lay on the marble tabletop between us.

“I knew your husband didn’t die wealthy,” I said.

“To put it bluntly, we were flat broke. His family left him this building free and clear, but to grow our business, we took out a mortgage on it. You do know the origin of the word mortgage? In Latin it means—”

“Death pledge.”

“Precisely. And after Antonio died, it nearly choked the life out of me. If not for Gus—and other good friends—helping me out financially, this coffeehouse would be a mobile phone store.”

I rubbed my brow, perplexed. “I don’t understand. If Antonio had something of value, why not leave it to you immediately? Why delay it all these years? And why is Gus involved?”

“I have no idea. When Matt’s father passed away, Gus was already a wealthy man. But you know . . .” Madame glanced my way. “I still remember when Gus didn’t have a pair of shoes to call his own.”

“Was that after the Andrea Doria disaster?”

She nodded. “Just days after the ship sank, Matt’s father and I went to Pier 88, where the Ile de France was scheduled to arrive with a group of Andrea Doria survivors on board. We hoped his cousin was among them, but we didn’t know . . .

Madame’s gaze grew glassy as she looked back in time, describing the tense mood among the families as they watched the ship approach. Many survivors were standing at the rail as the ocean liner docked. They wore only pajamas or bathrobes—and there were several rescued women wearing nothing but bathing suits . . .

*   *   *

WITH one white-gloved hand, Blanche Dreyfus-Allegro held her hat against the wind whistling through the terminal while she used the other to turn her husband’s young handsome head. Slim, stylish, and attractive, Blanche’s striking violet eyes met his espresso-dark gaze.

“We’re married now, Antonio. So no ogling. We’re here to find your cousin, remember?”

Antonio laughed. “I’m not looking at the bathing beauties, my Bella Blanca. I’m trying to spot Silvio.”

“You haven’t seen him in years. How can you ‘spot’ him?”

“I got his picture. And he will know me by this.” He tapped his lapel, where a red carnation was pinned.

She tweaked his cheek. “You get so many letters from Italy I don’t know how you tell all your relatives apart.”

“It’s not easy.” With a smile, he moved his warm lips to her ear. “They multiply like the rabbits.”

Outside the terminal, past the ambulances waiting to receive the injured, thousands pushed against a police barricade. Many were women from New York’s Italian communities—some clutching babies and children. Their husbands were aboard the doomed ship, and they had no word of their fates.

Anticipating this ugly circus, Antonio had greased the palm of a longshoreman, who escorted them through a cargo entrance—with a wink for Blanche.

As the liner floated up to the pier, the hundred policemen could no longer hold the line. Soon a mob of three thousand filled the terminal. Desperate shouts and children’s cries mingled with the hollow boom of the ship bumping the dock, and the chugging engines of trucks unloading clothing donated by area stores.

When the Ile de France finally offloaded its passengers, it was the Andrea Doria’s survivors who came out first. Joyous men and women immediately rushed forward to embrace loved ones. For the survivors, there were expressions of joy or relief—but just as many had dead eyes, the shock still etched on their faces.

The hugs lingered, and tears of gratitude were shed. Others clung only to one another, wailing inconsolably as a stranger delivered terrible news.

Blanche spied one of her favorite movie stars. Distraught and harried by the press, the actress hurried to another pier in search of her missing son. Meanwhile, the other survivors were led to tables piled with the donated clothing, where they took what they needed.

“There he is!”

Like Antonio, this young cousin had a beautiful head of thick black hair, now disheveled. He wore a once-fine, now ruined suit that somehow seemed too big for his lean, strong build. His silk tie was askew, and he wore no shoes.

A hollow-eyed woman in a ruined party dress and bedroom slippers clung to him. Beside her, a girl no more than four years old stoically looked on as she clung to her mother’s hand.

Blanche halted, confused. But Silvio Allegro is a bachelor. Antonio mentioned no wife, no child.

Meanwhile, she watched her husband push through the crowd until the men embraced. Then Blanche saw Silvio whisper into her husband’s ear, and Antonio react with surprise.

Suddenly, she was warned back by a nurse leading a parade of stretchers. When Blanche finally reached her husband, he and the other man had finished a serious discussion in Italian.

“Silvio died in the crash,” Antonio proclaimed as he made the sign of the cross. “This man is Gustavo Campana, and this is his wife, Angelica. Silvio worked for their family business . . .”

Confused by the mix-up, Blanche forced a smile and nodded a sincere greeting. The woman timidly nodded back.

“We’ll have to find a place for them to stay,” Blanche declared, and Antonio nodded quickly, looking instantly relieved by his wife’s quick and generous acceptance of the situation.

As the two couples left the terminal, a man cried out.

“Hey, wait a minute, pal!”

Gustavo appeared stricken with fear, until the man shoved a Florsheim shoe box into his arms.

“These should fit nicely,” he told Gus with a grin, adding, “Welcome to America!”

*   *   *

AS Madame finished her reminiscence, I leaned forward with more than a few questions.

“Are you sure Silvio Allegro died in that shipwreck? The way you tell the story, it sounds like he may have taken Gus Campana’s identity.”

“It may sound that way, but . . . I have no proof. And you have to remember that things were very different back then. We’d all endured a terrible war. We accepted without question that one did what one had to do . . . you understand?”

“I think so. Whatever you did, you did—”

“To survive, dear.”

I had more questions, but Madame waved them away with a yawn. “Let’s focus on the present, not the past. What time is it now?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“And still no call back from my son?”

“I phoned him three times and sent several text messages. I could try again, but I doubt we’ll hear from him until morning.”

Madame sighed. “Why didn’t he come to me if he was having marital problems? I’m his mother!”

“That’s why he didn’t come to you. Or mention it to me. I’m sure he’s embarrassed. He probably feels like a failure, and that’s the last thing he wants to be in your eyes—and mine. Or maybe it’s a lot simpler than that.”

“Simpler?”

“Maybe Matt and Breanne didn’t break up for good. Maybe they had a fight and have separated temporarily with intentions to try again.”

“But in the meantime, the poor boy has nowhere to live. He could have stayed with me. I have plenty of room.”

Playboy Matt? Moving in with his mother? I nearly choked on my espresso.

“He’s not in Manhattan very often,” I tactfully replied. “He’s probably keeping odd hours. He wouldn’t want to trouble you with all his comings and goings . . .” (Not to mention his X-rated, X-tracurricular activities.)

“You’re right, Clare. But where could he be?”

“I have a clue.”