I stared at Matthias Morelli, moments ago a stranger, and now a man whose life was suddenly such a significant part of my own. Was there a family resemblance in those wide eyes and aquiline nose? Did I recognize our mother’s cheekbones and artful brow?
He was our grandfather. Our mother’s father. We had Italian blood. Italian family! I thought about Grandpa Frank. Did he know? And what about Mother. Had Violet told her the truth about her birth, and if so, had she ever wanted to travel to Italy to meet her real father?
I had so many questions.
I swallowed hard and looked at Clara. She looked as stunned as I felt.
“You are shocked, I can see,” Matthias said when he noticed our expressions. “You already have a grandfather. I know. Violet married a very good man. She wrote to me, told me how happy she was to marry Frank Bell. He raised and loved your mother as his own child. Not all men would do that.”
I pictured Grandpa Frank, the man I’d known and loved as my grandfather. Violet had said he was the love of her life, and that she’d cherished every minute of the years they’d spent together. And I believed it, even now, after this revelation about the summer of passion she’d shared with Matthias. And yet my mind still reeled from the discovery.
Hours passed as Matthias told us as much as he could remember. He asked us to share stories of Violet, too, and to tell him about our travels over the last few weeks.
“It’s very good, very kind what you’re doing for your grandmother,” he said. “I’m sure Margaret will enjoy meeting you. She and Violet were such good friends when I knew them. I’m only sorry you will leave Venice so soon.” His voice was full of regret. He looked at us both in turn, taking us in, trying to make sense of us in the same way we were trying to make sense of him. “Would you stop by again? Tomorrow, for coffee, perhaps? I’d like to show you the gallery properly. And the other paintings of your grandmother.”
Clara leaned forward. “There are others?”
He chuckled and nodded. “Many more. I became—how would you say—obsessed!”
We exchanged kisses on each cheek, the Italian way, and promised to return the next day.
We’d hardly closed the door behind us when I blurted out, “Can you believe this, Clara? Our strict, straitlaced mother is the love child of a brilliant Italian artist!”
Clara shook her head. “I can’t believe it. What a life Violet had! It must have scandalized the entire family. Imagine being pregnant and unmarried. It must have been so awful for her.”
“There must be more to the story,” I said, always interested in digging deeper. “On Margaret’s side. Perhaps she was envious. Perhaps she secretly loved Matthias, too.”
“You’ve always got the journalist’s nose, don’t you?” Clara said with a smile.
“Things are never as black and white as they seem. There’s usually another side to the story, sometimes many sides. Anyway, life is interesting. We can definitely say that.”
We talked the whole way through dinner that evening, musing aloud about what life would have been like had Violet married Matthias. We would have been Italian, not American, and who knew how our lives might have looked.
“A love affair, an illegitimate child, an estranged sister. I wouldn’t have guessed any of it,” Clara said as we returned to our hotel suite.
“I wonder if Father knew he’d married a woman who was half Italian? He was always so proudly American.” I sat on the edge of the sofa and kicked off my shoes. “I wish he’d shared more with us, about his life. Though I guess I always had trouble talking with him. Less talking, really. More like shouting.”
To my surprise, Clara sat beside me and covered my hands with hers. “He loved you, you know, despite your disagreements and differences,” she said earnestly. “I think he was hard on you because he saw your talents. He only wanted the best for you. For us both.”
I stared at her hands on mine. She used to be affectionate with me, and I with her, but we’d been so at odds with each other I’d almost forgotten what it was like. It was nice, and in that moment not only did I miss Father, but I realized how much I missed this—this closeness with my sister.
“Thank you,” I replied softly, squeezing Clara’s hand. “I wish I could have had more time with him. Made him proud of me.”
“He was proud of you. He just had trouble saying it.” She paused for a moment as she made her way to the bathroom, turning in the doorway. “I’m proud of you, too.”
I made a face of mock horror. “Could you repeat that, please? I must have misheard.”
She snatched a tube of lipstick from the counter and threw it at me.
I laughed and scooted beneath the covers just in time.
As Clara attended to her protracted toilette, I turned on the bedside lamp and reached for my notebook to record the day’s incredible events, but as I put pen to paper, a thought flickered through my head, and I paused. I wondered when the editor at the New York Herald Tribune would receive my article, and whether Mr. McDougal would consider it worthy enough to print. If the article ran, Charles would be sure to see it—that was certainly my intention—but Clara would be furious with me for writing a scathing article about her future husband. It would undoubtedly cause bad feeling between us, but in the end, I wasn’t sorry I’d written the article, or that it had been sent. There was a truth that needed to be told about Charles Hancock, even if he was marrying my sister.
I returned my gaze to the blank page, but the words wouldn’t come. How could I document the events of the day? How could I adequately express how it felt to discover that my family was not what I’d thought it was?
I flipped idly through the pages, reading my entries from previous days, reliving the memories of our trip so far with a smile on my lips, until I saw his name, and my smile faded: Daniel winning at poker. Daniel’s suggestion of a pen name. Daniel helping Clara on the hot air balloon. He was peppered throughout the entire journey.
I still couldn’t believe he was nothing but a hired hand, paid to spy on us, and that all of the conversations and lovely afternoons Clara and I had spent with him were a lie. But rather than be furious, I felt a twinge of sadness. I assumed he’d returned to New York now that the truth was out, but as I uncapped my pen and wrote the date and location at the top of the page, part of me hoped I was wrong.
A knock at the door broke the silence.
“I’ll get it,” Clara called as she finally emerged from the bathroom.
A moment later, she poked her head into my bedroom. She held a note in her hand.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting up taller in the bed.
“It’s Edward,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “He’s asked me to meet him for lunch tomorrow.”