Chapter 11

ELEVEN

OCTOBER 2019

Wednesday

Callie started for the hotel in the direction Oliver had indicated. Although her suitcase had wheels, it was still heavy and took effort to drag along the street. It also made quite a racket as the wheels bumped and banged against the cobblestones underfoot, making a sound like a truck on a pothole-riddled highway. She smiled apologetically at the growing number of people she saw, who were now starting to emerge from their homes as the afternoon wore on.

At the end of the street, she looked up. Ahead was the narrow stone stairway Oliver had mentioned. There were at least thirty steps. Callie took a deep breath, wishing to spot a ramp or elevator. She wasn't going to be able to drag her suitcase up the uneven stairs, so would have to lift it and carry it. But that's okay, she told herself. She was strong and she could make it up to the top. She reminded herself that she was here on a mission—to find out the connection between this place, this woman Emilia, and her grandmother. So she would have the answers Pam had always wanted. And she would accomplish it, no matter what it took.

She began her climb, leaning her suitcase against her hip. As she set one foot after the other on the steps, it occurred to her that she knew so little about what she would find when she reached the top. She had arranged this trip so quickly, and at a time when she was not at all at her best—shocked by Pam's death, saddened by the loss, and still reeling from the sudden upending of her life and her move to Philly. Now that she was thinking more clearly, it felt kind of foolhardy, trying to recreate Pam's trip when she knew so little about what Pam had intended. What was she doing here?

What am I doing here? It was a question she asked herself often. She'd asked it that night in New Orleans, when she'd found herself at a bar on Bourbon Street drinking Sazerac—a blend of whiskey, bitters and sugar, and a specialty of New Orleans, she'd learned. It tasted like nothing she'd ever tried before, sweet and sour and deliciously intense. She wanted to believe she was being wonderfully spontaneous, heading out into the night with a very important executive. She wanted so much to live that way. It seemed such a stark and important contrast to the life Pam was always pushing her toward. Saying yes on a dime, switching direction without warning—it gave her a sense of power. She knew she wasn't in danger that night. She knew she'd arrive back safe and sound at her hotel that evening—which she did. She'd consider the evening a success, and she'd be excited to see her new friend again, when the conference attendees convened for breakfast. And yet, she'd also had the strange sense she was being impulsive and adventurous to make a point. And every so often, that night and afterward, she couldn't escape the question—what point was she making? Who was she trying to impress?

Pausing on the first landing of this steep stairway, she started to ask herself the same questions now, questions that never seemed to have a good answer. But now, she sensed an answer at the ready. She was here for Pam, she was here for Chloe, she was here for Joe. She was here for her family, those who came before and those who would come after. She was here to finally unpack her grandparents' legacy, which had been shrouded in grief and guilt for too many years. She was about to pour sunlight on that forest of sequoias where her grandmother had cried.

Despite how sweaty she was, she felt a new energy and sense of conviction. She took a firmer grasp of the suitcase handle and heaved the bag higher, then continued on to the second landing. And finally the steps were all behind her.

She continued walking until she came to a white stone building with a cast-iron sign hanging from a scroll bracket that read Albergo Annagiule . She knocked on the door, and when no one answered, she turned the doorknob and stepped inside and into a small, square reception area. The floor was a gleaming mid-tone wood covered in the center with an ivory rug. The wood-framed sofa was covered in a gold-and-white damask fabric, and sat in between two slim end tables. Two armchairs faced the sofa, sporting the same fabric. The place was modern and elegant, and very European in feel, Callie thought. Straight ahead was a staircase that went up three steps, reached a small landing, and then continued to the left. The landing had a tall window covered in sheer white curtain panels, which were pulled back by gold tassels. The air smelled fragrant, slightly orange with a floral tinge.

To the right was a long, wooden reception desk next to an arch that led to the rest of the first floor. She could hear the sound of a cello playing over a sound system. The melody was haunting and beautiful.

"Hello?" she called. "I…um… buon giorno ? Buona sera ?" Once again she regretted that she knew so little Italian, but there was nothing she could do about it now. As she waited for someone to show up, her gaze shifted to a small glass door across from the reception desk. Pasticceria Sancino , it said in ornate cursive letters. She breathed in, realizing that this was the famed bakery she'd read about online. Her curiosity piqued, she had to take a look. She walked over, and when she found the door unlocked, she pulled it open and stepped inside. The first thing she noticed was the glorious scent—fresh-baked bread combined with vanilla, toasted caramel, lemon zest, and something a little more sophisticated. Amaretto, maybe.

There was no one in the room, which was about the size of a large closet and had wide glass cases filled with the most luscious-looking sweets she'd ever seen. Tiny sponge cakes smothered in white cream; dense bars the color of honey dotted with slivered almonds; cannolis covered in chocolate and powdered sugar; glass dessert cups filled with custard and drizzled with chocolate. To her right was a case of pignoli cookies, just like the ones she and Pam had bought at the Italian bakery during the snowstorm all those years ago, although smaller and thicker. She remembered how she and Pam would marvel at how many pignoli nuts were at the bottom of the bag when they arrived home—and still, the cookies were studded with them. What fun they'd had, licking their fingers and reaching inside the bag to make sure they gathered up all that had spilled.

She was still lost in that long-ago moment when she heard shuffling behind her. She turned to see a woman in the doorway—a woman who looked older than anyone Callie had ever met before. She was short and thin, with tiny, sunken eyes, the brown bags beneath them deep and mottled. There were wrinkles beneath her chin and two short, deep lines between her eyebrows. Her wispy white hair was brushed back from her face, her hairline beginning well past her forehead. Still, there was something incredibly regal about her. Maybe it was her long neck, or her firm shoulders, her posture straight despite her years. She wore a floral wraparound dress, the skirt flowy as it draped to just below her knees. Her calves were slim, her low-heeled tan shoes practical yet stylish. Callie was sure this had to be the famous Emilia. She looked as though she owned not only the hotel and bakery, but the whole town.

" Si ?" the woman asked.

" Sono …I mean…hello, do you speak English?" Callie asked.

The woman looked at her disapprovingly. "Of course."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult…"

"The store is not open." Her English was clear, her accent sounding more British to Callie's ears than Italian.

"I didn't know. It smells so good, and everything looks so…" Callie couldn't believe how intimidated this woman made her feel. "I'm here to check in," she added.

"Oh? Oh, you are the American, yes? Pamela Crain? I am Emilia Sancino. Come." She waited for Callie to leave the little shop, then locked the door and went behind the reception desk in the hotel's lobby.

Callie followed, feeling a little breathless. The mention of her sister's name, the knowledge that Pam had made this reservation sometime earlier, having no idea she'd never live to make the trip—it was all jarring. Callie didn't want to continue to pretend she was Pam, as she'd done with Oliver. But she also couldn't bring herself to tell this stranger that her sister had died or try to explain how she'd found the name of the hotel and decided to come in Pam's place. She didn't know what Pam had written in the letter to Emilia, didn't know if Pam had revealed that Emilia may have known her grandmother, didn't know if, after accepting Pam's reservation, Emilia might not be inclined to host anyone else. Oliver's warnings made Callie nervous. The woman didn't seem particularly happy to see her, and she was scared that admitting she wasn't Pam might encourage her to turn Callie away. She hoped this woman wouldn't ask for her passport, as many hotels in Europe did.

"That's right," she said. "Pamela Crain."

"Si, si," she said. "Signora Crain. You were meant to arrive yesterday. I thought maybe you'd changed your mind."

"Oh, well, yes, about that…" Callie stammered. "There was a problem getting here. Delays. I got a flight as soon as I could?—"

"And you are still interested in…cooking? That's why you're here, right?"

"Yes…I mean, well, yes," she said. "That's why I came. That's what I said in my letter, right?"

"The problem is, as you know, that the cooking session is only two days. And because you are late, you have missed much."

"Oh," Callie said. "I see…"

"But you have already paid for your stay. So I will do a quick lesson after the others leave. Tomorrow, maybe."

"Oh…thank you," Callie said. It was all so strange. Why had Pam given this woman the impression that she wanted to learn to cook? Was it only a pretense so she could ask questions—the same questions that Oliver had warned Callie not to ask? Was Pam that devious?

"Is this your first time in Italy?" the woman asked.

Callie nodded. "It's very pretty, this town."

"Yes. It's much busier in the summer. It gets quieter at this time of year. So, I see you are all paid up. Have a seat, let me get you the key to your room."

Relieved that there had been no passport request, Callie watched the woman come out from behind the reception desk and walk through what appeared to be a dining room, with a large wood table and a huge chandelier. She sat down to wait on one of the armchairs in the center of the lobby. It was a very pretty little hotel, she thought as she looked around. In a very pretty little neighborhood. She usually didn't like small towns. That was what had driven her to leave her home for New York City long ago. She'd always felt so antsy, wondering what else was out there in the larger world, what she was missing, who else she could be meeting.

It used to infuriate Pam sometimes, that need of hers to look beyond whatever four walls were surrounding her. "You're not even listening!" she'd say when Callie's eyes would drift to the window. "I'm trying to tell you something." Callie would feel bad, having no idea what Pam had been saying. But she couldn't help it. Her mind was always busy.

And as she'd grown up, she'd found that she loved being seen that way. It made her seem exciting, romantic. Unpredictable. When she went home for a visit, she always wanted to have something new to share, some wild recent encounter to describe. She liked being a woman who was ready for the next challenge, the next goal, the next adventure. The one who was always full of surprises.

But it was exhausting, too, she'd come to realize. Exhausting trying to be the person she wanted Pam to think she was.

Waiting for Emilia to return, she started to wonder if it was ridiculous to carry on this charade. She didn't want a cooking lesson. All she wanted were answers about what her grandmother had done to make Emilia as angry as Oliver had described, if her grandmother indeed was the one who'd betrayed her. Callie had already annoyed Oliver at the coffee bar by telling him what she intended to do. And she seemed to have annoyed Emilia, too. So why even check in? Why stay any longer than the few minutes it would take to ask her questions and hopefully get a meaningful response? That's all she needed to do—nicely ask her questions, show the menu card and the note scribbled on the back, and leave. She could go back home and spend the time getting the house clean and the pantry stocked in preparation for Joe and Chloe's return. She usually didn't like such tasks, but she felt it was the least she could do for them.

And if Emilia was still nursing some hurt from decades ago, something she hadn't ever forgiven Nonna for, some mistake Nonna had made…well, that wasn't her fault. Callie was confused, too, and sorry that Nonna hadn't shared more. That Nonna had left this mystery in her wake. They'd both get over it. It would be a relief to put this cat-and-mouse game behind her.

Emilia returned to her spot behind the reception desk, and Callie could see her making notes in a binder. She got up and moved to the reception desk. There was actually no reason to even lie anymore. She took her passport out of her bag, so she could set the record straight on who she was and why she was there. As she looked up, her gaze landed on some small, framed black-and-white photos on the edge of the desk. The closest one was familiar, with three teenage girls in ornate gowns, the smallest one with a sparkling tiara. Callie realized this was the same photo now in the locked box in her tote bag. The photo on which Pam had drawn an arrow in orange crayon, pointing to the smallest girl.

Callie blinked and then looked closer. The dark eyes, high forehead, and delicately pointed chin of the smallest girl were unmistakable. She was very, very young, but she was definitely Emilia.

"Oh," Callie said, charmed by the sweet picture, this reflection of the girl this austere, elderly woman had once been. "The youngest one…is that you?"

Emilia shrugged and continued with her notes.

"It is you, isn't it?" Callie said. "Where was this? And who are the others?"

"My sisters," Emilia said, her voice a growl.

"What a wonderful picture," Callie said. She was struck now by how connected the sisters seemed, their arms around each other. The middle sister held Emilia's shoulder so tightly. It seemed such a heartfelt expression of love and concern. Callie didn't think she'd ever taken such a picture with Pam. At least not since she was very young.

"You're all beautiful," Callie said. "You all look so happy here. You?—"

"Signora Crain," Emilia said harshly. "Please give me a moment to finish!"

"Of course. I'm sorry. I'm just taken with this picture. You see, I have a sister, too?—"

"That picture means nothing," Emilia said. "I keep it there because guests seem to like it. It adds to the…" She waved her hand, grasping for the word. "The… atmosfera . Now, did you need a map of the town or a list of places to eat?"

"Well…sure. Yes, thank you." Callie paused. There was something in Emilia's voice that touched her. Something she hadn't heard earlier. Passion. Pain, even. Maybe it was because she'd so recently lost Pam and was feeling guilty about her behavior. But hearing this woman, who also was a little sister, denigrate her older sisters…it felt too mean, too harsh. Too unfair. And she couldn't let the conversation go.

"I just…it seems to mean something, the way you're all hugging here. My sister and I, we were on our own from the time we were young. She always said…says, that sisters are the closest relative there is?—"

"No, it is a mistake to think that way," Emilia said. "Sisters are not always the protectors you expect them to be. Sisters who have secrets, they are not to be trusted. Secrets destroy a family…"

The word "secret" stung. And suddenly Callie felt as though Emilia were attacking not only her own sisters, but her, too. And Pam as well. She and Pam had kept secrets from each other, too. "Maybe they had their reasons…" she murmured.

Emilia sighed with exasperation, and Callie took the key and the map that Emilia placed on the desk. She reached for the handle of her suitcase, her hands trembling. Emilia's harsh words echoed in her mind: Sisters who have secrets, they are not to be trusted…

Yes, Callie thought. Sisters shouldn't have secrets. But did that make them untrustworthy? Couldn't there be an understandable reason that a sister would keep something to herself? Maybe not forever, but for a period of time? Emilia's words made her wonder. She'd given Pam the benefit of the doubt up until now, thinking there had to be some good reason why Pam never told her about this trip. But now she wondered if she was giving Pam too much credit. Could Emilia be right about her sisters, and could Pam have secrets, too?

As she maneuvered the suitcase, her hip bumped into the desk, and the framed photos started to topple. Emilia reached out to steady them, then lifted one that had fallen face down.

"Ah, and that one," she muttered, pointing to the photo in her hand. "She was like a sister, too. I trusted her. A lot of good it did me."

Callie looked at the photo. The picture was of the young Emilia and another girl, a few years older, their arms wrapped around each other's waist. Emilia was in trousers and this other girl was in a belted dress with buttons down the front and a white collar. She had thick, wavy hair, light in color—maybe honey-blonde or champagne-blonde, it was hard to tell in the black-and-white photo. Still, Callie was sure she'd seen that other girl before…

And then she caught her breath. The girl was Nonna. There was no mistaking that round face, that wavy hair, those long limbs. It was her grandmother, whose wedding photo Pam had placed in the locked box.

Her grandmother had been like a sister to Emilia. And had apparently done something to make Emilia hate her.

At that moment, Callie knew she wasn't leaving. She was going to stay and continue to pretend to be Pam. It wasn't worth risking Emilia kicking her out. She wasn't going to fail before she'd even started. The only issue was whether she could win Emilia over. And get her to talk.

She only had four full days to make that happen.