Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

OCTOBER 2019

Wednesday

With the box tucked safely away in her hotel room dresser, Callie looked outside at the sea in the distance. She was exhausted from traveling, but she wasn't ready to go to sleep. To her surprise, she realized that what she most wanted to do was go back to the coffee bar to see Oliver. She hated how she'd come across to him—heartless, capable of confronting an old woman and demanding information. Not that Emilia needed protecting. She had a tough exterior, and despite that touch of frailty and vulnerability Callie had noticed, it was clear that if she didn't want to talk about something, she wouldn't. Still, Callie didn't want Oliver to think she was a horrible person. He'd been so friendly and warm, and she wanted to redeem herself in his eyes. Not to mention that she'd been accused of being mean before. And she'd hated it.

"You're so defensive," Pam had said on the phone last spring. "You always think I'm out to get you, so you lash out."

"But you are out to get me. You're out to change me."

"I am not."

"No? Then why are you always trying to fix me up with one of Joe's friends? I don't need your help with dates. I don't need your input on who would make a good boyfriend. I can use my own judgment. I can!"

But she'd known back then that she wasn't using the best judgment. Not by a long shot. It was months into her relationship with Mr. New Orleans, and she'd known the end was inevitable. Nothing big had happened, no knock-down, drag-out fights. Just small, continuous digs, back and forth. They'd gotten into a big argument on Saturday afternoon, as he'd dropped her off at her apartment. They'd spent the day at a food fair in Brooklyn. It had been such fun—they'd tasted all kinds of foods, Latin and Greek, Korean and Indian and African. She'd enjoyed sharing exotic sandwiches and warm bowls, walking arm in arm, trying something at nearly every booth they'd passed. She'd wished life could always be this good.

She didn't know when things went off the rails. Probably it happened as the afternoon had waned, and the lights and carnival atmosphere had started to diminish. Vendors broke down booths while she was still eager for more. Suddenly she was aware of how temporary the day's festivities had been, and it upset her. By evening, there'd be no sign that the event had even taken place.

"You knew this about me," he said as he left her on the front step of her apartment building. "I thought you understood who I am."

"I did. And I thought I was okay with it?—"

"So if you're not, you're not. Be like your sister. Maybe that's what you really want. Go back home and be just like her."

"You know that's not what I want," she'd said.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want…" She'd hesitated. She couldn't say it outright.

"You don't even know," he'd said. "Where is this getting us? Who knows if you even want what you think you want? Why can't we just be ?"

He'd started down the street. As if she was the one making unfair demands.

That was the last fight. But it wasn't the last time she'd seen him.

She took a shower, changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a pullover sweater, and threw on her jacket. Leaving her room, she paused on the bottom stair. It was just about seven, and the sky was dark through the windows. The lobby looked almost haunted, the lamps on the end tables switched on, the glow making the glass teardrops hanging from thick gold tassels on the drapes sparkle.

She peeked past the double doors behind the reception desk and saw a long dining room table set for dinner for eight people, with china and crystal and floral napkins and a beautiful damask tablecloth. Emilia seemed to be hosting a dinner party of some kind. Which seemed strange, as she didn't seem the dinner party type. But this was clearly set to be a lovely event. There were lilies surrounded by greenery in tall vases and a set of crystal candlesticks with tall tapers waiting to be lit.

Curious, Callie looked deeper inside the room. A dark-brown breakfront was on the opposite wall, sporting stacks of formal dessert plates and shallow bowls and linen napkins edged in lace, all waiting to be used. Suddenly a swinging door opened from what appeared to be the kitchen, and Emilia emerged carrying a thick iron pot, which she set on a trivet in the middle of the dining room table. The steam rose, and even from here, Callie thought it smelled heavenly, rich with seasonings like rosemary, garlic, and basil.

Stepping back, she pressed her shoulder against the wall so Emilia wouldn't see her, and glimpsed around the corner. A group of people followed Emilia out, one carrying a platter of steaming vegetables, and another a basket of bread. They all found a seat, and Emilia took the bowls from atop the breakfront and brought them to the table. Using a silver ladle, she started to serve from the pot. It looked like a pasta dish, the food rich and red as she spooned it out. She scooped a generous portion for each person, added on vegetables, and then sent around the bread. The talk was a mix of English and Italian, but mostly Italian. One of the guests uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured. When everyone was served, they all raised their glasses and sang out, " Salute! "

Callie kept her gaze on Emilia, who was smiling and nodding as the others spoke. She wore a pretty patterned dress and her hair was pulled back into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. She had not seemed nearly so warm when Callie had checked in this afternoon. The sounds in the room became muted as everyone began to eat. A kind of spiritual air took over the room, as the food and wine worked their magic. Callie supposed that was what a lovely dinner prepared in someone's home could do. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd been invited to a meal at someone's home. She always thought she preferred going out, the newer and trendier the place, the better.

But not now, as she peeked out at this joyful group. She yearned to be seated at the table, too. Even if she couldn't understand what they were saying, she thought she'd still feel at home. She wondered who these people were and how they came to be there. She wanted to know their secret. How they came to be so happy. How they came to share such love. Of food. Of wine. Of each other's company.

With a sigh, she crossed the lobby toward the front door. Nobody noticed her.

Outside, she made her way back down the steep staircase and onto the main street. It was busy now, the lights on in all the shops and eateries. Oliver's shop was packed, with people claiming tables and walking up to the bar to order coffee from one of the three servers behind it. Oliver was there, his dark curls hanging over his forehead, working the espresso machine: cleaning the pipes and twisting the knobs and gracefully placing the short cups under the spigot and then onto the saucer when they were filled. She stood by the bar and watched him. It was almost as though she were watching a delightfully choreographed dance.

She saw him catch sight of her. She waved, and he held up a pointer finger to indicate he'd be right there, then picked up a tray with four cups and brought it to a foursome at a small round table. He threw his towel over his shoulder and went back to talk to one of the servers, a young girl with blue hair and a line of studs along the rim of her ear. Then he threw the towel onto the counter by the espresso machine and came over to her.

"Hey," he said. She thought he looked happy to see her, and yet she sensed a bit of aloofness, too. "Did you meet Emilia? Did you find out what you wanted to know?"

"Well…no. Not really," she said with resignation.

"Why? She kicked you out?"

She scowled. "No, she didn't kick me out. But you were right. I didn't want to be rude. My needs aren't hers. She owes me no explanation."

"So you didn't ask anything?"

"I couldn't. She mentioned her sisters and…" She paused. She didn't know if now was the right time to bring up her grandmother's picture. She didn't know this guy at all, and it seemed too personal a revelation for this crowded space. "And she seemed so hurt by them. I didn't have the heart to ask her to relive anything painful. I found myself…I don't know. I can see why you want to protect her."

He nodded. "She's like that, isn't she? She seems the kind of person who never gets along with anyone. And yet everyone falls in love with her. I don't get it either." He raised his eyebrows. "So what will you do now?"

She thought about that. "I don't know. I don't want to leave just yet."

"No?"

"I want to hear her story. I want to share mine with her. I want to see where they intersect—because I know she does have this connection with my…" She hesitated, not wanting to reveal that Nonna was likely the person he'd spoken about earlier, the person he believed had somehow betrayed Emilia. She'd tell him later. Maybe.

"With this connection with my family," she continued. "But I don't want to bulldoze her. I want her to tell me because she wants to connect with me, too. I saw her with all these people, having dinner in her dining room and it—" She shrugged. "It had an impact on me."

He eyed the clock above the bar. "Are you hungry? Did you eat?"

She glanced down at her stomach, as if she'd find the answer there. "I don't know. I'm all messed up with the time. It's the middle of the afternoon for me. But sure…now that I think of it, I am pretty hungry."

"Look, I haven't had dinner yet, and I'm starving," he said. "I can probably cut out of here in about half an hour. How about we get something to eat? Sound good?"

She hesitated. She wasn't sure it was smart to make a friend here. She was leaving in less than a week. Still, she didn't want to say no to Oliver. He seemed very nice. And his concern for Emilia was sweet. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life second-guessing her instincts when someone kind came along.

"Sounds good," she agreed.

"Great. I want to know more about you. Here's what we'll do. Go past the train station, you remember where it is, right? Then through the arch across the street and up the stairs. That's Memorial Square. There's lots of great restaurants and a pretty view of the water in the distance with lights sparkling from the trees."

She nodded as he went back to the espresso machine. She liked what he said. That he wanted to know more about her.

She couldn't remember the last time someone had told her that.

She left the coffee bar and started back in the direction of the train station, enjoying how there were no cars around, just lots of people. She strolled down the winding cobblestone street, taking in alleys and archways that seemed to appear everywhere, with stone steps apparently leading up to whole other neighborhoods. It was a strange mix of scary and quite beautiful, this town, with vines hanging from flower boxes casting snakelike shadows on the street. She thought about what she'd read online, the destruction that had taken place here. Amazing, she thought, how strong and vibrant it now was. Many of the buildings looked quite old. It was sobering to think these buildings had been here, witnesses to the many people who'd been killed.

It made her think of that California vacation her grandparents had taken her and Pam on long ago. The way her grandfather had mused about how much the trees had seen and how many secrets they had, which had brought her grandmother to tears.

Callie continued to the train station, then through the arch across the street, as Oliver had instructed, and up a staircase that led to a square courtyard. There were glass-encased gas streetlamps resting atop wrought-iron fixtures attached to stone walls, and planters filled with greenery and flowers in bloom, purple and fuchsia and red. Most of the buildings were white, but some were pink or orange, a mix of pastels. The courtyard and streets were filling with people—elderly people walking hand in hand, young couples with strollers feeding ice cream to their children, lovers strolling with their arms encircling one another's waist. All around her was life and vivacity and vibrancy. But there was something more. There was an energy, a drive. It infused how people walked, how they conversed, how they ate their ice cream cones or other handheld treats, with joy and gusto. She passed bars and restaurants where people were singing, music was playing. Through another archway, she spotted a stone wall decorated with colorful posters of movies and celebrity appearances and museum exhibits in Rome, Venice, Florence.

It was mesmerizing, the energy, the laughter, the loudness. And this wasn't even tourist season, according to Emilia. These people were locals. But still, the town was crowded and exciting. And she somehow couldn't shake the feeling that she was in a place where people were trying to catch up. Mostly everyone here would have been born after the war, but perhaps they were still affected by it—the hunger, the deprivation, the fear, the occupation of their home by outsiders. The killing that had gone on in this very town. Perhaps it was in their DNA. There seemed to be an effort to live grandly and boldly and loudly, to live twice as loud to make up for those years of quiet and fear. She admired these people. She admired their drive to live well.

She walked back to the center of the courtyard, and then noticed a sign on a nearby wall adjacent to a set of stairs. The sign had an arrow pointing upward and the words Piazza della Memoria . She figured that was Memorial Square, where Oliver had suggested they meet.

She climbed up the staircase, which led to another cobblestone street, this one with restaurants and cafés on her right, all sporting gaslit streetlamps. To her left was a waist-high stone wall, beyond which was the sea. She walked over to look. She hadn't realized how high she'd climbed. But she was glad she had, because this was truly one of the most breathtaking views she'd ever seen. The sky was huge and vast and inky blue. The water formed a kind of cove, and she could see the white foam of soft waves.

It was amazing to be up this high, looking out on to this beautiful night. She felt as though she were seeing the whole universe from up here. No wonder people danced and sang and laughed all around here. There was so much to fall in love with.

She turned and saw some kind of memorial set into a wall, which no doubt was how the square had gotten its name. She walked closer. Lit by a single light underneath was a bronze etching of two women, one older and one younger. The older woman was holding a cauldron and the younger one had a large basket in each hand, her hair cascading in thick waves to her shoulders. Their skirts seemed to be blowing in the wind.

Callie looked down at the dedication, which also was lit from underneath.

Philippa Jorelini, 1888–1943

Corinna Jorelini, 1922–1943

Caccipulia Club Della Cena

She blinked in surprise as she recognized those Italian words. The Caccipulia Supper Club. The same words that were on the menu card she'd brought with her from home. The dates and last name seemed to suggest that the women were related, maybe mother and daughter. But it was the first name, Corinna, that most caught her attention. It was so close to Corinne, her grandmother's name. Could this statue be dedicated to her grandmother and her great-grandmother? The grandmother who was in a photo in the hotel lobby, embracing Emilia? It couldn't be, though. It had to be a coincidence. After all, her grandmother hadn't died in 1943.

No, she'd died almost six decades after that. Callie thought about her grandmother now. So tall and so beautiful, with her chin-length bob that had turned from blonde to gray over the years. And so kind and engaging, when she wasn't in one of her gloomy moods, as Nonno would call those times that she brought up Emilia's name. She'd been a teacher, like Pam. She'd loved it, and she'd been good at it, also like Pam. Callie remembered how parents of her grandmother's students would stop them in the supermarket or at the library, their smiles always proving how much they loved Nonna, how happy they were that she was their kids' teacher.

And she was the most remarkable cook. Even now, Callie remembered how delicious her grandmother's pasta would taste, how rich the sauce, sweet but not too sweet. Nonna hadn't had the patience to read or knit, and she hadn't particularly liked watching television. She was never as happy, never as at home, as when she was teaching a classroom of children or cooking in her kitchen.

Callie remembered sometimes sneaking down the hallway at school to peek into Nonna's kindergarten classroom, the one with the red cardboard heart with Nonna's name, Mrs. Sackes, affixed to the door. She always marveled at how mesmerized the children looked when Nonna was speaking. One time while Nonna was sitting in the front of the room reading from a picture book, a little boy started coughing. The kids were finishing their snack, and something had gone down the wrong pipe, as Nonno used to say. Nonna paused from her reading and caught the boy's eye. She looked at him with such encouragement and care that Callie could have sworn it was her expression that helped him catch his breath and clear his throat.

"Are you okay?" Nonna had asked gently, smiling and wrinkling her nose.

He nodded.

"Good," she said with a giggle and returned to the story. The other students all looked at her with such devotion. Callie was sure they would each happily swallow something down the wrong pipe if it would get them the attention she'd given to their classmate.

When Callie was twelve, her grandparents both died within a few months of each other. Nonno went first. A stroke. A few months later, Nonna was diagnosed with cancer, which progressed very quickly. She'd passed less than a year after Nonno. Pam had said that she died of a broken heart. That she couldn't bear to live in this world after her one true love was gone. He'd just?—

"Pam? Pam!"

Callie looked up to see Oliver waving at her. She suddenly was jerked back to the present day, as she remembered that she'd introduced herself to him as Pam.

She was glad to see him. And yet, she couldn't help but think that lying wasn't the best way to begin a friendship.