Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

OCTOBER 2019

Wednesday

"Yes, hi!" Callie waved and Oliver jogged over to her. They stood opposite one another awkwardly. The moment seemed to require some sort of physical encounter, but none seemed appropriate. A handshake was too businesslike, and yet a hug felt too personal. They barely knew each other.

Oliver recovered first. "Sorry I was a little late," he said. "The place was super busy because it's such a nice night. So warm for October. Everyone's grateful when the weather throws us a gift like this. It'll be cold before we know it."

"That's true," Callie said. "I've been enjoying walking around. I've never been anyplace like this before. I feel like I've gone back in time."

"I know, right? I love it here, too. And if you like this town, you're going to love where I'm taking you. This great place just down the street has some amazing local dishes."

He led her along the winding road, the stone wall on their left and more trees and shrubs appearing on their right. With fewer shops and cafés, the night felt darker now, lit only by strings of tiny glittering bulbs woven through olive trees along the way. There were fewer people here, as most of the activity was back at Memorial Square.

They stopped for a moment near the wall, the sea now a vast area of darkness dotted with glistening lights from islands in the distance. "I don't know how I'm going to get myself to leave when my sabbatical ends in December," Oliver said, his voice soft. "There's something so special about being here."

The breeze kicked up, and Callie gathered the collar of her jacket around her neck, imagining how wonderful it would be to stay here forever. At this moment, she didn't feel burdened by thoughts of Pam or her life or all her mistakes. "I would stay here longer if I could," she said. "It's like a hideaway. Removed from the world.

"Although I guess that's too simple, isn't it?" she admitted. "It's not removed from the world at all. I read about what happened during the war."

He nodded. "They rounded up all the Jews. And they killed those who helped hide them. To serve as a lesson to other towns."

"So hard to believe all that happened here," Callie said. "I mean, when you're standing right here, it doesn't seem possible."

"They killed or arrested the people, and damaged much of the town, too," Oliver said, leaning his forearms against the wall and looking out toward the sea. "But all that was damaged has been rebuilt. It's a very young town now. Which isn't a bad thing. I think that those who suffered would be happy to see so much life here again, as it was before. At least, I hope that's what they'd feel."

She looked at him. "Do you think Emilia feels that way? She seems pretty angry." She paused, thinking for a moment about the dinner party she'd witnessed, how warm and sociable Emilia had seemed among her guests.

"Well, I guess she's not angry all the time," she added. "Although she sounded pretty angry when she was talking to me. When I noticed that picture of her sisters in the lobby." She didn't mention the other photo she'd seen with her grandmother as a young woman. She wasn't yet ready to reveal to him that her grandmother and Emilia had apparently been close at one point. Close enough to embrace each other and pose for the camera. Before whatever happened to drive a wedge between them.

"As I told you, Emilia's had a hard life," he said.

She nodded. "I read a little about her. How she and her sisters spent the summer of 1943 with their uncle in some lavish castle. How her neighbors hid her when the Nazis were approaching, because she was half-Jewish."

"She left the neighbors' house before the Nazis arrived," Oliver said. "No one really knows how. Or where she went. But she came back about…maybe thirty years ago? And with a boatload of money. She rebuilt this whole town, repaired the damage that remained, and paid for it herself. She turned her childhood home into the hotel you're staying at. The little bakery in the lobby—that's where her father ran a tailor business. The thing is, she never wanted to change the town in any way or take down any of the old buildings. All the stairways and arches—this is exactly how the town looked when the Nazis arrived. That's why you get this sense of going back in time."

"She wanted to recreate the town as she remembered it as a child," Callie said, thinking again of the restaurant.

"Seems that way," Oliver agreed. "But it's hard to know exactly what was in her mind. She never talks about the war or that time she spent in hiding."

Callie turned to look at the town, her back pressed against the stone wall. "I guess that's not unusual. My grandparents were Italian. My grandfather was Jewish, and somehow he and my grandmother were able to get to New York soon after the Nazis invaded Rome. But they never talked about it. My grandmother would get teary when there was even any mention of the past. The sense of secrecy they had—it was pretty intense, I remember. When we were young, my sister and I decided we'd come here one day and find out everything they were keeping from us."

"Your sister? Is she here, too?"

Callie caught her breath, remembering that she was supposed to be Pam. "No…um…she couldn't get away. I told her I'd find out everything, and…tell her when I got back."

"And they were from this town, your grandparents?"

Callie pressed her lips together. She didn't want to reveal that her grandmother was likely the person who had betrayed Emilia. "Well, we think they spent time here in Caccipulia. But I'm still trying to figure that out. Anyway, enough about me. How did you end up here? Do you have a family connection?"

He nodded, seeming perfectly happy to change the subject. He didn't appear to suspect any ulterior motives on her part at all. She admired how open he was, how trusting, and how easy to have a conversation with.

"My grandfather lived in this area when he was young," he said. "And boy, do I know a thing or two about secrets. Pop wasn't Jewish, but he lived on Parissi Island for a time—in that beautiful castle you read about, where Emilia and her sisters spent one summer. He was a musician and a fierce anti-Fascist. The Nazis would have killed him for sure if they'd found him.

"Come on," he said, pointing. "It's not too much further to the place I want to take you."

He led her beneath another archway, which opened up on to a wide restaurant patio. It sat in the middle of a square formed by several stone buildings, white and pink and sun- washed yellow. There were strings of twinkling lights overhead, and balconies along the sides of the buildings, many of which had ivy and orange frangipani blooms trailing from them. The tables were covered in floral tablecloths, and the wicker chairs had orange cushions that matched the flowers overhead. There were potted trees with tiny twinkling lights and tall, gaslit lanterns. Outdoor heaters were set among the tables, the flames dancing inside long glass tubes, and soft, jazzy music played in the background.

"Do you mind eating outdoors?" he said. "Maybe it's unusual for you, to eat outdoors this late in the fall. But here we eat out as often as we can."

"No, I love it," she said. She felt her cheeks glow from the warmth of the nearby flames.

A host approached them, and he and Oliver spoke to each other in Italian, which gave Callie a moment to look more closely at her new friend. She found him quite good-looking, with his large, dark eyes and those thick, dark curls. And that wide smile, that made his cheekbones rise and his eyes light up. There was a sweet, delicate quality about him, thanks to his thin lips, slender nose, pointed chin, and long eyelashes. But he looked solid, too. He was wearing tan pants and a vivid blue button-down shirt, and he had a firm physique, strong shoulders.

Still, it was the smile that really got to her, she thought as she watched him converse with the host. There was something so generous about it—it invited you to smile, too. And it suggested a calmness about him that she wanted to crawl inside. She thought that she could easily deal with anything going on in her life if she had someone around whose whole bearing offered that air of reassurance and rightness.

Oliver thanked the host and then extended his left arm, indicating that she could go ahead and he'd follow. They arrived at a small round table near the stone wall. The host pushed aside a planter, and suddenly they were overlooking the water. It felt like they were floating above the sea.

"This is so beautiful," she breathed.

The host handed them menus, and a few moments later, a server appeared for their drink order. Callie chose a local red wine, and Oliver suggested they get a bottle. But she told him that she feared if she had any more than one glass, she'd fall asleep right at the table. He laughed and ordered a glass for each of them.

"I was a little surprised to see you show up at the coffee bar tonight," Oliver said. "You've been awake, what? Thirty-six hours?"

She shrugged. "I don't feel tired. Actually, I never sleep well when I'm somewhere new. Even moving to Philadelphia, I had trouble sleeping. I think the best solution is just to get good and tired until I can't keep my eyes open anymore."

"Well, a delicious meal can help," he said. "And good wine. And a pretty setting. We have all three." He put his elbows on the table. "That's right, you said you live in Philadelphia. What do you do there?"

"I—" She stopped herself, suddenly remembering again that Oliver was under the impression that she was Pam. That seemed to be the reason Emilia was letting her stay there—because she liked the letter Pam had written. She didn't want to unravel her whole story right now. She didn't want to tell Oliver everything: how she'd moved to Philly, how she'd become estranged from her sister, how she'd discovered the jewelry box and Pam's planned trip only because Pam had died, and how she had called herself Pam just so she could meet Emilia. She didn't want to be that person, the one with all the drama, the one a new friend regrets having dinner with because the conversation is too intense. Oliver was a nice guy, and she hated deceiving him, but it seemed the best decision was to keep the fib going. She was leaving so soon. What did it matter?

"My sister's the one in Philadelphia," she said. "I'm in Connecticut. A small town called Little Bridge. About an hour's train ride from New York City."

"Oh. I thought you said it was you who lived in Philadelphia."

"Well…I did, but I came back. I'm hoping that my sister will move back, too."

"You don't like Philadelphia?"

"No, it's a great city. Lots of history. I just…I miss her. I don't quite know why she decided to move. It was kind of spur-of-the-moment. She didn't tell me…"

The waiter returned with the wine, which was a great relief. She was tying herself in knots, this crazy conversation.

" Salute ," Oliver said as he clinked his glass with hers. They both took a sip, and she lowered her glass to the table.

"So what do you do in Little Bridge?" he asked.

"I'm a teacher," she said, continuing to be Pam. "Third grade."

"No kidding. And what got you interested in cooking?"

"Cooking?"

"Emilia's cooking classes. You must have made your reservation several months ago at least. She fills up pretty fast."

She paused. She had assumed Pam had booked the class just to get close to Emilia, but she didn't want to tell Oliver that.

"Although maybe you had special treatment because of the letter you wrote."

"Yes, the letter," she said. "I guess that helped…"

Again, the server saved her, this time to take their order. Oliver said something in Italian, and after the server responded, he nodded and looked at Callie. "We can get some antipasti, we can order a few pasta dishes, or maybe you'd like some meat or fish? What are you in the mood for?"

"Pasta would be good," she said. "For my first night in Italy."

"I think so, too," he said. "The specialty tonight is spaghetti alla scoglio , pasta with mixed seafood. Clams, mussels, squid. Or something simpler. What do you think about cacio e pepe —that's pecorino Romano cheese and black peppercorns? It's a favorite in this part of Italy. A little spicy, if you're up for it."

"They both sound great," she said. "I wouldn't even know how to decide."

"Why don't we get both? And we can share? Unless you want to think about some other choices? I can translate more of the menu for you, if you'd like."

"No, this will be perfect," she said, appreciating his efforts to ensure she got what she wanted. It felt good to be included, even though she didn't know much about the regional cuisine.

Oliver exchanged a few more words with the server, and then turned back to her. "So how did you hear about Emilia's cooking school?"

Callie breathed in. It was going to be tricky, to tell him what she'd found without saying who she truly was. She started to think it was ridiculous to have lied in the first place. But telling the truth would mean revealing so much baggage. And she didn't have the courage to come clean right now. What if he got angry? What if he told Emilia what she said? What if Emilia kicked her out after all—when she had seen the picture of her grandmother on Emilia's desk and was now more driven to solve Pam's mystery than before?

But suddenly, she was aware of having a change of heart. Maybe it was the wine, the beautiful setting, the romantic sound of Italian, or simply Oliver's tender personality and irresistible smile. She wanted to reveal a little more. She trusted him. And maybe he could help her get to the bottom of her family's past. She thought she could reveal her grandmother's secret without necessarily admitting she wasn't Pam.

"Well, it's complicated," she said. "You see, I wrote to Emilia and got her response. I was excited about the cooking class. But mostly I wanted to come here because of my grandmother. Like I said, she didn't talk much about growing up in Italy, but she always talked about making a mistake, and being saved by someone. Someone she never got the chance to thank. We never knew what the mistake was or who the person was, but I do remember hearing her and my grandfather sometimes mention the name Emilia. And then I was going through some drawer…cleaning out a room, you know…and I came across some old things I didn't understand. There was a menu, like a recipe card, and a note written on the back in Italian. I think it may have been written by Emilia. And there also was mention of this town.

"Then things got even more complicated yesterday," she continued. "Because when I checked in, Emilia had some photos on the reception desk, and when I pointed them out, she said they were her sisters, and she was so angry at them. But there was another photo of Emilia with a young woman I'm sure was my grandmother. And Emilia…well, she seemed mad at her as well."

"A photo of Emilia with your grandmother? The one on the reception desk? With them hugging?"

Callie nodded. "Yes, that one. It's right next to the one with her sisters. They look like loving pictures, both of them, but Emilia told me she only keeps them there because guests like to see old pictures."

"But that picture—it's the one of the person who betrayed her. That's what Emilia has always said. If that's your grandmother, then she's the one Emilia has been angry at all these years." He looked like he thought he was imparting new information, but her expression must have told him she wasn't surprised. "Or did you know this already?"

"I didn't know anything—but what you're saying, it makes sense to me, too," she admitted. "And so this seems like the family secret our grandmother never wanted to talk about. The mistake she made. I think that whatever it is that my grandmother regretted, it had to do with Emilia. And whatever she did to make Emilia so angry—well, maybe she never wanted to return because she always felt so bad about it."

"And this is why you're here?" he asked. "More than the cooking class?"

She nodded and went on to tell him about the trip to California. "I mean, if this is the story that made her so sad and nervous her entire life, that made her cry when she thought about how old the trees were…

"And then, the strangest thing happened, just now," she added. "Maybe you can help me figure it out. My grandmother's name was Corinne. And when I went to the spot you mentioned, Memorial Square—one of the women mentioned on the memorial plaque was named Corinna…"

"Wait, you think your grandmother was Corinna Jorelini?" he asked, his eyes wide. "That would be something big. She's a hero around here. Emilia commissioned that memorial plaque, you know. Philippa and Corinna Jorelini helped feed all the Jews that were hiding here in town."

"Feeding the Jews?" Callie asked. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know all that much about it," Oliver said. "But evidently Corinna Jorelini and her mother ran a…a secret restaurant in their home. You see, there were many Jews who fled through this town when the Nazis invaded northern Italy. They'd stay here in town until they got the signal from the Resistance that it was safe to continue with their trip. And some families housed them and fed them when they arrived. Food was scarce then, and the local families would buy it on the black market and then pool whatever they could scrape together. And Corinna and Philippa would cook the food and help distribute it to the Jews who were fleeing."

"That sounds like my grandmother," Callie said. "She was an amazing cook. And a generous person. But she couldn't be the woman in the memorial. The plaque says she died in 1943, and my grandmother died decades later. Still, it's curious, isn't it? The photo of my grandmother on the desk. And the names being so similar. I know they can't be the same person. But still, I had this funny feeling when I saw the plaque. Like I was seeing something that felt familiar…"

She shook her head. "Maybe I'm thinking too much. Maybe it's not even my grandmother in that photo. Maybe I just want it to be. You see…"

She paused, frightened that the wine was loosening her tongue. But then she continued, sure that the train of thought was safe. "Sometimes in your life you want to learn more about who you are, you know? And I wanted to…I mean, I just thought this was a good time for me to see if I could find out more about who I am." She paused again. She was sure he had to be thinking she wasn't making sense. But then he surprised her.

"I know exactly what you mean," he told her.

Before she could ask him to explain, the server returned with the pasta, placing the seafood one in front of her and the cheese-and-pepper one in front of Oliver. The dishes smelled wonderful, a sweet blend of wine, tomatoes, and spices. And she loved how beautiful they each looked, how the colors and shapes created almost a work of art—the straw-colored pasta, the red cherry tomatoes and slices of pepper, the deep-green bits of parsley, the dark oblong mussels and light-shelled clams all arranged so precisely. Oliver put a portion of his dish onto one of the extra plates the waiter had left, and she did the same. They handed the plates to one another and both of them started to eat. Callie felt mesmerized by the taste of her seafood pasta.

"How is this so good?" she asked.

"The freshness of the ingredients, the spices—and also they do something very interesting here with the seafood dishes," Oliver said. "They use the seafood broth to boil the pasta. It gives it a very unusual taste, doesn't it? Extra flavor infused in the pasta, right? Just one of the little tricks you learn when you spend some time here."

At that moment, the music in the background changed. Callie recognized the melody—it was the same music she'd heard in the hotel. Haunting and hypnotic. Oliver sat back, fork in hand, and smiled at someone behind her. She turned to see the host giving him a thumbs-up.

Oliver shook his head and chuckled. "They do this all the time."

"Do what?"

"Do you hear that music?"

She nodded. "It's beautiful. It was playing at the hotel, too."

"My grandfather composed that," he said. "He was a brilliant composer. And he has a connection to Parissi Island. That's the story I mentioned before we sat down. He was there in the castle. When Emilia was there, actually. Unfortunately we didn't realize the connection until after he'd died. But he did know Emilia and her sisters."

"Really?" Callie asked.

"He composed this piece while he was there. Do you know the whole story about Parissi Castle? It was this unique place where artists and scientists and inventors went to do their work. It was owned by Emilia's uncle, Patricio Parissi, her mother's brother. And it was stormed by the Nazis and all but destroyed. Only a few people escaped."

"And your grandfather escaped?"

"Yes. He was one of the lucky ones. And Emilia escaped, too. She had been sent back days earlier to care for their sick father. But her sisters didn't survive. She was only a teenager when all this happened."

"Oh no," Callie said. "No wonder she's so hurt."

"So the rumor was that my grandfather was in love with her older sister," Oliver continued. "And that he composed this piece for her. He never talked about it directly, though. He was very secretive. You see, he had a good marriage to my grandmother. He would never have hurt her by admitting that his first love was someone else. They had seven children. My father ended up in Baltimore, which is where I grew up."

They listened in silence to the melody.

"Everyone here knows who I am," Oliver said. "Everyone knows who my grandfather was. They play his music when I'm around. Not so well-known in America, but he's practically a household name in this part of Italy. He wrote an autobiography, too. But he never confirmed his love for Emilia's sister."

She looked at him. "So you do know exactly why I'm here," she said. "Is it crazy? We're both embracing ghosts. Sometimes I wonder if that's the best thing I could be doing right now. It's not like having the answers can change everything that happened before. So why are we doing it?"

"I don't think it's crazy at all," he told her. "I think it matters, knowing where we came from. Being surrounded by it, shaped by it. Even if the past can't be changed, the future can, don't you think? I can't help but believe that everything we do, everything we learn…well, it changes us a little. Hopefully for the better."

She nodded, grateful for what Oliver had just said. She hoped that being here would change her in a good way. So she could go home knowing what to do next. What would make her life more fulfilling than it had recently been.

"So you came here to find out more about your grandfather?" she asked.

"Well, that and other things," he answered. "As I told you, I came here to study cooking with Emilia. I do have this plan to open a restaurant with some college buddies in Boston early next year."

"And what will happen to the coffee bar?" she asked. "Will you sell it?"

"Actually, I own it with my sister. She's lived here for several years. Her husband is Italian—he's an anthropologist and teaches college classes remotely. They have a beautiful house up in the hills on the outskirts of town. They have three boys, and a little girl on the way. So it's a busy household."

"How nice, that you have your sister close," Callie said.

"It was a lifesaver," he said. "I came here after I'd broken up with someone. I wanted to settle down, and she—well, it's a long story. But that's another reason I came here—to get my head on straight after the break-up. It was so good to be with my sister and her family. I finally realized that Nina was never the right one for me."

Callie looked down at her plate. It struck her that when Oliver ended his relationship, he sought out family, while when she was in that position, she ran from family. What did that mean?

"Anyway, Emilia's classes are pretty amazing," he said. "People come from all over the world to take them. Sometimes she introduces them to local cheesemakers or fishmongers or vintners, and they talk about their craft. Everyone has a great time. I think you may have missed it, though. Tonight was the farewell dinner, I think."

"Oh, so that's what I saw," she said. "There was a big dinner going on in the dining room when I left. And they were all so happy and so engaged and talking and laughing as Emilia was serving. I would have sworn they'd all known each other forever, like they were old friends or something."

"Food does that. It brings people together."

They finished eating, and were soon on their way back to the town center, Oliver having insisted on paying the bill. They passed the train station and coffee bar, and Callie realized that he was walking her all the way back to the hotel. The moon was out, the sky was clear. It was a beautiful evening.

"So…so Emilia mentioned you have a daughter," he said as they walked up the staircase to the hotel. "She said you wrote about it in your letter."

She nodded. "That's right. A little girl. Chloe. She's a little over a year old."

"And where is she now?"

"Back home. With her father." She paused. "My husband."

"Oh. And what does he do?"

"He's a lawyer."

"Very nice," he said.

They reached the hotel, and she stopped and looked at him. "Thank you for dinner," she said. "I hope I'll see you again before I leave."

"Sure," he said. "Stop by for coffee anytime."

He turned, and she watched him head back down the stairs to the cobblestone street, his figure a silhouette in the moonlight. Then she went inside. The lobby was quiet. She looked into the dining room. Most of the dishes had been cleared. She heard voices coming from the kitchen, water flowing, some laughter. The laughter of cleaning up, lovingly taking care of a home.

She listened to the sound, thinking of what Oliver had said, how food brings people together. She thought about the tradition of cooking and the role that it played in Emilia's life. She wished she could go into the kitchen and help out. But she didn't belong there.

So she went upstairs, thinking about Oliver. She'd been sorry to have to say she was married. She thought he'd looked disappointed when she said it. Still, she'd enjoyed their talk over dinner so much. She knew she would go back to the coffee bar to see him.

She only wished he knew who she really was.