Chapter 20

TWENTY

OCTOBER 2019

Thursday

That afternoon, with the disastrous cooking lesson still on her mind, Callie left the hotel and went down the street to the coffee bar. She wanted to tell Oliver what had happened. She was anxious to share what Emilia had said, how much she'd pressed Callie to talk about her sister, and how angry she'd become when Callie mentioned the photos in the lobby. And she wanted to ask, too, about what Renata had revealed, the food donations to the church. She wondered how much of this Oliver had known, and if anything would be new to him. And she wondered if he'd have any advice for her.

Yes, he had urged her not to question Emilia about anything, and she'd been hopeful that if she spent some time with Emilia, more information would come out. She still didn't know how Pam had ended up with the menu card, or the story behind her grandmother's photo in the lobby.

She still felt bad about lying to Oliver, making him think she was Pam. But she didn't think that should stop her from talking to him. After all, he cared about Emilia, too.

She reached the coffee bar and stepped inside. But when she looked around, she didn't see Oliver anywhere—not behind the bar and not out among the tables. She waited in the entryway for a few minutes, hoping he'd emerge from the kitchen. But when he didn't, she went to the bar and caught the attention of the girl with blue hair she'd seen yesterday.

" Scusi …Oliver?" she asked. "Is he here?" She pointed toward the floor, hoping that would help convey her meaning.

"Oliver? No, mi dispiace ," the girl said. "Not today. Tomorrow, yes."

"Tomorrow? Thank you. Grazie ," she said, and the girl nodded and went back to her work. Callie sighed. She was disappointed that she wouldn't be seeing him today. Now she wouldn't be able to talk to him until tomorrow—and her flight home was Sunday, three days away. Time was passing quickly. And yet, there was more to her disappointment than the fact that she'd have to wait another day to talk with him about Emilia. She had enjoyed his company last night, and wanted to see him again. She was lonely here all by herself—and her loneliness was intensified by the fact that nobody back home knew she was gone. She truly was all alone.

She left the coffee bar, determined not to spend the day feeling sorry for herself. After all, it was a lovely autumn day, the temperature perfect for the jacket she was wearing, the sunshine brilliant, the sky blue and cloudless. She decided she'd explore every inch of this beautiful little town. She went back to the train station and up the stairs where she'd been yesterday, stopping again at the memorial to the Jorelinis. In the light of day, she could see the intricate carving. She looked at the bronze etchings of the two women, and the younger one's cascading hair reminded her anew of her grandmother. It was so reminiscent of her grandmother's beautiful hair in the picture Emilia kept on the reception desk. But how could this be her grandmother, if this young woman—Corinna Jorelini—died in 1943?

Putting that mystery aside, she stared at the plaque a bit longer. The workmanship was so beautiful. She had to believe that these women meant so much to Emilia, for her to commission this work of art.

There were some food trucks parked near the train station, and Callie stopped there for lunch. The vendor, who spoke only a little English, suggested a trapizzino con parmigiana di melanzane— a triangular-shaped pocket made of pizza dough and filled with baked eggplant and cheese. Callie found a small table on the square and dug in, hardly believing how delicious it was. She followed it up with pistachio gelato . It was rich and creamy, and served with a little waffle cookie, which the vendor called a pizzelle . She went back to the hotel when the town closed down during the afternoon hours, but returned to the town center later to stroll through the clothing and gift shops. She also spent some time at a small historical museum, which had photographs of Caccipulia through the decades. It was remarkable to see how similar the layout was today to what it had been like back in the 1930s and 1940s—and to think about what Emilia had gone through as a young girl. It was a story the pictures didn't tell.

Still full from lunch, she stopped in a café in the early evening for a coffee and a bowl of burrida , which she learned was a traditional Italian seafood soup. Then she made her way back to the hotel. She was surprised to realize that even though she'd been alone, it had turned out to be an enjoyable afternoon. It struck her, the thought that you could be alone but not be lonely. And the converse was also true—you could be lonely when you were with others.

The next morning after a quick breakfast at the hotel, she made her way back to the coffee bar. When she walked inside, Oliver was coming out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked disheveled, his curls wild and his face flushed.

"Hey," he said as he crossed behind the bar and stood opposite her.

"Wow, you look like you've been working hard. Coffee is a tough business."

He laughed. "You're telling me. Actually, one of the dishwashers sprang a leak, and I was trying to fix it so we wouldn't have to call in a plumber. We try to save a buck when we can here."

He put the towel on the bar. "I heard you were looking for me yesterday," he said. "Sorry, it was my day off. My sister went to a coffee trade show in Rome, and I was taking care of my three nephews. They're a handful. I guess you know what it's like. Although maybe it's different with a baby. But if she's anything like my nephews, you will have your hands full before long."

"Oh. Yes, my daughter." She'd forgotten for a moment about her lie. She felt her cheeks flush and looked down.

"Was there something you needed?" he asked.

"Yes…I mean, yes." She was glad for the change of subject. "I wanted to tell you that I spent some time with Emilia. She gave me a cooking lesson after all."

"Nice. How did that go?"

"Well, good at first. But then she started talking about her sisters again. And how they abandoned her. Is that true—did they abandon her? From what I read online, they didn't abandon her at all. They died on Parissi Island when the Nazis invaded it, didn't they?"

"There's no direct proof that they died," Oliver said. "But hardly anyone escaped, and those who did, there's information about what happened to them. Like my grandfather. From what I understand, her sisters sent her back here to tell her sick father that they'd be returning soon with medicine for him."

"It's like she doesn't want to believe that they're dead," Callie said. "It's easier for her to think they just never came back. And to be mad at them." She paused. "You know, it's strange," she said. "I was at the historical center yesterday, and I saw photos of how the town looked in the '30s and '40s. And the way you said she rebuilt the town to look exactly like it used to—I feel like maybe she did that because she's still waiting for her sisters. That she wanted to make the town familiar to them when they finally returned. You said she came back here thirty years ago? I bet she still thought back then there was a chance they'd return."

"Hmm. Could be," he said. "Wow. Sounds like she's made an impression on you."

"I guess it's because I know what it's like to be a sister," she said. A younger sister who's been left behind way too early , she added to herself. A younger sister who didn't expect to be alone so soon.

"You okay?" Oliver asked. "I feel like I said something wrong."

"No, no." She shook her head and raised her palms, trying to acknowledge that she'd overreacted. "But you're right—she did make a big impression on me. I want to know more."

"Hey, I have an idea," he said. "I'm having dinner at my sister's tonight—why don't you come? She's a great cook, and she knows a lot about Emilia. And my brother-in-law is actually studying the culture of these small Mediterranean towns for a book he's writing. It'll be fun."

"Dinner?" Callie said. "Oh, that's so nice of you, but…" She was overwhelmed by the invitation. It didn't seem right—she was a stranger, no one to these people. She didn't belong here. Would they really want to have her?

But then she saw how hopeful Oliver looked. It seemed that he genuinely wanted her to come.

"Are you sure I wouldn't be imposing?" she asked.

"Imposing? No! My sister will love it. She always worries that I don't have enough friends here. You'll be doing me a favor."

"Okay, then," she said. "I'd love to."

They agreed that she'd return later that afternoon, after he'd finished work and gone to his apartment above the bar to change his clothes. With the rest of the afternoon free, she wandered around the town, stopping at the food trucks again for lunch. As the day went on, she felt more and more strongly that she was looking forward to going to Oliver's sister's house. Having dinner in someone's home seemed the most wonderful opportunity in the world. It had been such a long time since she'd had an invitation like that. The last time was probably when she'd gone home last Thanksgiving. But it hadn't felt so welcoming. Pam had been so happy with her little baby and her husband and her in-laws. Such a sweet little world they had. And Callie had felt like an outsider.

She thought now of what Thanksgiving would be like this year without Pam. No doubt Joe would try to make things good for the baby. No doubt his parents would help. Yes, there would be tears. Of course, there would be tears. And Pam's seat would be empty. They would continue with smiles of pain, with smiles for the baby, who would need them to think of Pam with joy.

At the hotel, she took a shower and changed into one of her favorite dresses, a short-sleeved floral dress, belted at the waist. Then she headed back to the coffee bar. Oliver was outside waiting for her. He was wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a black pullover sweater. He was really quite lovely, she thought. And he seemed older, more mature, than when she'd first met him in the coffee shop.

They walked down to the train station and to the town's one parking lot, where he kept his car. A few minutes later they were on their way. They drove up a hillside overlooking a deep span of water.

"So tell me about your sister," she said. "How did you both end up here?"

"Well, like I said, I was a teacher in Boston. And a good one. I liked it. I liked the kids. Anyway, I had a sabbatical coming up, just around the time that my sister and I inherited a little money from our grandfather. I was trying to think what to do with it. And the more soul-searching I did, the more I realized that I wanted to open a restaurant. A great place where people could come and stay and hang and feel just plain great."

"So you found out that this was the place to learn about cooking?"

He nodded, his eyes on the road. "My sister studied at the Culinary Institute in New York, which is where she met her husband. He's from this area, but he was living in that part of New York after getting a Ph.D. in anthropology from Syracuse. They married and decided to live here for a while. That was about eight years ago. Well, I had visited them from time to time, but last winter, with my relationship over and my sabbatical starting, it was a chance for me to get away and think about my future.

"And now I have to decide what I'm going to do," he said. "Like I told you, my sabbatical ends in December."

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I honestly don't know," he said. "My buddies are ready to move forward with a restaurant. But I do like it here. Italy agrees with me. Still, it may be time to go home. If Boston is still home. I don't know anymore."

She looked down at her lap. She, too, was no longer sure where home was. She hoped she and Oliver could still be friends after she left on Sunday. No matter where he ended up.

She watched the sun setting behind the hills ahead.