Chapter 8

EIGHT

OCTOBER 2019

Wednesday

When the plane landed in Rome, Callie made her way through the airport. Despite having slept very little on the flight, she felt alert and ready to get on with her trip, eager for what she might discover. Although she'd been questioning her life's decisions ever since she'd arrived back home for Pam's funeral, at this moment she appreciated her independence and ability to navigate unfamiliar places. She took an Uber to the city's main train station, found a seat at a sandwich bar for a panini and a coffee, and then proceeded to her track for the 1:30 p.m. train to Caccipulia. Sitting beside the window as the train sped southward, she felt a spark of delight at the sight of the shimmering Mediterranean Sea. It felt cleansing. She was tired of thinking of herself and how she'd failed Pam. She was glad to be looking forward. It would be good to be someplace where nobody knew her or any part of her story.

Because it was a story she hadn't yet come to terms with; she hadn't yet been able to get past her shame. And it had started, too, on a trip to somewhere new. Having hopped around from job to job for years—gravitating to positions involving travel, as she was desperate for a glamorous, sophisticated life that would once and for all free her from Pam's interference—she'd finally landed a marketing position in the Manhattan office of a global consulting firm. It was a job with lots of potential, and she was certain that over time, she could make good money and meet lots of smart, worldly people. Her first week, she was sent to New Orleans, where her firm was holding a training session for new marketing managers from across the country.

And that's when she'd met the man who'd shown her around the Big Easy.

He was a vice president with one of her firm's top clients, and he'd come to the conference to give a presentation on client needs. Watching him on stage speaking before a crowded ballroom filled with ambitious interns and junior-level employees, she'd been smitten. He was so charismatic, so put-together in his appearance, and so good-looking, with his artfully tousled dark hair combed away from his forehead, his short, neatly trimmed beard, and his strong, square jaw. She knew he was older than her, maybe in his early forties, but she liked that. She'd never felt strongly about any of the men her age whom she'd dated in the past.

The meeting ended with a dinner for all attendees, and he'd approached her afterward as she was heading to the elevator and asked if she'd like to take a walk that evening. He said he'd noticed her across the room, and loved how serious and attentive she'd been. How mesmerizing her dark eyes. How lovely the color of her hair. "Like butterscotch," he'd said, pushing a strand away from her face.

Of course, she'd agreed to the walk, and—thankful for the mild temperatures that week—met up with him after changing from her business suit into her favorite sundress, a white, tiered style with spaghetti straps and decorative buttons down the front. He showed up wearing jeans and an ocean-blue shirt that matched the color of his eyes.

It was her first time in New Orleans, and she found the city sexy and exciting that night, especially since she was with such a handsome and successful man. They'd walked along Bourbon Street, listening to the sounds of jazz quartets coming through the wide, open doors of the bars and clubs. It was February, shortly before Mardi Gras, and he'd ordered a king cake at a small eatery for them to share. It was so sugary that it made her eyes tear, and they'd laughed and laughed at the bizarre treat. They'd bought colorful masks at one of the shops along the way, black with gold rims and purple feathers, with long sticks attached for holding them over their faces.

Back in New York, she'd imagined where their relationship could go. She envisioned hosting big dinners for important people, living in a huge house, going to galas and benefits, wearing fancy gowns. She imagined how lucky everyone would think she was, and how lucky people would think him, too. Because she was young and pretty, and he was so in love with her.

One day, on a lark, she bought an evening gown, an elegant, black strapless number with beading around the bodice. His firm sponsored a charity benefit at Lincoln Center each spring, and she hoped to appear in public on his arm. But he'd never invited her, and she hadn't asked about it. She'd given the dress away the week she'd moved to Philly, shoving it into the clothing donation bin outside of Stan's Sundries on Broad Street. She hoped someone would get a beautiful surprise when they found it, tag still on, never worn. She didn't deserve anything so beautiful, but maybe someone else did.

Now, as she sat on the train eyeing the gorgeous blue sea in the distance, she thought back on that evening in New Orleans. There were times she'd wished she could relive it, over and over again, that exciting evening when wonderful things seemed to lie before her. She wondered if Pam had ever felt that way, ever had a moment so wonderful, she didn't want to leave it behind. Maybe her wedding day? Or the day Chloe was born? But no, Pam would never have wanted that. Those days were wonderful for Pam not just in and of themselves, but because of what they would lead to. All that was ahead. Part of living the most wonderful day of your life was knowing that tomorrow, there was more wonderful to come. Which was why that evening in New Orleans was not so wonderful at all.

The train arrived in Caccipulia, and Callie followed the other passengers through the station. Outside on the raised entranceway, she looked around, thinking that it seemed she'd traveled not just across the ocean but back in time as well. Caccipulia was a quaint, picturesque town. The buildings were mostly stone, the colors white and pale orange and a muted, tea-stained brown. The cobblestone streets were winding and narrow, and there were no cars or buses at all. She'd expected this wasn't a touristy place—but now the thought scared her. At least if she were somewhere popular with tourists, there'd be people to help her find her way. It bothered her, that despite her efforts to come across as so tough and independent, deep inside she could be so timid. She told herself to muscle up, that she was here now and had a job to do.

After consulting her phone for directions to the Albergo Annagiule, she started down what seemed to be the main commercial block, wheeling her suitcase alongside her. There were pink frangipani and other flowers in bloom that evidently didn't realize it was fall. The street was largely empty, and many stores were closed, as she remembered was common in Italy at this time of day. It was hard to follow the directions from her phone, as there weren't many street signs. And when she went to check the map on her phone again, she saw that she had no service.

Ahead of her was what appeared to be a coffee bar, the lights on and a green sign with the word " Aperto " taped to the window. She assumed that aperto meant the place was open—the only open place as far as she could tell. She decided to go inside and see if she could get some help finding her hotel.

The shop was small and dark, with a long wooden bar and several round bistro tables. A server was sitting behind the bar, reading a newspaper. He looked her way when she entered.

"Signorina?" he asked. " Posso aiutarla? "

She assumed he was asking her what she wanted, and she hesitated, feeling bad that she didn't know more than a few words of Italian. "Um… buon giorno …" she started. "I am… sono… trying to get to this hotel… albergo …"

"You're American!" the man exclaimed, sounding as though he could have been a neighbor back home. She was taken aback and laughed, happy for the familiar cadence and pronunciation.

"Have a seat, let me get you coffee," he said. "What a surprise—we rarely see Americans. Where are you from?"

Though he seemed to be about her age, he reminded her of a puppy, with his mop of curly, dark hair, his long limbs, and his effusive personality. And he had a warm, wide smile. She was charmed by his friendliness. She liked him immediately.

Letting go of the handle to her suitcase, she sat down on a stool at the bar, glad for this unexpected welcome. "New York," she said. "Well, New York until recently, now Philadelphia."

"No kidding. I'm from Boston myself. I know, far from home to be working in a coffee bar, right? In real life, I'm a high school teacher. Physics and chemistry."

"Oh?" she said. "How did you wind up here?" She knew it was a forward question, but she had the feeling he wanted to chat.

"I'm on sabbatical," he said. "And possibly making a career change. I'm thinking of investing in an Italian restaurant with some buddies back home. And if you're looking to open an Italian restaurant, this is the place to learn about Italian cooking."

"It is?"

"Absolutely. This town has quite a culinary history. And an amazing cooking school."

"Oh, yes," she said, nodding. "I saw that online."

"Hey, how about an espresso?" he asked. "Make yourself at home, I'll bring it right over."

She watched him turn to the big espresso machine behind him and expertly move his hands along the pipes and knobs. The spigot belched steam and then released the rich, dark liquid into a small cup he'd placed underneath.

He brought it to her. It was strong and smooth, and felt good going down.

"So are you staying in town?" he asked.

"That's my problem, I don't quite know." She showed him the name of the hotel on her phone. "I have a reservation here. Albergo Annagiule. Do you know it?"

"Oh, Emilia's place!" he said. "Sure. The white building at the end of the road. At the top of the steps."

"Yes, Emilia's place," she said. She wasn't sure whether to be surprised that he knew Emilia or not. After all, it was a small town, and she was a bit of a celebrity.

He nodded. "I'm surprised you got a reservation. She doesn't take in a lot of guests these days, and—hey, wait a sec! Are you the American woman she's been waiting for? Pam Something, the one from Connecticut with the baby daughter? The one who wanted to learn to cook? She wasn't going to accept the reservation at all, but she liked the letter you wrote. That's why she said yes."

Callie looked at him, stunned. Pam had wanted cooking lessons? Callie didn't know how to respond. She didn't want to explain to this stranger that Pam had died. And she also didn't know what to make of his statement that Emilia had accepted Pam's reservation only because of this nice note she'd evidently written. Would Emilia turn her away if she admitted she was Pam's sister, and not the woman who'd written the letter? Then what would she do?

"Yes, that's me," she said. "Pam. Pamela Crain."

"I'm Oliver Verga," he said, reaching over the bar to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you, Pamela Crain. You probably should get up there. She closes up in the afternoon. If you don't check in soon, you won't get your room."

"She closes up?"

"She takes a nap sometimes. She gets tired. I mean, she is ninety-one."

"And she has no one to help her?"

"There's a woman who helps in the mornings with breakfast. But that's it. And by the way, when you get there, don't let her intimidate you. She's quirky and kind of cranky, although I think you need to give someone that age some slack, huh? But she's really interesting. And so talented. She's a world-class cook, you know. I've attended some of her classes. Amazing. So you're here for a class, huh? I didn't think she was well-known back in the States. How did you even hear about her?"

"Well, I'm not only here for the cooking," she said. "You see, I'm actually here for some information. There seems to be some connection between her and my family. My grandparents left Italy for America sometime in the 1940s," she added, thinking of the wedding photo Pam had put into the box. "I think she and my grandmother knew each other. I'm hoping to learn more about her."

He put the rag he was holding down. "Wait. You're here to talk to her about what happened back then?"

She nodded.

"Nooo," he said, shaking his head. "I wouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"She doesn't talk about any of that. You'll be out of that hotel before you can say spaghetti Bolognese."

"What do you mean?"

"She went through a lot during the war. She lost family to the Nazis. This town was totally destroyed. They killed all the Jews and they killed the people who helped them, and she saw everything. She came back here with money, lots of it, and she rebuilt the town from the ground up. Shops, restaurants, and her cooking school—it's all thanks to her that this little town is thriving again.

"But the thing is, she was betrayed by a very good friend of hers when she was young," he added, his voice lowered, as if he were telling a deep secret. "When the Nazis were coming to town, that's when it happened. She never got over it. It messed her up for years. Don't make her relive all that."

Callie paused. Betrayed by a very good friend? She wondered for a moment if that friend could be her grandmother. After all, her grandmother had spoken on that trip to California, and afterward, too, of a big mistake she'd made, a mistake that she felt guilty about. A mistake that seemed to involve her friend Emilia, who had somehow saved her life, and Nonno's life, too. A mistake that made Nonna cry when she thought of it.

But no, Callie thought. A lot of betrayals had no doubt gone on during the war. She'd read about it while she was waiting to board the plane last night, how people had turned in Jewish neighbors or Jews in hiding to the Nazis for food or money. Her grandmother was a good person. She may have made a mistake or been unable to keep a promise, but nothing on the scale she'd read about online. And this sounded like a huge betrayal, according to this guy, Oliver. A betrayal that Emilia had never gotten over. That didn't sound like anything her grandmother was capable of. And it certainly shouldn't stop her from asking Emilia for information about Nonna.

"I wouldn't make her relive it," Callie said. "I'm not here to talk about whatever this betrayal was. But I do need to talk to her about my family. You're telling me not to ask her any of the questions I came here to ask?"

"I'm urging you not to. We don't want to see Emilia hurt. She's an institution here."

"But I came all the way here for information. And I don't have that much time," she added. Her flight back was on Sunday. And even if she were to extend it, it couldn't be for long. She had promised to be home when Joe arrived back with Chloe.

"Sorry to hear that. But the situation is what it is. You can't go there and harangue her?—"

"I wouldn't harangue her?—"

"That's what it would feel like to her. Just another annoying dilettante invading her privacy. This is why she doesn't take many people at her hotel. She only offered you a room because of that letter you wrote. You should have told her the whole truth, what you really came for. She would have saved you the time and expense of coming here."

Callie shook her head, wondering what Pam had said in the letter and what had been in her mind when she wrote it. "Wait a minute," she said. "You're telling me I shouldn't ask her a couple of simple questions? I don't even know you."

"They're not simple questions. And that's exactly what I'm telling you…asking you…well, telling you. The townspeople are all very protective of her. We're like family. And she'll kick you out. I'm telling you, she won't let you check in. And if you check in first, she'll ask you to leave.

"Look, she's been through enough, okay? Get your information some other way. Do a DNA test or something to learn your family story."

Callie held her breath, annoyed at this guy's nerve, thinking he could control what she did. A DNA test wouldn't help. It wouldn't tell her why Pam had wanted the two of them to take this trip. It wouldn't explain what had happened to her grandmother, why her grandmother had never wanted to face this town again.

He glanced past her shoulder, and when she turned around, she saw that a couple had sat down and were looking at him a bit impatiently.

"What do I owe you?" she asked.

He held up a palm. "No need. You didn't order it, I offered it to you."

"Oh, but you don't have to…I'm happy to pay."

"No, no need," he said. "It's on the house. I own the place."

"You…you what?" she said. "I don't understand. Didn't you say you're a teacher from Boston?"

"It's a long story." He picked up the rag and wiped his hands, then came around the bar and headed toward the seated couple. "Come back after you get settled. I'll tell you all about it."

"You think giving me free coffee is going to make me avoid asking Emilia my questions?" she said.

"I'm hoping," he said, looking over her shoulder as he crossed the shop. "Do the right thing, Pam Crain," he added.

She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and left, annoyed that she'd stopped in. She didn't even know this guy, and he'd put such an unfair burden on her. She didn't want to hurt this woman, of course, but she'd come here for answers and she had only a few days to get them. Why all this secrecy about this woman's past? She heard Oliver's explanation in her head, and to an extent, it made sense. It was sweet, that he and others in town, apparently, wanted to protect Emilia. But Callie wasn't about to let this opportunity go, not after traveling all the way here. Pam had hidden her plans in a box only Callie could open. She had an obligation to learn what Pam had in mind.

She didn't like making enemies. But she'd come here with a mission, and she was going to fulfill it.

She only hoped that Oliver had exaggerated. And that Emilia wouldn't kick her out for asking a few questions.