Chapter 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

MAY 2019

Thursday

Tori could hardly sleep that night—and it wasn't just because she was on a small, scratchy sofa, the tweed fabric of the throw pillow like sandpaper against her cheek. It was also because of what she'd just learned from Emilio. She could hardly believe that all this time she'd been exploring old boxes in the archives and trying to piece together her grandmother's life and possible whereabouts—all this time her actual grandfather may have been living in the very house where she was staying. Of course, she didn't know for sure that Emilio's father was the Vincenzo. But if he was, then tonight was a game-changer. If that sweet elderly man back at the hotel turned out to be her grandfather, then he could explain what had happened all those years ago—where Giulia had gone and why she had never come back for their daughter and what the bullets were about and what had happened to make Pietro write those harsh words in his notebook. Surely he could answer at least some of those questions.

She thought about him now, Emilio's father, as she turned to her side on the sofa. She had seen him only that once at the hotel, when he'd sold her a ticket to the castle. He'd looked so frail, his face full of deep lines and crevices. His shoulders hunched. His long face, the skin sagging, his cheeks almost lower than his chin. His hands full of veins when he'd reached to a box on the counter to tear a single ticket from the large roll, his fingers trembling as he handed it to her. He didn't resemble her mother or Molly at all. But did that matter? And if it were true, if he was her grandfather, then he was culpable, too. Why had he left his baby, and where had he gone? Had he been with Giulia all this time? How could he have gone on to start a new family with Emilio's mother, to settle in London and then come back here to live out his days? Had he forgotten that he once had a little girl?

On the other hand, she supposed, maybe he never even knew he'd had a baby. Marilene had said Giulia was alone when the baby was born. What if Giulia never told the man she'd loved that she was carrying his child? What if she didn't know she was pregnant until after she'd arrived on Ciani Island—alone? What if everything Tori revealed tomorrow was going to be a huge shock to him?

She thought again of Vincenzo, the Vincenzo that Emilio had described, the father he remembered from when he was a little boy, who'd tell him stories about seeing the castle in its heyday as he rowed toward the shore to deliver groceries. About the music and the dancing that could be seen through the tall windows on beautiful summer evenings when the air was warm and the sky no doubt was lit by a million stars. How he must miss those days when he sat in his boat and watched the dancing through the windows and dreamed of one day making his way to the castle himself, maybe as an invited guest, a young artist with dreams of creation and fulfillment? Would knowing that he had a granddaughter and a great-granddaughter in America, a beautiful great-granddaughter who loved to dance—would knowing that help ease whatever sadness he held onto from those awful war years?

Finally, the sun was up. Tori looked at her phone and saw it was only six thirty. Emilio had told her to set her alarm, but she hadn't needed to—she'd slept lightly all night and had awoken more times than she could count. She tried to sleep for about an hour more, and then rose from the sofa and slipped on her sandals. In the bathroom adjoining the employee lounge, she tamed her hair with her fingers and then redid her ponytail. There was a tube of toothpaste and a few wrapped disposable toothbrushes on the counter, presumably for the night guards to use. Grateful for small favors, she brushed her teeth and then went to find Emilio.

He was there in the lobby waiting for her, his clothes disheveled and his eyes baggy. She could tell that he'd probably gotten even less sleep than she had. He led her back into the café and went behind the counter to make two cups of espresso. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, so she figured this, too, was part of the routine for night guards. She watched him lift the top of a large chest-type freezer and pull out a food-storage container. He removed two pastries filled with what looked like raspberry jam and put them into a nearby countertop oven.

When their food was ready, they took it to a table and, wordlessly, they ate. Tori had never seen Emilio so preoccupied. From time to time he caught her eye and smiled, but most of the time he looked away. She didn't blame him. This all had to be coming as an enormous shock. After all, she had known the story of her missing grandmother for several days now; but the story now facing him, a story about his father possibly having had an entire family before he met Emilio's mother, a family he'd never revealed to Emilio before—that was brand new.

"I'm not unhappy, you know," he said after draining his cup. " I'm…" He closed his eyes and raised his palms as if to say there were no words.

"We may be wrong," Tori said, not sure if she hoped this would turn out to be the case or not. Either way, she felt bad that Emilio was so troubled. It was exactly how she'd felt that night in the living room when Marilene said, We have to talk . No matter how old you were, it was hard to learn that everything you thought you knew about your life and your family wasn't real. Or, in Emilio's case, might not be. The ground felt a little less firm under your feet.

"We shall see, won't we?" he said.

They finished eating, then left the museum and went down the stone staircase and over to the dock. Soon the ferry arrived. Tori followed Emilio aboard. They sat in silence as the boat glided toward the mainland. The sun was clear, and the air smelled fresh, and Tori couldn't help but feel the optimism that always came with a new day.

Reaching the shore, they walked the short distance to the hotel, the streets mostly empty and the staccato click of their footsteps sounding tense on the brick paving stones. They entered the hotel, passing the little courtyard where guests were enjoying breakfast. Inside, Emilio's father—Vincenzo—was sitting on a stool behind the reception desk.

" Buon giorno ," he said, looking surprised to see the two of them together.

"Papa," Emilio began, then said a few words in Italian that Tori didn't understand. Vincenzo nodded solemnly and went into the back office, and Emilio motioned for Tori to follow with him. It was more of a very small living room than an office. There was a floral sofa and two upholstered armchairs with wooden legs, and a pretty oval coffee table, the surface mosaic tile. Vincenzo sat on one armchair, and Emilio sat on the other, gesturing for Tori to sit on the sofa. When she did, he leaned forward toward his father, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together.

"Papa," he said and then continued in English, which Tori knew was for her benefit. "Our guest, Signorina Cole—Tori—came here to see the island and the new museum, as you know. But she also came to find information about the dressmaker, Giulia, who made the wedding gown on display there."

"Ah, the famous Giulia," Vincenzo said. "She is a big draw for the museum. Many people come to see that gown."

"Yes, but she has a particular reason," Emilio said. "She thinks… no, she knows … that Giulia was her grandmother. And she was told by people who knew Giulia well… she was told that her grandfather—the father of Giulia's baby—was a young man who would deliver goods from a market here in Anzalea to the castle before the Nazis captured it. A young man named… Vincenzo…"

Tori watched the old man take in this information. He was silent for a moment, and Tori wondered if he understood what Emilio had said. But then he tilted his head and seemed almost to chuckle. Tori didn't know what possibly could be funny. Maybe the chuckling was nervous energy, discomfort, or shock, she thought. Then he reached over and took Tori's hand. He gently squeezed it, the veins pulsating beneath his skin.

"You are Giulia's granddaughter?" he asked, sounding incredulous.

She nodded. "I'm the daughter of the baby she had after she escaped from the castle."

" Dio mio ," he said, looking down and scratching his forehead with his fingertips. "Giulia's granddaughter," he said, his accent thick. "I cannot believe it."

Tori and Emilio watched Vincenzo shaking his head. Finally, Emilio spoke.

"Papa?" he said. "What does this mean? Is what Tori was told… is it true? "

After a pause, Vincenzo lifted his head. "Tori," he said. " Mi dispiace tantissimo . I am truly sorry. You see, I am the one who took Giulia and her sisters to Parissi Island when they first came to Anzalea. And I did deliver groceries to Parissi Island. But Giulia and I were always friends, no more. I am not tuo nonno ."

Tori looked down. Although she'd tried to keep her expectations in check, she was disappointed. Perhaps she should have known that it was a long shot, her reuniting right here with her grandfather. But she'd been so desperate to find family. To have a pathway that could lead to Giulia. More than she'd realized.

"I see," she said softly.

"You mean… you knew Giulia?" Emilio said to his father. "But you never said anything. All these months with the museum opening and people staying here to go see that wedding dress. And still you kept quiet. Why did you never say anything?"

"Because I didn't want the… newspapers, you know. The publicity," he said. "All the reporters who would have been asking questions of me. Those were painful times, and I'm a private person. You know that, Emilio. I have no need for that kind of…" He paused, evidently struggling for the word. "That kind of curiosity. And Giulia never sought it out either. Heroism doesn't have to be loud. Heroism can be quiet." He turned his head to Tori. "And it's a fact, Tori. Your grandmother was a hero."

Tori raised her eyes. It seemed that this was Vincenzo's way of telling her Giulia was dead. "She was?" she asked softly.

"She was a member of the Italian Resistance," he told her. "She used her sewing skills while she was on Ciani Island to save lives. She helped smuggle ammunition to the fighters in Rome by stitching bullets into children's clothing. It was dangerous, and she could have been arrested or worse. This was your grandmother, Tori. This is your inheritance."

Tori raised her hand to her lips and shook her head, almost in disbelief. "The bullets," she murmured.

Across from her, Emilio smiled and nodded. "I told you there could be more to the story," he said. "You wanted to believe the worst."

"But what about…" she started, thinking of Pietro's notebook, with his accusations of betrayal. Thinking about how Giulia had never come back for Olive. "I still have so much I want to know. Like why she left my mother and didn't come back for her. And why?—"

"She didn't come back for her, Tori, because she thought she was dead," Vincenzo said.

Tori stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"She was told while she was in Rome that the Nazis had traced the bullets back to Ciani Island. And they came to the island and killed everyone there."

"She thought…" Tori started. She felt horrible. She had judged Giulia from the moment Marilene had spoken of her. It hadn't occurred to her that this could be Giulia's reason for never coming back. She couldn't imagine what Giulia must have gone through, thinking that the Nazis had murdered her baby. She felt her breath grow short.

" Aspetta un attimo ," Vincenzo said, touching her hand. "Wait, I have more to say. You see, even though I am not who you want me to be, I do know where your grandmother is. And if you would like to meet her, I can take you there."

She gasped, and it took her a moment to verbalize a response. "You can? She's alive?"

"Very much so," he said. "I just need to make a phone call."