She opened the doors and stepped outside. Her auburn hair had sparks of gold in it, along with some silver from age, though she hadn’t aged all that much. She wrapped the pink cardigan she wore around herself tighter, then looked over all the plants with a smile on her face. When she stood on the edge of the view, I watched the trajectory of her stare.
It went straight to her husband.
His back was turned, and he was listening to one of the workers as the man showed him a grape. He became still, and like her stare had caressed his neck, he turned around, and their eyes met.
It was breathtaking to watch, and somewhere deep inside my soul, I was so thankful I could understand it.
A blink later, my eyes followed their own path that led to my heart, but my husband was already looking at me. I smiled at him, lifting my hand in greeting. He returned it, lifting his hand, like they were touching. I pulled my fingers down, as if I was interweaving our digits. The feel of his palm against mine, even in remembrance, made me close my eyes and breathe easier.
When I opened them, Scarlett’s eyes were on my face. My husband nodded to me, and I nodded to him, and then Scarlett and I went back inside. I bent down to pick up a small box that had been knocked to the floor the day before when Rocco had flung everything off the desk. Scarlett bent down and started helping me clean it all up.
I nodded to some laminated newspapers covering the floor. Some of them had taken flight and ended up on the other side of the room. “I think some of those newspapers are from World War II.”
Scarlett picked one up. Her eyes scanned the page. Then she looked at me. “Have you read any of these?”
I shook my head. “I have some Italian, but I’m not fluent.”
Her eyes stilled on mine, and I thought I caught a glimpse of concern there before she shook her head and waved her hand. “This article is from World War II. The Faustis, even people who were connected through marriage, preserved a lot of things—most of these things are in safes all over Italy.
“Grazia, Brando and Rocco’s grandmother, the famous Italian starlet, well, her sister married a Fausti too, and this was their land. Anyway, I’m sure you know that, but…not manypeople preserve things the way that the Fausti family does. This article is about an air raid in Naples that killed quite a few people during the war.”
She looked it over again, then she set it reverently on the desk, her hand lingering on it before she completely pulled away and began rummaging through others on the floor. She was reading over them out loud, then stacking them in a neat pile.
I opened a small wooden box that hadn’t been damaged in the fall and looked inside. The sun illuminated dark velvet lining, and dust motes danced in the golden air above it. The inside of the box smelled old, and for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, my mind automatically thought…this was what that era smelled like. Romance, uncertainty, destruction, starvation, the meaning of family, and then hope for a more peaceful and prosperous future.
A hint of gold glinted from deep inside the box.
I pulled out a long chain with a dainty cross on the end. It was simple and traditional. My fingers reverently caressed the cross, the solid gold feeling warm and comforting against my skin. I felt Scarlett at my shoulder, but it was hard for me to turn away from the piece of jewelry in my hand. It had been symbolic to someone once upon a time. Judging by how dainty it was, a woman.
“I bet you’re wondering who owned this? Was it some young lady who became a woman here? Perhaps she raised her children in the Piemonte light. Perhaps she grew old with her husband, watching the stars every night. Was she a woman who, during every season of her life, wore her faith proudly around her neck?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I am. It’s all I can do.” I turned my eyes up to meet hers, but she was staring at the cross while her own was between her fingers. I couldn’t remember a timewhen I hadn’t seen her wearing it. Sometimes she’d wear a key underneath it.
“I found this cross,” she whispered, lifting it from over her heart. “It was dangling from our bed indare alla luce.”
Dare alla luce.Their place in Tuscany.
“At the time,” she continued, “I didn’t know the place had belonged to Grazia’s family. Later, I found out Grazia had loved the home for the memories she and her family had made there, and she wanted the same for her children with Marzio. One of those sons being Luca.” Her powerful green eyes met mine. “The necklace I’m wearing belonged to her, and it’ll belong to my daughter after me, and hers after her. From what I’ve been told, though, Grazia and her sisters each had their own.”
“Do you think this belonged to Grazia’s sister?”
“I’m not sure. Luca would know for sure. Do you mind?” She held her hand out for the cross.
I couldn’t even put into words why I hesitated. All I knew was that the necklace felt like mine from the moment I saw it. But I trusted Scarlett and handed it to her. She commented on how beautiful it was, then turned it over.
Her fingers caressed engraved initials that I hadn’t noticed.
AMS
“This didn’t belong to Grazia’s sister. Her name was Lucrezia. She was named after the noblewoman Lucrezia Borgia, from the House of Borgia, who the family claims they descended from. Grazia’s sister, Lucrezia, had all sons, so it didn’t belong to any daughters.” She stared at the initials, then looked at me. “What was your great-aunt’s name? The one you inherited the dress you wore to church on the island from? The burgundy one with the precious flower print.”
My hand went to the spot where the cross should be, but all I found was my own skin, and that made me uneasy for some reason. Even though I wore the necklace Rocco had gifted mewith on the island. The lion, the Fausti family insignia, with Rocco’s own blood marking the gold. I felt his heart was mine to protect, though. The cross would protect me and my family. A place to draw strength from so I could be strong.
My hand slid down, away from my chest, directing my thoughts in a different direction. The dress she was referring to was hanging in our bedroom closet. It had survived the war, even though my great-aunt had not. The lightweight fabric was burgundy with a delicate white flower print.
“Avelina Maria Simonetti. My grandmother’s family was from Southern Italy. My grandfather’s side was a mix of northern—my grandfather used to say we had Etruscan blood—and southern. My mom’s family has northern and southern too.”
She smiled at me, as warm as the sun. “The Fausti family is known to say…we are Italia,” she said with an Italian accent. “You are too.”
