‘And at what point did he marry Nonna Maria?’
‘In forty-nine.’
‘Ugh!’ Alessio sat back in his chair. ‘What a mess.’
Maria, who was also teary, reached out both hands and took Alessio’s. She offered words of comfort, or at least that was what Alessio deduced them to be, judging by her soft voice and use of perdono, amore and destino. It was then that he realised just how closely all three of them were touched by this fragment of history.
‘Did you just find this out about your nonno?’ he asked Francesca.
‘Sì. I had no idea.’
‘Does your mamma know that her father-in-law lived this double life?’
Francesca asked Maria, who simply shrugged and kissed the Madonna pendant hanging from her necklace.
‘I’m really sorry, Francesca. This has brought up stuff for both of us. If I’d have known . . .’
‘I’m sorry, too.’
After a few moments of collective weepy silence, Alessio’s eyes returned to the box. Could he further violate his nonna’s privacy by reading those precious, secretive pages? Hadn’t he intruded into her life far enough already? On the other hand, she was gone, and the world was very different now. Did he owe it to his family to understand what had happened?
‘Can we . . . read them?’ he asked tentatively.
Maria patted his hand but stood up and left the table, returning outside with her bowl of string beans and knife.
‘Did I offend her?’
‘She’s read them. I think she’s just giving us some space.’
Alessio found Francesca’s gaze and held it. ‘So you and I had a near miss in history.’
‘Perhaps history knew we were needed in the future.’
Alessio smiled at the sentiment and joined her on her side of the table. Pressing a warm kiss to her forehead, he said, ‘I have Martino blood.’
‘Explains your fire, no?’
He laughed. ‘I’m not that bad.’
But then his mind tore him from the moment and thrust him back into his kitchen. The tantrums. The tension. The behaviour that had drawn whispers and endless verbal jabs over the burners. His defensive, protective front. That unwavering desire to push, to pull, to rise above the rest.
Martino. By blood, perhaps. But no longer in spirit.
He reached for a letter from the box, and found he was already fascinated by the intricate cursive and faded ink on the envelope. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Just as long as you help me.’
ventisette
Alessio’s distinct lack of Italian was the least of his worries. ‘There’s no way I can read that curly writing.’ He passed Francesca the letter.
‘Let me. But perhaps we should see if there’s an order, no? If there are dates.’
It took a few minutes, but one by one they checked and organised Immacolata’s letters at the table. Some had clear dates, others were organised by the postage marks on their envelopes.
‘This is the earliest we have.’ Alessio placed his right hand gently on the first in the line-up. ‘December, 1946.’
‘And this is the last.’ Her eyes fell to the letter closest to her side of the table. ‘From July, 1964. That’s a long time to communicate.’
