I swore. The entire day practically passed me by. If I wanted to see Cecilia alone, I had to move fast. I grabbed the first shirt and pants I saw in my suitcase. Running to the bathroom, I quickly brushed my teeth and shook out my loosely curled hair.
It was hard to explain why it was important I visit Cecilia by myself, but I felt that this reunion was too personal for witnesses. I also didn’t want to bombard Cecilia with our presence.
I wrote a brief note explaining where I was going, and that I did not get kidnapped, killed, or maimed.
I pulled out Cecilia’s address and slid it into my purse. Now came the tricky part.
Four human bodyguards had come along with us, and they had been given explicit instructions to follow me wherever I went. Somehow I had to get by them undetected. I listened at my door. I could hear at least three separate voices chatting in the living room. There was no way I could slip out the door without them seeing me.
I walked out onto my balcony and looked down. I was on the second floor. If I climbed over the railing and hung from the bottom of it, I would only have a few feet to fall. Easy.
Yeah, right.
I swung my legs over, and slowly lowered my body until I only hung onto the wrought iron balcony by my hands. Taking in a breath, I let go. The drop was a lot farther than I had imagined, and my knees stung from the shock of my fall. I shook it off, pulled on my shades, and hailed a cab.
A half hour later I stood outside Cecilia’s beautiful bed and breakfast. As I stood in front of the villa, I suddenly worried my presence was not wanted.
I summoned my courage, and before I could chicken out, walked through the door.
I entered a homey living room. Sitting on the couch across from me was the woman who raised me the first few years of my life. She’d been arranging a collection of magazines on the sitting room’s coffee table, but looked up when the door opened.
“Buon giorno …” Her voice trailed away as her eyes widened. “Gabrielle?” Cecilia covered her mouth.
I wrung my hands together and smiled nervously. “Hi Cecilia.”
Cecilia looked as though she hadn’t aged a day since we last parted. “Come here tesoro,” she said, the Italian endearment rolling off her tongue the same way it used to when I was little.
She set her magazine aside, stood up, and approached me, arms open wide. We embraced, and I could feel her wet tears soak into my shirt. “I knew you’d eventually find me.”
She pulled away and patted my cheek. “My, my, how beautiful you are. You are all your mother.” She laughed light-heartedly.
“You knew my mother?”
“Of course,” she said. “Come my dear, you look hungry. Let’s go to the kitchen; it appears we have some catching up to do.”
I followed Cecilia into the kitchen. Sheer lace curtains hung from the windows. A shelf of wines hung from one of the walls, as did a string of garlic.
“Please sit,” Cecilia said, indicating to the table. She pulled out a tray of cookies and poured us each a cup of tea.
I was so nervous I didn’t think I’d have an appetite, but once I saw the cookies and smelled the tea, I remembered how hungry I was.
Cecilia sat down across from me and patted my hand. “We have a lot to talk about.”
It took about a minute to adjust to my surroundings. Cecilia was alive, sitting right in front of me, her dark hair, olive skin, and almond eyes evoking such a bittersweet emotion—why had she left me all those years ago?
I let out a breath. The truth was that I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start. “I was brought here by a letter my father left for me.”
Cecilia’s eyes widened for a moment. Then she nodded. “Santiago feared for your life, so he fixed his will, wrote that letter, and gave me instructions on what was to happen to you if he died. I was to take you far away and hide you in an orphanage.
“I thought that an orphanage was perhaps the most awful place for you to go, so initially I wouldn’t agree to it. But in the end, it really was the only way for you to go undetected. He had your birth certificate forged—”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “You mean to tell me that March twenty-third is not my real birthday?”
She shook her head. “Your real birthday is December eighteenth. You are actually three months older than what your certificate says.” She looked questioningly at me. “You don’t remember this?”
I was speechless for a moment. I’d been celebrating the wrong birthday and didn’t even realize it? Finally I collected myself. “No,” I said, “I don’t remember that at all. I don’t have many memories from before the fire.” I was still reeling from that bombshell. “… So, then is my real name Gabrielle Fiori?”