Anina turned to look at the crowd of mourners who had gathered on the church steps behind the family. Paolo Uliana smiled at Anina and formed two fists with his hands. He mouthed, Coraggio. She nodded her head in gratitude. Paolo’s parents stood behind their son.
The procession followed Olimpio and the family to the cemetery for the burial. The priest said the final prayer. Matelda’s family and friends covered the casket in flowers.
The family led the mourners down the street to Ennico Bakery. Umberto had made fresh trays of cornetti glazed in apricot, and plenty of coffee with cream to serve with the pastry. He had blocked off the street with tables and chairs dressed in white cloths and festooned with vases of peonies and roses. Matelda’s funeral and reception went as she had planned.
* * *
The terrace doors at Olimpio and Matelda’s apartment were open. Beppe slept in the sun. Argento, the cat, rolled on the terrazzo underneath the dog’s chair. The turquoise sea was calm. Inside, Matelda’s grandchildren helped set up the luncheon. Nicolina handed them her mother’s best china and silver. The pressed-linen napkins were placed next to the luncheon plates. Anina rearranged the pink peonies in a vase before setting them in the center of the table.
Olimpio sat at the head of the table as the designated mourners milled around the apartment, taking in the details of the everyday life of the woman they gathered to mourn. Their home was as it had always been, except Matelda was no longer there.
Nicolina placed her hand on her father’s shoulder. “Eat something, Papa.”
“I will.”
“Shall we get started?”
Olimpio nodded. Nicolina called the guests to the table and seated them.
“This is a Matelda move if there ever was one,” Ida whispered to Giusto as he held out her chair to sit. “We’re the only people here who aren’t blood family.” She sniffed and snapped the stiff napkin open and placed it on her lap.
“I’m honored to be here,” Giusto said softly.
The light conversation that underscored the luncheon soon subsided as the guests finished a delicious meal. Anina and Nicolina made sure the guests had their fill.
“Matelda had my tortellini on occasion, but I never tasted hers,” Ida shared. “Not bad.”
“I have all the recipes.” Nicolina smiled as she refilled Ida’s water glass. “My mother loved you and your cooking.”
Ida burst into tears, weeping into her napkin. “I loved her too.”
The silver urn began to chug as the coffee percolated. Anina and Nicolina cleared the dishes and placed cookie trays down the center of the table. They served the guests coffee with the help of Nicolina’s sister-in-law, Rosa, and her daughter, Serena. Once all the guests were served, Nicolina took her place at the head of the table and stood next to Olimpio.
“My mother asked me to invite you here today, into her home. She lived in this house since she was four years old. She was born in Dumbarton, Scotland. Her parents married in Manchester, England, on June 3, 1940. Mama was born eight months after her father, Captain John Lawrie McVicars, died on the Arandora Star on July 2, 1940. My mama and her mother, Domenica Cabrelli McVicars, waited in Scotland at the convent for five years for the war to end, and when it was over, they returned home to Viareggio. The only father my mother knew was Silvio Cabrelli, who was wonderful to her. Silvio was Domenica’s first love and they married when he returned to the village to work for Pietro Cabrelli. My grandfather Silvio took the name Cabrelli to carry on the tradition of our family business. Mama loved her only brother, Nino. They lived happily in this house with her parents, Netta and Pietro, and Silvio’s mother, Vera, visited during the summer.”
“That was a lot of fun,” Nino remembered. “Vera was a pistol.”
“You know our mother. She chose the menu, the flowers, and the guest list. My brother and I don’t know the details of what happens next, so forgive us in advance. We will be as surprised as you are, as we follow her instructions.”
Nicolina went to the safe and opened it. She lifted the velvet box out of the safe. There was an envelope resting on top of it. “There’s a letter—” Her voice broke. She brought the box and the envelope back to the table and read the letter aloud to the guests.
My beloved family and friends,
In this box: history. My history and now yours because you will own a piece of it. There is something for each of you. You may not like what I chose for you, but in time, you will come to appreciate that it was more important for me to have selected something for you than it was for you to like it.
A laugh rolled through the gathering. Nicolina continued to read:
Before Nicolina disburses the gifts herein, I want to thank her and my son, Matteo. I thank their spouses, Giorgio and Rosa. I thank my grandchildren, Anina and Giacomo, Serena and Arturo. I thank my brother, Nino, and his wife, Patrizia, and their daughter, Anna. And most of all, I thank my lover and husband, Olimpio, who had to put up with my nonsense but always did so with such grace. You made a good life for us, and you were a great steward to my grandfather and my father’s family business.
My friends, I want to thank you all for being polite as I got older. I forgot facts, stories, and numbers. Day-to-day, a slip of the memory doesn’t matter much, but when you add them up over time, they’re a landslide called old age. Remember me in the rubble.
These jewels made me think of you. So think of me when you wear them.
And a big kiss,
Matelda (Mama, Nonna, and, to the old-timers, Picci)
Ida nudged Giusto. “Class,” she whispered.
The box was filled with a series of small envelopes with a handwritten note on each parcel from Matelda to the person receiving the gift. Nicolina went around the table and handed out the envelopes.
“This is like Christmas,” Ida said as she opened her envelope.
Dear Ida,
I wore a string of pearls that my mother gave me every day of my life until my mother died and I stopped wearing them. I never liked them. I’m not a pearl person. But you are, Ida. You admired them often. I hope you weren’t humoring me, because if you were, too bad, Ida, you’re getting the pearls.
Your friend,
Picci