“You’re wet.”
“It’s still raining.” Nicolina kissed her father and daughter. Nicolina’s black hair was damp and streaked with silver. She had her father’s delicate features and her mother’s upright posture. She was a policeman’s wife, which meant she hoped for the best but was practical about dealing with the worst. Their son, Giacomo, had just joined the carabinieri, so her anxiety had doubled. Anina took her mother’s coat and hung it in the powder room.
“Where’s Giorgio?” Matelda asked.
“When it storms, they need him on the autostrada. Giacomo is working the desk at the precinct. Sometimes they’re assigned the same duty. Not tonight.”
“It was rough out there,” Olimpio confirmed as he placed the bowl of pasta on the table. “I got off the autostrada and took the back road. With the fog, it might have been worse.”
“This bad weather is far from over. Giorgio is not pleased. Long hours for the carabinieri. Excuse me.” Nicolina went to the powder room.
Anina checked her phone. “Paolo can’t make it.”
“What happened?” Matelda was disappointed.
“He’s meeting with a friend to get some advice about a job he applied for.”
“He has to eat, doesn’t he?”
“They’re meeting at a café. He sends his apologies.”
“Take away his place setting, please.”
Anina removed Paolo’s plate. “I could call him one more time to remind him.”
“People make the time to do what’s important to them,” Matelda said curtly.
“Nonna, he’s busy and it’s hard to get him to go to dinner. Don’t take it personally.”
Nicolina returned from the powder room and fluffed the ribbon on her mother’s birthday gift. She placed a box wrapped in fancy paper on the table. “Happy birthday, Mama.”
“It’s too pretty to open.”
“I hope you like it. You’re hard to buy a gift for, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. Ask Ida Casciacarro. She gave me a bottle of capsules.” Matelda unwrapped the present. “I didn’t even know my gut had health.” She lifted a framed photograph out of the box.
“Do you know who this is?” Nicolina asked.
“I’ve never seen this photograph.”
The black-and-white photograph of Matelda and her mother on Viareggio Beach was proof that her dreams of late weren’t made up, but based in truth. Domenica wore a linen shift. Her black braids were plaited neatly and wrapped into a chignon. Matelda was a little girl, wearing a straw hat and lace dress. She could feel the warm sand under her feet, as her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I thought this would make you happy.”
“No, no, it’s a beautiful gift. It makes me happy. It helps me remember her. To see her again.” Matelda shared the photograph with Olimpio. “I miss my mother.” She dried her tears on her handkerchief. “You never get over the loss. The best I can do is to go to daily Mass to pray that I see her again.”
Nicolina stood back from the table as though the gift had been a mistake. The last thing she’d wanted to do was upset her mother. Anina nudged her mother to comfort Matelda. Nicolina went to Matelda and put her hands on her shoulders.
“I’m all right, Nicolina.”
“But I’m not, Mama.” Nicolina embraced her mother. “I know what it means to love my mother too.”
* * *
“It’s a sin how much I love Biagetti’s sfogliatelle.” Matelda savored another bite followed by a sip of hot espresso.
“I’m glad you love them. There’s eight more in the box and I’m not a fan,” Olimpio joked. He picked up the photograph. “It’s enchanting. And it’s not scary like the pictures you have on your nightstand. Where did you find it?” Olimpio asked his daughter.
“At the newspaper sale. The Stella di Lucca sold their archives to pay off debts. This is a photograph they never used in the newspaper. There are boxes of them. Luckily, the photographer catalogued the photos by year, so I went over there several times and went through the boxes. I found this and they sold it to me. It’s sad to see the paper go out of business.”
“We subscribe.”
“Not for long, Mama.”
“It’s a shame. It’s a good newspaper. That’s how the Fascisti got in. The first sign. Mussolini shut down the newspapers,” Olimpio said. “People never learn, not even in Italy when we’ve lived through it and we know better.”
“Let’s hope that’s not the case this time around,” Nicolina offered. “I was told they can’t compete with the internet and free news.”
“I wish I had lived back then.” Anina rested her face in her hands as she studied the photograph of her great-grandmother and grandmother. “You look just like your mother,” Anina observed.
“She was talented. She made my clothes. Mama said that hand-stitching my hems helped her skills as a nurse. My grandmother Netta made my hats. They were artistic.”
“What year was this taken?” Olimpio asked.
“Nineteen fifty.” Anina showed her grandfather the inscription on the back of the frame. “Right across the boulevard on Viareggio Beach.”
“I was nine years old,” Matelda confirmed.
“I thought your parents married in 1947. The priest showed us the great book with their names in it. Paolo and I will sign the same book on our wedding day.”
“You are correct. My parents were married in 1947.”
“You were born before they got married?” Anina looked at her grandmother. “You were born out of wedlock?”
“No!” Matelda and Nicolina said in unison.
“Nonno?”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t prune the family tree; I only married into this tribe. I didn’t set any dates other than my wedding to your grandmother.”
“My mother was married twice. Her first husband was my father.”
“Did you know this?” Anina asked Nicolina.
“I did. But there wasn’t a lot of information about him.”
“Most families in Toscana have a story like this, or a version of it. War displaces people and things happen,” Olimpio reasoned.
“What was his name?” Anina wanted to know.
“John Lawrie McVicars.”
“An American?”