“A Catholic. God bless him,” she said aloud. She peered down at the medal around his neck. Our Lady of Fatima. Eleanor closed her eyes and said a prayer to the Blessed Lady. She stood and looked around. She spotted a couple on the peak above the dunes. She waved to them. They acknowledged her. “Police!” she shouted. They went for help.
Eleanor King would stay with the body on the beach at Dunmore Strand until the coroner arrived. She planned a proper Catholic funeral for the stranger. Only she; her husband, Michael; the priest; and the organist were in attendance when the Mass of Christian Burial was said for the unidentified victim of the Arandora Star.
Somewhere, high in heaven, John Lawrie McVicars was laughing at the irony of a lifelong Protestant ending up in an unmarked grave in a Catholic cemetery in Ireland. That was the luck of McVicars.
CHAPTER 33
Viareggio
NOW
Anina blew her nose into the tissue. She pulled several more out of the box, drying her tears. “My great-grandparents had a tragic love affair.”
“Are you crying for them or for yourself?”
“Nonna, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life. I don’t make good decisions.”
“Because you haven’t had to make them. Enjoy your youth. If you’re lucky, and you’re like me, you’ll be old much longer than you are young, and you will enjoy the wisdom that comes from experience. But you have to plan for that. That’s why it’s important to find something you love to do. I loved numbers so I became a bookkeeper. The truth was, I wasn’t an artist so I couldn’t create the jewelry, but I could find a way to participate that made me feel like I was part of the business. Do you like filling in for Orsola?”
“I do. And nobody’s more surprised than I am. I don’t mind the customers when they’re picky. I put myself in their place and understand that when they’re making an investment, every detail has to be perfect. I’m on their side.”
“How do you like working with Nonno?”
“He never forgets to give me my lunch hour.”
“An artist never stops, not even to eat. You can learn a lot from your grandfather.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”
“You have time. Take advantage of the opportunity and build on it.”
Anina pulled the cushions off the chair, forming a cot.
“What are you doing?” Matelda asked her.
“I can sleep in the chair. It folds out, see?”
“Fold it back. Go home and sleep in a proper bed.”
The nurse brought Matelda her medication. “Nurse, tell my granddaughter to go home. One of us should be getting a good night’s sleep. This hospital is a circus after midnight. Tell her.”
“Go home,” the nurse said as she left.
“Do you need anything else?” Anina asked her grandmother.
“Giancarlo Giannini.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She kissed Matelda. Anina dimmed the lights before leaving the room. “We have all the time in the world,” Anina assured her.
Sure, Matelda thought to herself. All the time in the world might only be a matter of minutes. She relaxed under the covers. The sounds of the machines that monitored her breath marked time with their ticks and whistles, lulling her into a deep sleep.
Matelda dreamt of her mother, who came to her as clearly as she had been in life.
* * *
Diaphanous clouds floated over the beach like loose wedding veils.
“What did you find?” Domenica called out to her daughter, who ran along the water’s edge. She reached her hand out for her daughter, and Matelda ran to her. The girl was five years old. She opened her hands, revealing a collection of delicate seashells the color of the water.
“Did you leave any shells for the other children?”
“There are lots more. I didn’t take them all,” her daughter said as she loaded the shells into the pocket of her mother’s apron.
Matelda’s hair was a nest of brown curls that turned gold under the summer sun. Her mother pushed a curl from her daughter’s eyes.
“The ocean brings more when the tide rolls in,” the child reminded her mother.
“You have an answer for everything.”
“Sister Maria Magdalena said you have to seek answers,” Matelda said.
Domenica watched as her daughter ran into the surf. “Don’t go out too far!” she shouted after her. “Stay close to the shore!” She sounded like her mother when Netta Cabrelli had taken her children to the beach. Everything had changed and yet it resembled the past she remembered. Her parents were back in Villa Cabrelli. She knew how much joy it brought them to have her and Matelda living in their home; it was almost as if things were as they had been. Aldo had died in Tunisia in the war, and her mother decided to pretend that he was in the army permanently instead of coping with the grief of the loss of him. Her mother wasn’t the only one in a state of pretend after the war. No one in the village referred to her as Signora McVicars; in their minds, she had returned to Viareggio redeemed. The priest who had banished her had also died. The only evidence that Domenica had ever left Viareggio was her daughter, Matelda.