The firepits of Carnevale had died down; all that remained were circles of blue flames scattered along the beach. Domenica stood in front of the black ocean, holding John’s letters. She held the only proof of their love. She had imagined, before Silvio came back into her life, that she would hold on to John’s letters and read them when she needed reassurance that he had loved her, married her, and given her Matelda. Otherwise, what had happened between them would fade entirely like a dream.
John McVicars had been a squall that blew through Domenica Cabrelli’s life. She learned that time could not be the measurement for the things that lasted. Sometimes what endured was that which changed us in a matter of moments, not years. John had not lived long enough to disappoint her, nor had they been married long enough for her to fail her husband. There had been no need for forgiveness; their time together had been brief.
John Lawrie McVicars had returned to the sea to live among the characters of myth, and the vagabonds, hustlers, and saints who found refuge in the deep. His spirit was protected by the granite waves that hemmed the rocky shores of northern Scotland. He no longer belonged to her.
Domenica threw his letters into one of the fires. A wind whipped up on the beach, igniting the paper. The letters soon burst into purple flames. The delicate paper formed tendrils of black ash, which floated out of the fire and into the air, where the wind carried them out to sea.
VIAREGGIO
Now
Matelda sat at the dining room table writing a letter. She folded it and placed it inside the stationery box.
“What are you writing?” Anina asked.
“Thank-you notes,” Matelda said.
“I’m terrible about writing those.”
“I know.” Matelda shot her granddaughter a look.
“Mama, I brought you fruit,” Nicolina said on the way to the kitchen.
“Enough. I’m going to turn into a papaya.”
“It’s on the list of foods the hospital recommended.”
“Did you eat their food? They should not be handing out lists telling people what to eat,” Matelda complained.
“Mama, Nonna is telling me the best stories.” Anina straightened her grandmother’s bedroom slippers on the footrests of the wheelchair. “I know the history of all of Nonna’s jewelry.”
“Good, because I don’t,” Nicolina teased them. “I kept meaning to sit with you and write the stories down. Now we have the time.”
“Do we?” Matelda said softly.
“Don’t be morbid, bella,” Olimpio called out from the kitchen.
Anina sat down across from her grandmother. “I wonder what happened to Domenica’s engagement band. The one with all the colors? I didn’t see it in the box.”
“That’s because I don’t have it. My mother was buried wearing it. It was her wish. I never told anyone about that ring until you, not even Nino. Of course, I was afraid he’d charge me for his half.”
“He must have wondered where it went.” Nicolina sat down with them.
“If he did, he never asked. A son might not come around much after he takes a wife, and he’s not much help taking care of the elderly parents, but he rarely wants anything material when the parents pass away. Patrizia didn’t ask for anything either.”
“She wouldn’t,” Nicolina said. “She’s not that kind of person.”
“I wish he was more like Patrizia. My brother wanted more than jewelry, believe me,” Matelda began. “Nino wanted the shop. But there were issues. My father wanted Olimpio to manage the shop and have Nino work for him. You see, Olimpio was a craftsman, and that was the tradition in the shop. It was about making things—it wasn’t so much about selling them. Nino was a good salesman but a disaster at the wheel. When my brother saw what was happening, that’s when he decided to move to America. That’s when our Great Schism happened.”
“Maybe it bothered Uncle Nino when you became Cabrellis.”
“Don’t think so. We were Cabrellis before he was born.”
“I’m still a Roffo,” Olimpio offered as he joined them at the table, “but I did promise Silvio that I would not change the name of the shop. He hoped his son would return to Viareggio someday. The family tried to mend things with Nino. I know I did.”
“We all did. We went to visit them in America. What a trip that was. Nonna Netta, my mother, and me. We went to the shore in New Jersey. It was pretty, but my grandmother Netta said, ‘We have an ocean in Italy, and a beach too. We have to fly halfway around the world to sit in a different beach chair?’ We saw Nino’s factory. It was quite an operation. He was a successful manufacturer of—what would you call it, Olimpio?”
“Downscale costume jewelry. Known to the middlemen as a paste.”
“That’s it! Plated stuff. Not what we do here. He copied the fine jewelry we created here—Nino called them simulations. That’s why Nino wasn’t given the Speranza ruby. My father didn’t trust him to make it into something of value,” Matelda admitted.
“But he came around,” Olimpio insisted. “After your parents died, Nino warmed up and would call from time to time and ask me things, and I did what I could to help.”
“Did he still resent you for taking over the shop from Silvio?” Nicolina asked.
“He didn’t seem to—by then, the old wound was scar tissue. Nino had made a success for himself in America, so the little shop in the village in the old country no longer mattered to him.”
“The Cabrellis should have been united,” Anina said.
“You would think so, after all they had been through,” Olimpio agreed. “But the first thing that leaves in success is the memory of what it felt like to be poor. We shed that insecurity like an old pair of shoes the moment there’s money in the bank. We slip into fine leather and forget how badly our feet used to hurt.”
TREVISO
1947
Speranza spent two years working with the Americans in Berlin after the war. He provided them with the details of his work, the names of the men he had worked for, and the intelligence the Germans had hoped would die with him. When Speranza’s work was done, he decided to return to Italy. As the train rolled through the countryside, he saw what the Nazis and Fascisti had done.