Chapter Twenty-Nine
MARCO
Lucia turns twenty-four beneath a ceiling covered in paper flowers.
Angela has been awake since four in the morning.
I know because I heard her arguing with Dario in the foyer before sunrise. He apparently hung the first row too low, which Angela interpreted as a personal insult.
By seven, the kitchen is filled with pink and white flowers, lengths of ribbon, and enough food to feed everyone on the property.
Paper petals tremble overhead whenever someone opens the terrace doors.
The room smells of coffee, vanilla, and the strawberries Angela has arranged across the cake Lucia already knows exists.
Gio enters carrying a box of candles.
“You bought the wrong ones,” Angela tells him.
He looks at the package.
“They’re candles.”
“They’re blue.”
“Lucy likes blue.”
“The flowers are pink.”
“People can like two colors.”
Angela takes the box.
“They don’t match.”
“They’re going to get set on fire.”
“That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be pretty.”
Gio looks at me.
“You deal with her.”
“I value my life.”
Angela points toward the door.
“Both of you out.”
“This is my kitchen,” Gio says.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Technically—”
She raises a wooden spoon.
We leave.
Lucia’s birthday is supposed to be a surprise.
It isn’t.
She discovered the cake yesterday when she opened the refrigerator looking for milk. Then she found the flowers in the pantry, the wrapping paper in the library, and Bruno attempting to hide a pastry box beneath his jacket.
She has graciously agreed to pretend.
At eight, she walks into the kitchen and stops beneath the paper flowers.
Her performance is more convincing than expected.
“Oh.”
Angela looks pleased.
“Happy birthday.”
Lucia smiles.
Not the cautious smile she used when she first came here.
The real one.
“Thank you.”
Angela wraps both arms around her.
Gio waits his turn, then lifts Lucia completely off the floor.
She laughs.
“Put me down.”
“Birthday tradition.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“You made that up.”
“Most traditions begin that way.”
He returns her to the floor and kisses her cheek.
The familiarity of it produces the same reaction it always does.
Jealousy.
Not because I want him to stop.
Because I want to know how it feels when she turns toward me with the same ease.
Lucia looks over Gio’s shoulder.
Our eyes meet.
“Happy birthday,” I say.
“Thank you.”
The formality returns for half a second.
Then she glances toward the flowers.
“Did you help?”
“No.”
“He paid for them,” Gio says.
Angela gives him a look.
“You weren’t supposed to tell her.”
“I thought we gave up on the surprise.”
“We gave up on surprising her about the party. Not the flowers.”
Lucia looks at me.
“You bought paper flowers?”
“I arranged for someone else to buy them.”
“That sounds more like you.”
The corner of her mouth lifts.
I consider that a victory.
Breakfast becomes a household event.
Armando arrives with newspapers from the day Lucia was born. Dario gives her a framed photograph of the Rossi building taken before the sign began to fade. Bruno’s granddaughter drew a picture of Lucia’s proposed reading room, complete with shelves, plants, and a blue chair labeled FOR LUCY.
Bruno claims the child insisted.
No one believes him.
Angela gives Lucia a recipe box filled with handwritten cards. The wood is worn near the hinges, and several cards already bear flour fingerprints and faded stains.
“My recipes,” she explains.
“You left out the tiramisu,” Gio says.
“Because you’d steal the card.”
“I know how to make tiramisu.”
“You know how to buy it.”
Lucia turns through the cards carefully. Her thumb catches on one written in a younger version of Angela’s hand.
Her eyes shine.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You say thank you and continue eating.”
“Thank you.”
Angela places another piece of toast on her plate.
“And eat.”
Gio waits until breakfast is finished before bringing out his gift.
The package is rectangular and wrapped in newspaper.
Lucia looks at it.
“You had access to actual wrapping paper.”
“I prefer a literary theme.”
“You ran out of time.”
“That too.”
She tears away the newspaper.
The book beneath it is the same edition of the Italian novel she found during their outing.
Except it no longer looks as though it might fall apart in her hands.
The faded green cover has been restored. The damaged spine has been rebound, and the title shines in new gold lettering.
Lucia opens it carefully.
A bookplate has been added inside.
Lucy Rossi
The first book in a library of her own.
She runs one finger over the words.
“You had it restored.”
“The bookbinder said it would take six weeks.”
“How did you get it back this quickly?”
“I’m charming.”
“You paid him too much.”
“I’m also persuasive.”
Her eyes lift to his.
“I love it.”
Gio’s expression softens.
“Good.”
She hugs him.
His arms close around her.
It lasts only a few seconds.
Long enough.
When she releases him, she looks toward the table.
“Is that everything?”
Every face turns toward me.
I glare at Gio.
He smiles.
Lucia follows their attention.
“You got me something?”
“Yes.”
“You already arranged access to several million dollars and gave me a husband I didn’t ask for.”
The room goes quiet.
Lucia closes her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have said that today.”
“It was accurate yesterday too.”
Gio looks between us.
Angela begins collecting plates that don’t need collecting.
I stand.
“My gift isn’t here.”
Lucia’s eyebrows rise.
“Where is it?”
“Prince Street.”
Her expression changes.
“The Rossi building?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing to the building itself.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It shouldn’t take long.”
Angela takes off her apron.
“Go. Lunch isn’t until one.”
“You don’t want to come?” Lucia asks.
“I have work.”
She gestures toward the crowded kitchen.
“Clearly.”
Angela kisses her cheek.
“Go see your gift.”
Matteo Moretti is expected for lunch.
Lucia called him after we returned to Belmont yesterday. She stood in the study with the telephone in her hand for almost five minutes before dialing.
He accepted immediately.
That gives us two hours.
Armando drives.
Gio sits in the front, leaving the rear seat to Lucia and me.
She notices the arrangement.
So do I.
“You can sit back here,” I tell him.
“I get carsick.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I might.”
Lucia looks out the window to hide her smile.
The ride into Boston remains mostly quiet.
She twists the wedding ring twice, then stops when she notices me watching.
“What did you do at the building?”
“You’ll see.”
“Did you renovate without asking me?”
“No.”
“Purchase something?”
“Yes.”
“Was it expensive?”
“No.”
Gio turns in his seat.
“That depends on your definition.”
I look at him.
“What?”
“You told me.”
“I didn’t tell you to tell her.”
“She asked.”
Lucia looks between us.
“What did he buy?”
“You’ll see,” Gio says.
She kicks the back of his seat.
He laughs.
Enzo Bellini waits outside the grocery when we arrive. The morning heat has drawn the smell of ripe tomatoes and coffee onto the sidewalk.
He hugs Lucia and wishes her a happy birthday in Italian.
Then he hands her the key to Maria’s office.
“You know I already have one,” she says.
“This is the original.”
A small brass key rests in her palm. Its teeth are worn, and the round head has darkened where years of fingers held it.
“Your mother carried it.”
Lucia closes her fingers around it.
“Thank you.”
She climbs the stairs ahead of us.
At the third floor, she unlocks the office.
Then stops in the doorway.
The shelves along the far wall are no longer empty.
Glass animals cover them.
Horses.
Birds.
A tiny elephant with one raised trunk.
A blue fish.
A glass fox no larger than my thumb.
Dozens of them catch the sunlight and scatter color across the walls. Pale pieces of red, blue, and green rest across the faded paint and the scarred surface of Maria’s desk.
Lucia doesn’t move.
“Where did you find these?”
“Dmitri placed your mother’s belongings in storage after she died.”
Her gaze travels over the shelves.
“He told me everything was gone.”
“Most of it was. The storage fees continued to be paid through one of his accounts until this spring. The company was preparing the remaining contents for auction.”
“You bought them.”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Everything that belonged to Maria. The boxes are in the fourth-floor storage room until you decide what to do with them.”
She walks toward the shelves.
Her hand hovers over the animals without touching.
“I remember this one.”
She picks up a glass rabbit with one ear shorter than the other.
“I broke it.”
“The repair is old.”
“My mother glued it.”
Her voice breaks.
Gio remains near the doorway.
I give him a look.
He nods and steps into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Lucia holds the rabbit against her chest.
“I thought these were gone.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Enzo told Armando about the collection. Grace traced the storage records.”
“You did all of this in four days?”
“I had help.”
She laughs through the tears now spilling down her cheeks.
“You always have help.”
“Usually.”
I take a handkerchief from my pocket and hold it out.
She looks at it.
“You carry a handkerchief?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For situations involving tears, apparently.”
A wet laugh escapes her.
She takes it.
“I don’t want to cry.”
“You’re allowed.”
“I know.”
The phrase passes between us.
This time, neither objects.
She wipes her face and looks at the shelves again.
“My mother used to let me choose one every night.”
“For what?”
“She would make up a story about it.”
Lucia places the rabbit beside a glass bear.
“The rabbit was afraid of the dark. The bear couldn’t swim. The fish wanted to see the moon.”
“Did the stories end well?”
“Always.”
“Your mother understood the purpose of stories.”
She looks at me.
“Why did you do this?”
“Because they belonged to you.”
“That isn’t all.”
No.
It isn’t.
“I wanted to give back something Viktor and Dmitri took.”
Her fingers tighten around my handkerchief.
“You can’t keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making it difficult to hate you.”
The words leave me unable to breathe.
Lucia looks down.
“I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t forgiven you.”