Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Serena
T he sun-bleached facade of my mother’s house came into view as I turned onto the cobblestone street. It was modest, with weathered terracotta tiles on the roof and pale-yellow stucco walls adorned with climbing vines that bloomed with pink and white flowers in the summer. A wrought-iron gate framed the tiny front garden, where herbs and potted plants lined the walkway.
I killed the engine of my Fiat Panda. Stepping out of the car, I slung my purse over my shoulder and retrieved one of the large duffle bags with my belongings from the back seat. I inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent of basil and lemongrass soothe the nerves that had been tightening since that morning. This house was home—at least as close to one as I’d had since before my father passed.
The door swung open before I reached it. My mother stood there, her smile bright and her arms outstretched .
“Serena! Amore mio, sei a casa finalmente!”
Her voice was like music, lilting and warm, full of the kind of love only a mother could express. She looked as she always did—effortlessly put-together despite her simple attire. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was swept into a loose chignon. She wore a fitted cardigan over a floral dress that swayed at her knees. The apron tied around her waist was dusted with flour.
“ Ciao , Mamma,” I said, stepping into her embrace.
She kissed both my cheeks before pulling back to look at me, her hands framing my face. Her deep blue eyes—so much like my own—scanned me as if trying to assess any changes in me.
“You look thin,” she said, her brows creasing. “Did you not eat while you were in New York? Americans and their terrible food.”
“I ate plenty, Mamma.” I hated to lie. But if I told her the truth, that would require more explanation than I was ready to give. I’d had plenty to eat while I was in New York, although I’d skipped a few meals when I was sick. When I got back to Italy, money stress had robbed me of my appetite, and I’d eaten very little over the past week. I wasn’t sure how much weight I’d lost, but my clothes were fitting a tiny bit looser.
She waved me inside, chattering as she led me through the familiar hallway.
“Tell me about New York. Did you make time for yourself while you were there? Did you go to any of the museums? Did you meet anyone interesting?”
I hesitated, placing my bag by the door. I understood what she was asking in not so many words. She knew why my trip to the United States was important, and she wanted to know if I got the funding for the dig.
“It was…busy,” I said, keeping my tone vague. I wasn’t ready to talk about Anton, or how I’d gotten the money I needed. “I’m still trying to sort through things. There are a lot of decisions to make and things to do now that I’m home. It will be a bit before I head back to Rome. The permits expired, although I managed to get a temporary fourteen-day extension before I left Rome today.”
“So you plan on continuing?”
I looked away, not sure if I was ready to admit the truth to her. My mother had supported my father, and she understood why I wanted to continue his search. She’d been there and had heard the promise I made. However, if I didn’t succeed, I was certain she wouldn’t be disappointed. As encouraging as she was, my mother would have liked to see me follow a different path—one that didn’t include chasing ghosts.
“I’m not sure, Mamma,” I finally said quietly.
“I see. How long do you think you’ll be home?”
I smiled, knowing she’d be happy to learn I was back for more than my usual weekend.
“Funding to continue work is on the way, but I still have to get that sorted out. I’ll be home for couple of weeks at least.”
“Wonderful! You’ll have time to relax. Maybe create some new glass pieces? And there is so much happening in town this week! Did you know the festival starts tomorrow? Oh, and the Mercato Antiquario is back. You must go—it’s the best one yet!”
I smiled again as she rattled on about her findings at the antique market. As she continued, I walked to the small desk in the corner of the living room where she usually piled the mail that came for me while I was away. I started sorting through it, separating bills from junk, while she recounted the latest town gossip.
Halfway through the stack, I came across an envelope with the insignia of a gallery in Florence. My pulse quickened as I opened it. Inside was a check—the payment for my last set of blown glass pieces—and a letter.
I scanned the words quickly. They were requesting more work, praising my craftsmanship and asking if I could create additional pieces for their upcoming exhibit. Relief washed over me.
“Good news?” my mother asked, pausing her monologue to peer over at me.
“Great news,” I said, smiling. “The gallery in Florence wants more glasswork. It’s been a rough few months. This will really help me get caught up.”
“ Che meraviglia !” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You are so talented, Serena. Your father would be proud.”
Her words made my chest tighten. We both knew proud wasn’t the right word. While he appreciated my talent, he saw it as a hobby. If I ever spent too much time in my workshop, he’d tell me I was wasting opportunities, saying my time would be better spent digging in the field.
“I’m going to head upstairs to unpack a few things, Mamma.”
“Go, go. I’ve just finished prepping the fiocchetti . I’ll wait to do the rest until you come down.”
“I shouldn’t be long,” I said, leaning in to hug her. “I’m so happy to be home. I missed you.”
Stepping away, I grabbed my duffle bag and headed upstairs.
The floor creaked beneath my feet as I pushed open the door to my old bedroom. The scent of lavender and vanilla sachets hit me first. It was faint but familiar, as if the ghost of my teenage self still lingered in the air. Nothing had really changed much since then. The walls were still painted that pale yellow I’d insisted on when I was fourteen, a color I’d declared sunshine chic, but now just seemed tired and faded.
My bed sat against the far wall, its iron frame slightly bent from so many international moves. The floral quilt my mother had sewn was still draped over it, a patchwork of soft pinks, yellows, and greens. I ran my hand over it as I passed, fingers catching on a tear near the corner. A mismatched assortment of pillows sat haphazardly at the headboard, looking more decorative than inviting.
The shelves above the desk were cluttered with relics of a past life. Dusty trophies from school debates, a lopsided clay pot I’d made in art class, and a row of paperback novels with cracked spines still occupied the wooden ledges. My collection of Cleopatra biographies stood out, their worn covers a reminder of my fascination with the queen ever since I was a little kid. Back then, she’d seemed untouchable—powerful and untamed. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
This room belonged to a girl who used to scribble hieroglyphs in her notebooks and dream about becoming an archaeologist. I barely recognized that person anymore. Somewhere along the way, I’d gotten lost. While I hadn’t lost sight of the goal, I also didn’t know where I belonged anymore.
I set the duffle on the bed and unzipped it, the sound harsh in the quiet room, and started unpacking. As I folded my shirts, I noticed they smelled faintly of Rome—clean, yet a mix of dust and stone clung to them. I stacked them in the narrow dresser that bore scratches from years of slamming its drawers shut.
I caught sight of the corkboard above the desk, its corners still dotted with faded pushpins. Pictures of old friends—some smiling, some mid-laugh—stared back at me, their edges yellowing and curled from age. A photo of me with my parents stood out in the center. It was taken on my final day of secondary school, right after we’d moved into this house. We were standing by the front gate, my father’s arm draped protectively around my shoulders. I looked so young, so sure of myself.
That girl was na?ve, and didn’t know how much she’d change over the years. The pictures pre-dated Cade and Briana, and all the heartache they would eventually cause. It was before my father got sick, leaving an empty space in my heart that could never be filled.
I shook my head and turned back to place the empty duffle in the closet. Heading to the shared bathroom down the hallway, I took a moment to wash my face and hands, removing the grime from the day. After towel drying, I planned to go to my car and retrieve my other bags but paused when I heard a sharp knock at the front door.
Walking out into the hallway, I yelled, “I’m on my way down, Mamma. I’ll get it.”
Opening the front door, I froze. Anton stood there, looking impossibly handsome. His piercing onyx eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent my pulse racing. At first, I wasn’t sure how he’d known to find me here, but then I remembered that I’d given him the address so he could find a nearby hotel.
“Anton,” I said, my voice faltering.
“Princess,” The corners of his mouth lifted in a faint smile.
“I wasn’t expecting you to come here. I thought you were going to a hotel, and we’d meet up later.”
My mother appeared behind me, forcing me to maintain my composure. Her eyes widened as she took him in, her lips parting in surprise.
“And who is this?” she asked.
“Mamma, this is Anton Romano,” I said, stepping aside and motioning him in. “Anton, this is my mother, Sylvia Martinelli.”
Anton extended a hand, his charm effortless. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Martinelli.”
My mother took his hand, her cheeks tinged with pink. “Please, call me Sylvia. Serena, you did not tell me we were expecting such a handsome guest this evening.”
“Oh, I um… ” I stammered, shooting Anton a questioning look. “Anton is interested in investing in the Rome dig. We met in New York. I wasn’t expecting him. I?—”
“It’s no bother at all! I’ve made plenty,” my mother declared, never once taking her observant gaze off Anton. “You’ll join us for dinner, yes?”
My eyes widened .
Oh, no…
It was nearing eight o’clock. It had been a long day in the field, and I was tired from the four-hour drive from Rome to Lucca. I was not mentally prepared for this.
Anton chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Thank you, Sylvia. I wasn’t planning to impose. I’ve booked a room at the Hotel Villa Bianca, just a few blocks away. I was only stopping by to see if Serena wanted to join me for a bite to eat. We have…business matters to discuss.”
My mother waved this off as if it were absurd. “Nonsense! You’ll eat here. I insist.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Anton spoke first. “Thank you. I’d be honored.”
Of course, he would accept.
He thrived in situations like this—completely unflappable and utterly in control. I, on the other hand, was suddenly very aware of how awkward this was sure to be.
“Well,” my mother said, clapping her hands together. “Come, Anton. Sit, relax. I’ve made fiocchetti with pears and parmesan cream. Serena, go pick out a nice wine for us.”
I shot Anton a look of exasperation, but he just smiled, clearly amused. It wasn’t long before my mother began fussing over him, peppering him with questions about his business in New York.
I resigned myself to my fate. It was going to be a long evening.