Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
One Year Later
“Quint! Oh my God, come here!”
I stared at my laptop, blinking furiously. Had I read it right? Was it a dream, or had I actually manifested something this magical?
“What is it?” he asked, racing from the kitchen, where he’d been cooking dinner.
My finger shook as I pointed at the screen. “Can you read that? My editor sent it over and I think it’s a mistake.”
I held my breath and waited. A few moments passed. Quint turned to me and grinned, shaking his head. “You did it, bella . They love it.”
I bit my lip. “It’s the New York Times , right? The Book Review , right?”
“ Sì. I am not surprised. It is a beautiful book, full of heart.”
I read the words again, slowly.
A gorgeous, sprawling tale of a woman whose loss becomes her greatest tool and triumph to create a new life…
Raw, honest, and vulnerable…
A talented new writer to watch…
Early reviews were streaming in and my publisher had already increased the print distribution after bookstore demand spiked. When I’d sent my editor a few chapters of the new manuscript, she’d agreed to change my contract and move up publication. This time, when she asked me to deliver on a tight deadline, I experienced no fear or dread. The words and ideas poured onto the page in a passionate rush. I ended up writing the first draft in three months, and my publisher decided to launch the book the following spring to get ahead of the summer reading club picks. The preorders already had the book ranking high on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. The buzz from early readers had been both gratifying and shocking.
I just hadn’t expected much. I’d written the story for me, first, then my mom. It was a healing process and a gift. I’d thought it was a clever way to get out of my first disastrous contract, never believing the audience would be more than a blip.
But I was wrong.
Somehow, my social media posts of Sicily blew up, gaining me new followers. Once people heard about the book, it had exploded in preorders, taking all of us by surprise.
Dear God, they’re calling me the next Elizabeth Gilbert.
Quint pulled me from the chair before I could read the review for the fourth time and spun me around. His hugs were still legendary, and I sank into his strength, the scent of citrus and spice and clean cotton filling my nostrils as I buried my head in his chest. “We have to call Catena and Theo and Carmella and Teresa.”
“And Nonna and Babba. They’re now local celebrities.”
We laughed together. I’d gotten everyone’s approval before sending the manuscript. Their reactions were pure excitement, so that made things easier. Sharing my family and private journey with the world was a big step.
After Quint came to visit me last fall and I made my decision, we spent the next few months preparing for my big move. I never looked back, nor regretted my choice.
Sciacca was home.
My family was ecstatic and helped in every way. Since I had all the documents from the church on my mother’s birth, I was able to get the paperwork needed to move permanently. From the moment we made the decision, it seemed the universe opened up to allow us clear passage.
The podcast had a solid spring season and began to rebuild buzz. After ironing out a few kinks, I settled into a flow, working remotely with the team and my guests. I began writing the book, dragging my laptop to my favorite café, while I drank espresso and looked at the boats in the marina. I rented a small apartment near Quint.
And we got engaged.
The wedding was planned for the spring.
Still giddy from the review, I joined my fiancé at the table to eat, and then we made calls, arranging to see Nonna and Babba tomorrow. We cleaned up and headed out to Bar Sciacca to spread the good news to Catena and Theo. As we were walking in, Carmella called, saying her brother had texted the link to the review. We spoke for a while, and when I hung up, Quint gave me a questioning look, hand paused on the door. “Coming in, bella ?”
I smiled. “ Sì. Be there in a minute. I just want to take a breath.”
He nodded, understanding my need for space as he always did. He went inside and I heard an echo of greetings. I turned and walked around the building, to the bench where I’d first sat with Quint.
Gratitude overflowed in me, even as I noted not to get attached to the expectations for the book or what would happen next. I continued walking toward the square, hands in my pockets, my mind full of thoughts and memories.
The moon shimmered in an eerie crescent surrounded by stars. It was a weekday in deep fall. The streets were quiet and I closed my eyes. I breathed in the sharp air and thought about my mother as a young girl, running through the narrow side streets with her siblings, holding her father’s hand as they walked into church every Sunday morning. I pictured her fighting at the dinner table where her cousins and aunts and uncles squeezed in, breaking bread and sharing pasta under the watchful eyes of Nonna and Babba. I imagined her meeting my father for the first time and the hard choices she made to be with him at any cost. I thought about how, years later, I’d find myself in the same place with a second chance for both of us. The way Babba laughed with me and the picture of Mom he carried in his pocket everywhere.
The images came to me like a slow-moving photo book.
Both had made mistakes. Perhaps my mother had believed Babba could never forgive her choice, so instead of facing rejection, she never reached out. Perhaps if she had, things would have been different. But life gave us free will, and choices could only be made to the best of our abilities, during a tiny snapshot of time. Mom didn’t have the luxury of seeing the future.
Everyone had done their best.
But the circle of hurt and regret had now closed.
I thought of the dedication in my book, the words imprinted in my heart and soul.
For Mom.
Thank you for teaching me about love and for inspiring this story.
But most of all, thank you for being my mother.
Ti amo, Mamma.
I closed my eyes, tilted my head up, and felt a warmth cascade over me and through me, along with the faint scents of florals, of daffodils and sunshine. My skin prickled with awareness.
“I’m home, Mom,” I whispered. “I’m home, just like you meant for me to be. And I miss you. We all miss you, but we’re together now. And I’m happy.”
I was met with silence, but I knew she was here. I knew every step in this journey, as painful as it was, had led me right here, back where I belonged. With a family and a man I’d fallen in love with.
I opened my eyes, wiping the tears from my cheeks, and turned to go into the pub, where everyone was waiting.