The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

CHAPTER TWENTY

ZARA

Richmond, Virginia

Tuesday June 8, 1:00 p.m.

Zara had walked the pups, fed them, and opened the garage door when Nicolas arrived at precisely one o’clock. He was dressed in a clean brewery T-shirt, shorts, and athletic shoes. He was carrying a bag of doughnuts and two coffees. “I come bearing sustenance.”

The dogs barked, hurrying toward him, tails wagging. She accepted the coffee. “Bless you. I could really use an afternoon pick-me-up.”

“The doughnuts are the simple glazed kind. I thought about getting you one of the flavored ones but had no idea if you liked chocolate, strawberry, or bacon flavored. You used to bring Catherine and me the cake doughnuts.”

“It’s hard to be sad around doughnuts,” Zara said.

“You’re right. I’ve had three and feel pretty good.”

“It’s the sugar surging through your system.” She selected a doughnut that looked a little fatter than the others and took a bite. “Thanks, I needed this.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going.” She was enjoying this moment and did not want to talk about Gina. There would be plenty of time for that. For now, she wanted a normal moment or two.

“This is good,” she said.

Nicolas pinched off a small piece of doughnut and gave each dog a bite.

“They’re going to get fat if you do that,” she said.

Nicolas looked at Gus. “What’s that, boy? Zara doesn’t know what she’s saying?”

“She does.”

“It’s a treat. Let the old guy live a little.”

She could detail all the medical reasons why this was a bad idea but let it go. “Ready to tackle the attic?”

“Ready and willing.”

“Follow me.” She took him down the hallway past her bedroom with the unmade blow-up mattress and a beige bra strung across the pillow. She quickly closed the door.

“Not the first time you’ve slept on a floor mattress,” he said.

She had pulled a twin mattress into Catherine’s room during her last few days. “They turned my room into a sewing room, and the floor mattress is as comfortable as the van and way roomier.”

She opened the attic door at the end of the hallway and clicked on the lights. “We shouldn’t have more than a couple of hours’ work left, which is good. This space gives hell a run for its money.”

He rubbed his hands together. “If I can climb a mountain, I can work in an attic.”

At the top he surveyed the nearly empty space. All that remained were several large dressers and a steamer trunk.

“Let’s start with the dressers,” he said.

“Will do.”

Each grabbed an end of a Queen Anne dresser and tried to lift it but found it unmovable. They removed the drawers, all filled with clothes, shoes, baseball cards, and several boxes of old coins. They carried each to the garage and, when they returned to the dresser, found its weight a bit unwieldy but manageable.

“I’ll go first,” Nicolas said. “Any time the weight is too much, let me know.”

“Will do.”

She made it as far as the bottom of the attic steps before she had to stop, shake out her cramped fingers, and catch her breath. They continued down the hallway and then out to the garage. The steamer trunk was more of a challenge, and she had to stop a few times to catch her breath. Nicolas was patient, waiting for her to shake the cramps out of her fingers before they continued to the garage.

It took another forty-five minutes to get the remaining two dressers. By two thirty, they were both covered in sweat, but the attic was empty and the garage full.

Zara dug two cold waters out of the refrigerator. She handed one to Nicolas and kept the second for herself. Both drained their bottles.

“What else do you need?” Sweat beaded his brow, but he barely looked winded.

“Nothing more to do until Nonna sees the trunks and furniture. She has to decide what she wants to keep, which will be all of it; then she’ll take a nap, and then I’ll have the movers take away most of it.”

“You don’t want any of it?”

“Most of this goes back to my grandfather’s mother. I only met her once, and she was not thrilled with me.”

“How do you know that?”

“She asked my grandfather at my dad’s funeral why I looked so Italian and then asked if he really believed my father was his child.”

He grimaced. “That’s really low.”

“Papa told me his mother was old and senile. And she confused the past and present. Apparently, she lost a lot of good friends in World War II on the beaches of Anzio, Italy, and her brother’s plane crashed over the Mediterranean Sea.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“That’s basically what Papa told his mother. I never saw her again.”

“Funerals.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Nonna lived in Rome during the war, right?” he asked.

“She did, though she doesn’t like to talk about it. I’m hoping one of these boxes solves this mystery. She has something to tell us but doesn’t have the words.”

Nicolas’s phone alarm rang. “It’s the witching hour for me. I need to shower and get up the road to my father’s office for the big interview tomorrow.”

“Your father is making you interview?”

“He doesn’t want to play favorites.”

“I don’t believe that. He wants you in that office more than anything.”

“He’s trying to be cool about it.”

“Is it what you want?”

“I’ve missed the brainwork. And I am excited to get back in the game. The trick this time is not to let the work take over my life.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks. And keep me posted on what’s in the trunks. I’m very curious now.”

“You’ll be the first.”

She and the pups watched him drive off, and then after another walk with her trio, she filled water bowls for them all. As they lapped water, she stared at the dusty trunks and furniture. This was the last of it, and if Nonna could not find her wooden box, she would expand the search to the closets and spaces under the beds.

As tempted as Zara was to open Nonna’s steamer trunk, she opted to wait. They needed to savor all the moments they had left together, and the box was going to be important to them all.

She showered, and then downstairs she rummaged through the refrigerator and found fixings for a minestrone soup. Using the recipe Nonna had showed her dozens of times, she started chopping onions, garlic, and carrots. The kitchen quickly filled with the savory garlic flavors, and when the pot was simmering, she shifted her attention to the pantry and dug out ingredients for bread.

“A dear friend of mine used to make a loaf of bread and a pot of soup daily,” Nonna said to twelve-year-old Zara. “She used whatever she could find, but it was always delicious.”

Zara mixed yeast, sugar, and salt into the flour and then heated the water in the microwave for twenty seconds.

“Warm, not hot.” Nonna was sipping her coffee as she watched Zara combine the ingredients with her hands. “It’s all about touch.”

“Who taught you to do this?” Zara asked.

“Signora Fontana. A dear friend. Dead many years now.”

Zara had been proud when she’d pulled her first, somewhat-flat loaf out of the oven. Both Nonna and Papa had eaten a slice, and her grandfather had assured Zara she was a far better cook than Nonna.

Nonna had simply shrugged. “My talents lie elsewhere.”

Papa had grinned slightly, but thinking back, Zara blushed when she considered the implications of the comment.

She turned her sights to deep cleaning the kitchen. After wiping the counters and cabinets, she opened the junk drawer. A purgatory for odd items, it was chock-full of all the odds and ends that were not quite ready for the trash bin.

She emptied the drawer, dumping the contents on the kitchen table. She pulled the trash can over and picked through the pile, throwing out manuals for devices that had not been sold in a decade, old batteries, broken sunglasses, single earrings, and menus for restaurants that had gone out of business years ago.

It was not until she reached the bottom of the pile that she found a photo of Gina, Nonna, Papa, her, and her father. The image had been taken nearly twenty-five years ago, when she had been five and Gina seventeen. She remembered the trip to Washington because it had been a rare moment when they had all been together. Papa was smiling proudly, and his arm was slung around her father’s neck. Nonna had a hand on each of her granddaughters’ shoulders, and she, too, was grinning. Gina looked bored, and Zara squinted into the sun.

The five of them had driven to Washington, DC, to see Papa receive an award from the government. She recalled her father had pressed Papa for details afterward.

“Dad, it’s a big deal,” her father said. “It’s a citation. You’ve tracked war criminals.”

“It wasn’t anything. I’m good with data,” he said.

“Sounds like it’s out of a spy novel.”

Her grandfather laughed. “Nothing like it, son.”

Her father skillfully maneuvered the car through the streets of Washington, DC. “Not many men have an award like that.”

“What did you do, Papa?” Zara asked.

“Nothing important, honey.”

“Zara looks like she could use an ice cream and a trip to the zoo,” Nonna said.

“Excellent idea, Zara,” Papa said. “What do you all say?”

Gina grinned. “I love the idea.”

Her father had not been happy about the change of subject. “You two never answer my questions.”

Nothing more had been said, the five of them had gone to the zoo, and if there had been any underlying tension between her father and her grandparents, she had been too young and too fascinated by the hippos to care.

Two weeks later, her father had died in a car accident, and Papa’s mysterious award had been forgotten as easily as the questions about Nonna’s and Papa’s pasts.

She taped the picture on the refrigerator and swept most of the junk-drawer contents into the trash. By the time she was finished, the dough needed shaping. She washed her hands, kneaded the dough, and formed it into a flat focaccia. By the time she pressed dimples into the flat dough and placed it in a warm spot, the dogs required a walk. Little Sister raced to the door with Gus and Billy. It was good to see the three were working as a pack.

“I might be a crazy dog lady,” she mumbled to herself as she hooked the leash on Billy’s collar. “But there are worse lives to live.”

As soon as Zara returned from her walk, Gina strolled into the kitchen. Her coloring was better, and she seemed more alert. “It’s been a long time since I smelled homemade soup. It’s Nonna’s recipe.”

“No, it’s Signora Fontana’s recipe,” Zara corrected.

“Who is Signora Fontana?” Gina asked.

“I have no idea. Nonna once said she was the greatest cook in Italy.”

Gina dug a tasting spoon from the drawer and sampled the broth. “This tastes great. Thankfully, you have not inherited the Nonna cooking gene.”

Zara laughed. “I didn’t think we had any of those in the family. Nonna only did it out of necessity.”

“She taught you.”

“To keep me from crying.”

“Maybe. Someone along the way must have been good at it. I certainly am not.” Gina filled a small bowl with soup and, after grabbing her spoon, she sat at the table. “Do you cook for your patients?”

“Sure, if they require it. Sometimes there’s family around to do it.”

“What’s the weirdest dish you’ve made?”

“I had one client who liked ice cream and pickles, and no, he was not pregnant. Another only ate banana cream pies, and another loved this vegetable soup. Whatever gives comfort.”

“Keep making this soup for me. And if that bread is as good as it smells, then you’ll have a special place in heaven.”

“I do try.”

Gina paused. “Hey, thanks.”

“For the soup?”

“For treating me like me.”

Zara found it in her to casually arch a brow. “Who else would you be?”

“Sick invalid girl. I don’t want to be her. Even when my body fails me. Or, God forbid, my mind.”

“You’ll always be you.”

“Thanks.”

Nonna’s bell rang, saving Zara from tears. “The boss calls.”

“If I had a nickel for all the times I answered that bell in the last couple of years.”

“You should have told me. I would have come home sooner.”

“I never minded taking care of Nonna. And I didn’t know I was sick until after Christmas. I attributed the fatigue to too much booze. When I did the unthinkable and slowed the drinking and didn’t feel better, I went to the doctor.”

“You’ll feel better if you eat healthy and drink less booze.”

“Maybe.” As Zara turned to leave the room, Gina said, “I’m still in charge.”

“We’ll see about that.” Her light tone belied the terrible ache in her chest as she found her way to her grandmother’s room.

Nonna was sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I thought you left the house. I’ve been ringing for hours.”

“Thirty seconds at best.”

Nonna shook her head. “At least five minutes.”

Zara helped Nonna into her wheelchair. “I’m here now, and that is all that counts.”

“Where is Gina?”

“In the kitchen eating minestrone soup.”

“You cooked?”

“Don’t look so shocked.”

“I thought you forgot.”

Zara was starting to understand Nonna’s little jabs were an expression of fear as well as appreciation and love. “I did not.”

Five minutes later Nonna had powdered her nose, smoothed out her chignon, and applied lipstick. Zara pushed her wheelchair into the kitchen beside Gina.

“So we meet again,” Gina said. “How is Nurse Ratchet treating you?”

“She’s rather tough at times,” Nonna said.

“And bossy,” Gina said.

“And right here,” Zara added.

Her phone dinged with a text. It was Nicolas Bernard. Sitting a little taller, she carefully read:

Nicolas: Hair officially cut off. Suit picked up from the dry cleaner.

Zara: Knock ’em dead in the interview.

Nicolas: Keep me posted on the garage finds. I’ve got sweat invested.

Zara: Will do.

Zara slid the phone in her back pocket. “When you ladies are finished, we can open the steamer trunk in the garage.”

“What can I do to help?” Gina asked.

“You can sit, comment, and point. I’ll do all the heavy lifting.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Gina said. “I’m capable of helping.”

Without her makeup, Gina looked painfully pale, and her eyes were sunken.

“That was the deal. You two watch; I hold up items. Consider me your Vanna White of attic junk.”

“Vanna turns letters,” Nonna said. “And this is not junk. It’s my life.”

“You get the point,” Zara said.

After they finished their meal, Zara loaded the dishwasher while Gina wiped the table. Ten minutes later Nonna and Gina were sitting in lawn chairs in the garage.

“Ready, ladies?” Zara asked.

“Let’s get the show on the road,” Nonna said.

“Time’s a wasting,” Gina remarked.

Zara held up several items, including pictures, chairs, and tables that Nonna said all belonged to Papa’s family.

“They never liked me,” Nonna said.

“Why is that?” Gina said.

“I was always the Italian girl who appeared out of nowhere with their son and grandson.”

“Weren’t they excited about their grandson?” Zara remembered the words her great-grandmother had whispered to her grandfather. “Are you sure Richard is your son?”

“Not really. He looked too Italian for their tastes.”

“That’s not cool,” Gina said.

“No, it was not. His mother and I nearly came to blows at your father’s funeral, but Papa intervened, gave Gina forty dollars and keys to my car, and told her to take Zara for ice cream. I would gladly have gone with you girls that day, but I would not disrespect my son by running.”

When Zara pushed the trunk closer, Nonna’s eyes lit up. “That’s my trunk. The one I packed before my trip to America.”

“You said I was looking for a wooden chest,” Zara said.

“It’s inside,” Nonna said, leaning forward in her chair.

Zara dragged the trunk across the garage’s concrete floor and pried open the lid. She carefully peeled away the brittle tissue paper. On top was a blue dress that was torn and stained.

“What’s with the dress?” Zara asked as she laid it in her grandmother’s lap.

“I wore that dress the day the Americans entered Rome.” She gently touched the light-blue fabric and smoothed her fingers along the frayed collar and skirt marred with dark stains.

“What’s the stain?” Zara asked.

“Blood.” She smoothed her hands over the fold marks left over the decades. “I never wore it again after that night, but I could not let it go. I could not forget all the people who died.”

“Whose blood is it?” Gina asked.

“Find the box,” Nonna said.

Zara continued to dig through layers of baby clothes, fabric, threads, and shoes until her fingers brushed the smooth surface of a box. “Is this it?”

“Yes,” Nonna said.

“It’s locked,” Zara said.

“There’s a key in the kitchen taped under the drawer by the stove.”

“Very James Bond, Nonna,” Zara said.

“A need-to-know basis,” Nonna said.

Zara returned to the kitchen and skimmed her fingers under the drawer until it brushed a metal key. “Looks like you’ve kept more than a few secrets from us.”

She returned to the garage with the key and worked it into the lock, then twisted it until the latch released.

The lid opened to a thin layer of muslin. As Zara lifted the cloth, Gina leaned forward, whereas Nonna sat still, as if afraid of the contents. Zara removed the muslin.

On the top of the pile was a small infant’s gown made of a soft cotton and trimmed with embroidered flowers. Meticulous stitches joined the tiny seams.

“Did you make this?” Zara asked as she laid the gown on her grandmother’s lap.

“I did. I made it for my firstborn.”

“It’s beautiful,” Gina said as she ran her fingers over the delicate stitching and then handed the gown to Nonna. “A lot of love went into that gown.”

Nonna’s finger skimmed the yellowing fabric with reverence. “A child always brings the hope for a brighter future.”

Zara’s gaze went next to a black-and-white picture of a young man. He was dressed in an Italian uniform, had deep-set eyes that peered directly into the camera, and wore a slight smile that hinted he might know a secret no one else did.

“Who is that?” Zara handed the picture to Nonna.

“He’s very handsome,” Gina said.

“That is Riccardo,” she said softly as she traced the line of his lips and then his eyes with a bent finger.

Gina looked at Zara, her eyes bright with curiosity. “He looks a lot like Daddy.”