The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ZARA
Richmond, Virginia
Monday, June 14, 8:00 a.m.
“We need to finish the journal,” Gina said as they sat in lounge chairs in the open garage, having morning coffee. Coffee with the dogs was becoming their morning routine. As they speculated on Isabella, the pups chewed their new rawhide sticks.
“I wish Nonna would just come clean,” Zara said.
“She’s not saying a word until we finish the journal,” Gina said. “And she’s a very stubborn lady.”
“I have thought about Isabella a lot.” Zara had lain awake the last few nights, rereading the pages she and her sister had covered during the day. Isabella’s story gave her a sense of connection, and right now, given the latest very grim doctor’s report, she needed to feel attached to someone.
“She has to be Nonna,” Gina said.
“It stands to reason. Otherwise why would she have the journal?”
“Why use the name Isabella?”
“It could have been a way to protect herself. I found a few other journals written in the same time frame, and the diarists all used pseudonyms. Imprisonment was a real danger if the diaries were discovered.”
“It would have been proof that she had broken the law.”
“Exactly.”
Gina rubbed Little Sister’s head as the dog nestled in her lap. “Why do you think she never mentioned all that?”
“Like Mr. Harper said, it was the generation. None of them ever mentioned Isabella. Nonna only just admitted to the journal, and it’s been over seventy-five years. It’s hard to think about the guy that wore black socks with his sandals at the beach and washed his car every Sunday as a spy.”
“And don’t forget those plaid pants he favored. God, I’m amazed Nonna let him out of the house.” Gina started humming the tune to “Secret Agent Man,” and they both laughed.
“He was really good at blending in and looking like he was kind of clueless. But he had a sharp mind, and he didn’t miss much.”
“Tell me about it,” Gina said. “I tried to sneak out of the house the summer I stayed here when I was sixteen so I could go to a party, and I didn’t make it past the front door before he called me out. The guy was the lightest sleeper I knew.”
“I’ll get the journal.”
“Good. Maybe if we can figure out what happened to Isabella, we’ll know about Nonna and maybe Papa.”
Zara rose. “Be right back.”
As she moved upstairs, she heard her grandmother stir and moan. She found her sleeping, but it was a restless slumber, and she seemed to be calling out to someone.
Zara sat on the edge of the bed and took her grandmother’s hand. “It’s okay, Nonna. You’re safe.”
Her grandmother responded, but she spoke in Italian, a habit that surfaced when she was stressed or angry. Nonna kept repeating the same words over and over. Scusa, scusa, scusa. Zara knew enough Italian to know the word meant sorry.
“It’s okay, Nonna,” she said. “We’re all still here.”
Finally, her grandmother stopped mumbling and sighed as she seemed to reluctantly slip into a deep sleep. “Ah, Nonna, too much loss.”
Zara rose, retrieved the journal, and found Gina in the garage, staring at the clouds. “Sorry. Nonna was having a nightmare.”
“Was she speaking Italian?” Gina asked.
“Yeah.”
“She started doing that after Papa died. Those two were always a team. It began again in earnest a few weeks ago. I didn’t realize she’d figured out what was going on with me.”
“Sounds like she’s saying ‘I am sorry.’”
“What is she sorry for?” Gina asked.
“Nonna never explains.”
Zara opened the journal to the last page they had read. “I showed the emerald broach to Nicolas. He took a picture of it and said he’d look into it, but that was before our date ended.” She opened the black velvet box and marveled at the play of light against the hard angles. “It really is a stunning piece.”
“It’s one of a kind.”
“It must have cost a fortune.”
“And today, God only knows,” Zara said.
“If Mia had the broach, how did Isabella end up with it?”
“I don’t know. Isabella hasn’t mentioned receiving the broach so far, and she’s been pretty detailed about what happened.”
“Why didn’t Nonna ever wear it? Why hide it in the attic all these years?” Gina asked.
“Too many bad memories?” Zara suggested.
“I don’t know.”
Zara passed the broach back to Gina. “The Bianco family might still be alive, and it would be nice to return the broach. Nonna’s already said she would like me to spread some of her ashes in Rome.”
“Wow, that’s saying something for Nonna.” Gina fingered the broach. “Could you take some of me to Rome as well?”
Zara’s throat tightened as she struggled with the reminder that her family would soon be dust. “Sure, of course.”
“Thanks. I like the idea of spending eternity under the Italian sun.”
“I’ll find the church Isabella mentioned.”
“Perfect.”
Zara refocused on the broach to push aside thoughts of dying. “If we could find out who made the broach, we might be able to trace the family.”
“There are jewelers in town that can help us.” Gina turned it over. “There’s a maker’s mark. It looks distinctive, which might make it more traceable.”
“We can go today when Amanda shows up.”
“Now the day is interesting,” Gina said.