The Words We Whisper by Mary Ellen Taylor

EPILOGUE

ZARA

One Year Later

Monday, May 2

Rome, Italy

Nonna had passed in her sleep eight weeks ago with Zara and the pups at her side. She had been watching her favorite game show, The Price Is Right, with Little Sister sitting by her side. Nonna and Zara had been arguing about the price of a catamaran on the show when Nonna had closed her eyes. She had sucked in a breath, and just like that she was gone.

Her funeral had been a private affair. She had not wanted the fanfare of Gina’s funeral but had asked that George Harper attend. So, only Zara, Nicolas, Mr. Harper, and the pups had been at her service. Afterward, they had returned to her house, eaten pasta, and toasted with John Mitchell’s best bourbon.

By the end of April, Nicolas’s plans for their trip were in place. Zara had wondered if they should wait, but he had insisted Nonna would have wanted them to go immediately.

Zara had paid a king’s ransom to Mr. Harper’s great-granddaughter to babysit the pups, and she and Nicolas had left for Europe.

It had been a cool spring day when they’d landed in Rome, carrying the broach, a letter from Nonna, and two small containers holding Nonna’s and Gina’s ashes.

They arrived at the church of Saint Luca in the Monti district Isabella had written about in her journal. In the digital age, it had been easy enough to reach out to the church staff and speak to them about burial protocol. Of course, there was an endless amount of paperwork, red tape, and a donation to the church.

When they stood at the gravestones of Riccardo Ferraro and Isabella Mancuso, both of them did not speak for a long time. Isabella had been alive and vibrant in Zara’s mind. She had walked side by side with Isabella in Rome in 1943 and 1944 and had shared her triumphs and losses. It had taken her time to reconcile that Isabella had unfairly died at the age of twenty-one.

Isabella was Zara and Gina’s biological grandmother and Riccardo their grandfather. The lives of two people who had died more than seventy-five years ago had given them so much. She was equally grateful to Nonna and Papa, who had taken Isabella’s infant son into their lives and loved him like he was their own.

The funeral service was conducted in Italian, but it shared the same melodic tones that Zara remembered from Gina’s and Nonna’s funerals. She had thought this time around she would not feel such sadness, but the weight of the losses hit her with an equal punch.

They thanked the priest and remained by the graves, staring at the two new headstones next to the two older ones bracketing the tiny infant’s unmarked grave.

Nicolas threaded his fingers into Zara’s. “I can hear your thoughts.”

Zara tightened her grip. “Nonna had two lives. And now she’ll rest forever in both worlds.”

“She lived a long and full life. And Gina packed so much into every second of hers.”

“Gina was gone before her time, like Isabella and Catherine.”

“Life is fragile,” Nicolas said. “We’re here one day and gone the next. Which is all the more reason to make the most of what we have while we’re here.”

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

In the last ten months, he had settled into his job in the law firm but had chosen to spend several days a week working remotely from Richmond in Nonna’s house. Zara had spent much of the last year cleaning out her grandparents’ closets and desk drawers. The house was too big for her, and she had already met with a real estate agent. Selling the house that had been her home for most of her life was strange and unsettling. But life was changing. Which it always did, like it or not.

“We have to get moving if we’re to meet the Biancos at the jeweler’s at one,” Nicolas said.

“Right.”

“We can come back here if you like,” he offered.

“No, neither one of them would want us to linger.”

They walked hand in hand through the busy streets of Rome, making their way until they found the small shop.

Inside, there was an older, immaculately dressed man behind the counter. His thick graying hair was combed back, and a red silk handkerchief peeked out of his breast pocket. “You’re the Americans?”

Zara was not sure what the telltale signs were, but she was grateful for the icebreaker. “Yes, my name is Zara Mitchell. This is my friend Nicolas Bernard.”

“You’ve come about the broach?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I am Marcello Conti.” His stern face softened with a smile as he motioned to an older couple sitting to the side. Standing behind them was a much-younger man, who must have been the couple’s grandson. “I would like you to meet the Biancos,” he said. He introduced Edoardo, Eva, and their grandson, Roberto.

The old man took her hand and stared into her eyes, as if he were glimpsing the past. “Zara Mitchell?”

“Yes, sir. My grandmother was Isabella Mancuso,” she said. “I was raised by her friend, Mia Ferraro.”

“I was sorry to hear about Mia’s passing,” the older man said. “You will excuse me, but you look so much like your grandmother. I feel as if she’s standing right here.”

Eva reached out a fragile hand. “Isabella.”

The older man turned to Roberto, who removed a black-and-white picture from his pocket. The image was of a young woman standing in front of Sebastian’s. “This is Isabella.”

“How did you get this?” Zara asked.

“After the war my grandparents wanted to find her. To thank her. They went to Sebastian’s, and after some convincing, the old man who owned the shop produced this picture.”

Zara stared at the smile that mirrored her own. “I’ve never seen this. Nonna said I looked like her, but this is uncanny.”

Seeing Isabella’s smiling face triggered a swell of emotions. She handed the picture back to Edoardo. “Thank you.”

“That is for you,” Edoardo said. “If not for her, Eva and I might not be here now. My wife was pregnant with our first son while we hid out with Isabella.”

“She was so kind,” Eva said in heavily accented English.

“It’s nice to have a small piece of her,” Zara said.

Roberto reached in a bag and pulled out a very old pair of shoes. Eva looked at her grandson and spoke quickly in Italian.

“My grandmother says that Isabella gave her these shoes.”

“She was afraid your grandmother’s shoes would give her away,” Zara said.

Again, Eva spoke to her grandson, and he translated. “These shoes carried my grandmother over the Alps as she and my grandfather hiked to Switzerland and freedom.”

Zara traced her finger over the worn, scuffed shoes. “Thank you.”

“My grandmother used to speak to the schools each October sixteenth, the anniversary of the roundups. She always took the shoes and told the children about the woman who had given them to her.”

Tears welled in Zara’s eyes. She offered the shoes to Eva, but the woman shook her head. “They are yours now.”

Roberto next handed her a worn Bible. “Isabella’s.”

Zara smoothed her hand over the cracked leather. She opened the front cover and saw the names of family members that dated back over a hundred years. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Eva said.

Zara reached in her purse and removed the small jeweler’s box. “My nonna’s last wish was that I give you this.”

Edoardo opened the box and smoothed his hand over the emerald’s hard edges. He produced another picture, this one of an elderly woman elegantly dressed. She was standing in front of a marble fireplace, and she was wearing the broach. “This is Margherita Bianco, and this was taken shortly before we were married.”

Zara stared at the face of the woman proudly looking into the camera. Again, she sensed she was visiting an old friend. “She’s lovely.”

“She was a great lady,” Edoardo said. “She gave up everything for Eva, me, and our child.”

“According to Isabella’s diary, Signora Bianco wanted the broach passed on to her first female great-grandchild,” Zara said.

“I had only sons. Roberto is my youngest grandson, and he and his wife are expecting their third child. She’ll be the first girl in generations.”

“Then I’ve arrived just in time,” Zara said.

“Yes,” Edoardo said.

“Your grandmother stayed behind to buy time for you, didn’t she?”

“The Germans wanted more than the art they looted from Margherita’s apartment,” Roberto said. “They wanted my grandfather to sign over the estates and the lands so they could claim they obtained it all legally.” Emotion tightened his voice. “When my grandfather returned to Rome, it was his mission to find out what happened to his grandmother’s body. The right money in the right hands bought him the location of her grave on the outskirts of town. He had her reburied in Rome.”

“She was a brave woman,” Zara said.

“We cannot thank you enough,” Roberto said.

Eva took Zara’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

Edoardo insisted on taking them to lunch, and the five spent several hours eating at the Ritz overlooking the streets that Isabella, Riccardo, Mia, and Margherita had walked. At the end of the meal, they hugged and went their separate ways.

“You did good,” Nicolas said.

“I hope it gives both Isabella and Mia peace.”

Nicolas wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I know that it does. I’d also like to think Catherine is at peace, knowing that her to-do list brought me back to life.”

Zara kissed him on the lips. “You make me very happy, and if I haven’t told you lately, I love you.”

He deepened the kiss, and when he drew back, he had removed a ring from his pocket. “It seemed only fair if you gave up the broach, you should get a gift in return.”

She looked at the ring with a single emerald bracketed by two diamonds. “It’s lovely.”

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

She cupped her hands on the sides of his face. “I will.”

He slid the ring on her finger. “I love you. I think I have from the moment I saw you in that garage surrounded by all the contents of Nonna’s attic and your three dogs.”

She arched a brow, grinning. “And to think I wasn’t wearing lipstick.”

He laughed and hugged her close. “Lipstick or no, you’re perfect to me.”