Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Uno
Due
Tre
Quattro
Cinque
Sei
Sette
Otto
Nove
Dieci
Undici
Dodici
Tredici
Quattordici
Quindici
Sedici
Diciassette
Diciotto
Diciannove
Venti
Thank you
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The Christmas Bells of Cavazzale
Marian P. Merritt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Christmas Bells of Cavazzale
COPYRIGHT 2015 by Marian P. Merritt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410
White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2015
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-568-5
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Scotty and Barbara--thanks for giving me Italy.
For your help, a special thanks to Lucia Ann Binotto. To Flavio Zambotto and the Cavazzale Bell ringers for making Cavazzale a special place with the beautiful sounds from the bells.
Thank you to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. All I am and all I have is from Him.
Uno
Charleston Maynard exited the building with a box filled with belongings from her desk.
Bill, the security guard, patted her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll find another job soon. You’re young and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Everyone loves you. You’ll do fine. Try not to let this ruin your Thanksgiving.”
Fat snowflakes circled in the crisp Denver air and a blanket of white covered the entire parking lot. “Thanks, Bill. I wish you the best, too.” He would probably be terminated once the company completed its move to Houston. Jobs were scarce, not only in Colorado, but everywhere. Her chances at twenty-nine with a degree were much greater than his at fifty-five with a high-school education. Sorrow gripped—for his possible job loss. She gave him the best smile she could muster. “I’ll miss you and those corny jokes every morning.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Jus’ remember, God’s got this.”
God’s got this. Maybe with his faith but certainly not with hers.
With each step, the fresh snow squeaked under her soles. She usually put her winter-gear bag in her car mid-October, but this year was different. Brady, her fiancé, had broken off their engagement October twenty-ninth. On their three-year anniversary. He wasn’t ready to commit he’d said. So he had simply walked out of her life one week after her Italian grandmother, the one guiding and stabilizing force in her life, died.
The last few weeks had been tough. She tried to follow her familiar routine, but things had changed. Brady had dictated so much of her schedule and her life. The dawning realization made her flinch. And Nonna, whom Charly usually went to for a comforting shoulder to cry on, was gone. While she missed Brady, Nonna’s death left a huge hole in her heart.
As she started her car, her phone buzzed. “Hello, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. I hope it’s not a bad time.”
If she only knew. “What’s up?”
“Your sister called. She and both kids have the flu, and Triston is out on training maneuvers, so your dad and me are flying out to help and will probably spend Thanksgiving there. You’re welcome to come out to Washington for the holiday.”
Charly’s windshield wipers pushed large bits of snow back and forth.
Her family would feel sorry for her, which would only keep her feeling sorry for herself. Besides, her mom and dad needed to spend time with her sister, alone. They’d visited last spring, but their time was cut short by Dad’s gallbladder attack. They’d returned home early for his surgery.
“Oh, and Charly, don’t forget, tomorrow is the reading of your grandmother’s will. Dad can pick you up from work if you’d like.”
“I’ll meet him there. It’s at Mr. Singer’s office right?” She couldn’t tell her mom she’d lost her job. Not now. Maybe when they returned from Washington.
“Yes, at 11 a.m..”
“I’ll be there.”
Charly couldn’t imagine why Nonna had requested that the will be read with the entire family present.
~*~
André Lagneaux locked the door and set the alarm in his New Orleans art gallery’s showroom. Fatigue gripped.
Tonight’s large crowd filled the gallery. His friend, Claire’s, showing had gone well. The food, catered by another friend, Jason, was a big hit. He hoped the exposure would bring customers to Jason’s Warehouse District restaurant.
Usually after such a successful evening, André’s mood flew high and he could take on the world. Eight years ago, he’d gone against the advice of his mama and papa, and all four of his siblings to open the gallery in the still-revitalizing part of town. With a degree in business and a few thousand dollars he’d bought the worn-out warehouse from his uncle and set out to live his dreams. Now the area had been christened the Arts District, and thrived.
The Lord had blessed his endeavor. André had dedicated the building for His glory and hadn’t changed his beliefs about God even when the more popular establishments ridiculed him. With his long wavy hair, hairy face, and muscled physique he didn’t meet many of the world’s expectations of the ideal Christian nor of the ideal gallery owner. Which suited him just fine.
He rode the small elevator to his second-floor apartment. When he entered his living room, something wasn’t right. He treaded tenderly on the wooden planks of the floor, but they creaked and moaned. Whoever was in his kitchen didn’t hear over the pot clanging and water running.
A loud roar filtered from the living room. André lifted a heavy pottery vase on his way to the living room/kitchen area. The steady chain-saw roar made his pulse rise. What was that annoying sound and who would have the nerve to be in his kitchen? André turned the corner. “Mama, what in the world? I thought you and Dad left hours ago.”
With her salt-and-pepper hair still in the bun she’d worn earlier that evening, she worked over a steaming stainless steel pot while his father, fully reclined in André’s leather recliner, snored.
“We had intended to. But, I thought I’d fix myself a real dinner. The food you had down dere was just enough to teas
e me.” She met his gaze head-on. A glare from under her furrowed brows and above her reading glasses lasered at André. “And son, we need to talk.”
Uh-oh, she’d given him the Elise Lagneaux stare. What in the world could he have done to bring on Mama’s wrath? “OK, but can I change first?”
“You go right ahead, I’ll finish this chicken soup.”
He returned the vase to its spot.
The freight-train snores of his dad followed to his bedroom where he quickly showered and dressed. What was important enough to keep his mama up past midnight?
Due
Charly and her father sat across from her grandmother’s attorney, Mr. Singer.
After a few minutes, her sister’s face filled the large video screen angled on the desk. Savannah sniffled. “Hello, Dad. Charly.”
“Hello.” Charly and her father answered.
They exchanged pleasantries and got the update on the health of the children.
Then Mr. Singer began with the reading of Conchitta Rossato Maynard’s will.
“I, Conchitta Rossato Maynard, an adult residing at 25 Paris Place, Denver, Colorado, being of sound mind, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.” When he came to the articles distributing property he glanced toward her father. “To Alan Maynard, I devise, bequeath, and give the remaining sums in my personal bank accounts and any remaining possessions in my apartment. My jewelry to be distributed as my daughter-in-law, Doris, deems appropriate. To Savannah Maynard Darlington, I devise, bequeath, and give my inherited property, the homestead, land and villa of my family in Vicenza, Italy.”
Charly’s father smiled toward his oldest daughter.
Her father wrapped his fingers around Charly’s.
Mr. Singer turned his gaze toward Charly. “To Charleston Elizabeth Maynard, I devise, bequeath, and give my beloved house in Cavazzale, Italy.”
My grandmother left me the Cavazzale house. She’d never been to the house during their trips to Italy; they’d always been too busy at the vineyard.
Charly stole a glance toward her father, who nodded. “We talked. She wanted you to have her special place.”
Mr. Singer closed the folder. He reached into his desk drawer and retrieved two envelopes. “I met with your grandmother just before she passed. She requested her will be read today. Somehow she knew she didn’t have much longer.” He handed Charly the thinner of the two manila envelopes, and then turned to Savannah. “Here are the deeds to the properties, keys, and a letter to each of you from your grandmother.”
“Give it to my father. He and my mother are coming here tomorrow.” Savannah’s eyelids drooped and red splotchy patches dotted her face. In the distance, one of the girls began crying. “I’m sorry Mr. Singer. I need to go. Charly, love you, girl.” She blew Charly a kiss. “I hope you consider coming out here for the holidays. Dad, you and Mom be safe traveling. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She signed off and the screen turned blue.
The envelope weight pushed against Charly’s lap. Her heart exploded with both love and longing for Nonna.
Her dad laid his hand on her shoulder. “Honey, Nonna thought the world of you. Honor, her memory with the gift she’s given you.”
“I will, Dad.”
He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Delivered in true Nonna fashion. Your mom and I will let you know when we get to DuPont.”
“OK.” She kissed his cheek and bid him goodbye. In the course of three weeks, she’d lost her job, her boyfriend, her grandmother, and become the owner of a house in Italy.
Maybe Christmas in Italy was just what Charly needed. With no job to go to, why not Thanksgiving there, as well? Italy would be where Nonna would have wanted Charly to be.
~*~
“I have a bowl of soup for you, André.” His mother pointed to an empty chair across from his father.
He pulled the chair and sat. “What’s going on?”
“Eat.” His mother pointed to his bowl. “We’ll talk after.”
Was one of them ill? The thought destroyed his appetite. He lowered his spoon. “Mom? Dad? Are either of you sick? Is there something I should know?”
“Yes, actually, we both are.” His father’s dark eyes were intense.
André’s gut twisted. Both? “What?”
“Yes, we’re both sick of seeing you work so hard. You’ve not seen your brothers and sisters here in the states for over three months. It’s been almost two years since you’ve seen Edmond. You have a beautiful godchild and niece who hardly know you.” He leaned back in his chair, but his piercing gaze remained fixed on André. “Tell me, did you make a lot of money t’night?”
André nodded.
“Tell me, did you feel joy t’night?”
André braced for the truthful assault. “No.”
“You know why?”
André nodded. The conversation transported him back to high school when he’d sold a handmade gift his sister had given him. His father had given him the “money is not the answer” speech. Yet, he wasn’t a teenager any more. He was a grown man, and as much as he adored his parents, he didn’t need them interfering in his life.
“André,” His mother’s soft voice broke the silence. “You’ve done a wonderful job with this gallery. We couldn’t be more proud of what you’ve accomplished, but for the last few months and especially tonight”—She turned to his dad, and then back to André. The compassion in her gaze enveloped him—“we noticed somet’ing. We didn’t see the usual joie de vivre in you. We didn’t see dat usual delight in helping your friends do well. All we see is a young man who has been working so hard to make his gallery successful he forgot to enjoy the important things along the way.”
His mother’s words sliced right to the core of what was bothering him. His father’s words from childhood circled around his brain. You make time for the things that are important to you.
His father cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Son, we talked to your brother, Edmond, today.”
“And…” Edmond and André, only two years apart in age, had been inseparable as kids. Had something happened to Edmond’s family?
His father’s glare made André shift in his seat.
“Your mother and I believe it’s time dat you took a vacation. Edmond is being deployed in January, and, well…maybe you should spend some time with him and his family before he leaves.”
His mother pulled an envelope from her pocket and slid it across the table toward André. “The whole family is going to Italy for Christmas. We want you to come too. We bought all the tickets.”
“You can’t afford this.” André turned to his dad. “Your pension. This is a huge expense.” He pushed the envelope back to his mother. “Let me pay for this.”
His father grinned and shook his head. “We can’t afford not to do this. This family has not had a Christmas with everyone together in three years. Dat’s not right. So your mama and me had a little money put aside jus’ for dis. It’s our Christmas present to everyone, and nothing would make her happier than to have all her kids together for Christmas.”
André usually closed his gallery the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. It would be nice to see his brother and sister-in-law again, but especially his precious nieces. He glanced toward his mother.
She pushed the envelope back toward him. “Open it.”
He slid the flap back and pulled out the ticket. A quick glance at the dates spiked his blood pressure. “What? Leaving next Monday three days before Thanksgiving and returning after New Year’s Day? Mama, Papa, this is a nice gesture, but I don’t think I can be away from the gallery for this long.”
Mama shook her finger at him. “Dat’s nonsense. I heard you talkin’ to Ellie tonight. Heard you tell her how slow things get around the holidays. I also heard her say if you wanna take some time off, she could run things while you’re gone. So, I axed her tonight.”
“You did what?”
“I axed her.”
“Let me get this stra
ight. You asked my employee to run my gallery while I go to Italy. A trip you two are paying for. Is that right?”
Papa walked to the refrigerator; he paused with his hand on the handle. “You got it right.”
“Over a month. No. I can’t be gone that long.”
“It’ll be time well spent. Edmond is expecting you.” Papa opened the fridge door and filled his glass with milk. “Look at the other page in the envelope. We rented a house in Cavazzale so you can visit with Edmond. You’re the godfather to Isabella. She needs to know her parrain. You haven’t seen her for two years. The gifts you send are not a substitute for her and little Marielle getting to know you.”
André struggled to keep the bubbling anger at bay. He turned to his mother.
“Please, André, it breaks my heart that my granddaughters don’t know their uncle. You’ve been working so hard. Would you do this for me? For Papa? Consider dis trip your Christmas present to us.”
They wouldn’t change their minds. Ellie, his office manager, could run the gallery. The one thing grating the most—swallowing his stupid pride and admitting they were right. He’d let the gallery consume his time and had neglected spending time with his family. Would he let this happen when he had a wife and children of his own?
He needed to see Edmond and Juliette, but most importantly, he needed to be there for his godchild and niece. What if something, heaven forbid, happened to Edmond?
Tre
Charly sat in the terminal waiting for her flight to Frankfurt, and then on to Venice. Her parents were disappointed that she’d decided to spend the holidays in Italy, but they’d understood her need to see the home Nonna had given her. She’d called the caretaker and left a message letting him know when she’d arrive. The caretaker, Antonio, a cousin of Nonna’s, had cared for the house since Nonna married Charly’s grandfather and left over fifty years ago.
Charly studied the photos she’d been given. The pictures showed a stucco house with deep red shutters and a glass outer door protecting an old wooden door. An iron fence bordered the property along the sidewalk. Window boxes hung from the upstairs window.
The Christmas Bells of Cavazzale Page 1
