by Becky Melby
“‘I gave my notice to Mr. W. It was all I could do to look him in the eye. I said I was moving back to Wisconsin to be near my parents. When I close my eyes I still see the pain in his. I have decided I cannot let this horrible thing happen. I have to find a way to stop it.’”
Nicky skimmed over to the entry for Sunday of the following week.
“‘The preacher spoke as if only to me. I—’”
“Preacher?” Light danced in her eyes. “Our Francie went to church?”
Nicky laughed and continued to read. “‘I fell to my knees. I couldn’t stop crying for all the horrible things I’ve done. He laid his hand on my head and helped me to pray. I will never forget his words. “God has set you free. You are safe in His arms. He is your hiding place.’”
Dani’s hand slid over her mouth. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t you feel like…we’re living this kind of parallel life? She comes to Jesus just as—”
“I start finding my way back.” He looked back at the page. Here again, it seemed Francie had too many words for the six lines allotted, and her thoughts spilled over into Monday. “‘When the service ended I felt like nothing could ever take that peace away from me. But as we walked out, someone called my name. I turned and there was Theo.’”
Dani gasped and leaned over the book.
“‘My Theo.’” The words of the next two sentences were water-spotted and blurred. Three words were legible— “‘kissed my cheek.’”
“She was crying when she wrote this,” Dani whispered then sighed. “Finally, Theo to the rescue. This is too much to process all at one time.”
Nicky continued. “‘He had to catch the train back to Minneapolis. He asked for my address. That’s when my peace shattered. I told him I was moving, and he gave me his card. He made me promise to write. I gave him my word, but I will break it.’”
Dani pulled out of his arm and turned sideways with her leg bent. Her knee touched his thigh. “This is exhausting.”
“Let’s go back to skimming.”
“But it’s all important. What if we’d skimmed right over Theo?”
“Then you wouldn’t be exhausted.” He glanced at his watch. “We should leave in ten minutes.” He edged the diary closer to her. “Hit the highlights.”
“There’s another time gap.” She flipped pages. Eight…nine weeks.” She rested the diary on his arm. Midafternoon light shimmered on her spun-gold hair.
“‘…is why they believe you must never reenter or take anything from that place.’”
Nicky came back into the moment. Dani rubbed her arms. “Creepy.” He had no idea what he’d missed. He tried to focus on the pale blue teardrop hanging from her earlobe, but the dip on the top edge of her mouth drew his eyes, and he got lost in outlining her lips, tracing the pattern in his head.
“‘…made her a few dresses, and I’m teaching her to sew. She is encouraging me to open my own shop or at least let their customers know I design gowns. She believes in Jesus and talks to Him like He’s right here. We pray and study the Bible together. I read to her and try to explain the words she doesn’t know. Renata is the friend I have wanted all my life.’” She flipped a page.
“‘Renata has known T since he was younger than me. She says he used to be a good kid, but the business made him hard. She says “the business” with the same look on her face Mama used to. She hates what her husband does, but she says God commands wives to submit to their husbands and be a helpmate.’”
“What business?”
Dani looked up. “I’m guessing your great-granddaddy was selling booze.”
“Or maybe just fooling around with the ladies.”
“Just?”
“Sorry. Don’t mean to make light of the family curse. No FOR SALE signs.”
The corners of her mouth drew up, giving him a whole new shape to memorize.
“‘I miss Franky so much, but Luca is here when my arms feel empty. I have not seen T, but Renata says he calls Santo. I love the customers and the music. For the first time since I left the farm, I’m actually happy.’”
“‘Santo took us to see Hoagy Carmichael. Santo knows him personally! Rumor has it he wrote a few bars of “Star Dust” right here. It may not be true, but I choose to believe it. It was so surreal to hear him live.’”
Dani turned several pages. “‘I’m so ecstatic sometimes I think I’ll split wide open! I am starting my own business! It will be private—not a storefront—just for regular customers. Santo has ordered the room behind the shop to be totally renovated to suit my needs. He is not the fiend I once thought he was.’”
Her elbow bumped his ribs. “Resist it, girl,” she whispered. Her hair tumbled across her cheeks as she spoke to the book as if were a walkie-talkie connecting her to the past. “Don’t fall under the Fiorini spe-ell.” She sputtered the end of the sentence as he nuzzled her ear. She barred him from further nibbling with a hand against his chest.
“She should resist. You shouldn’t.”
She scooted away from him. “Where’s the ‘shop’?”
“I don’t know.”
Dani smacked the table with her palm. “Your storeroom. That would explain the wallpaper and the roses on the light fixtures.”
“I can just picture her stitching away between the olive oil and the anchovies.”
With an exasperated sigh, she shoved him out of the booth.
“Bella ragazza.”
Luca Fiorini’s large hand engulfed Dani’s and pulled her toward him. A feathery kiss brushed her right cheek and then her left.
Nicky set two chairs in front of his grandfather’s wheelchair. “He says you are a beautiful girl.”
“Thank you. Grazie. Did I say that right?”
Thin lines fanned from dark eyes that sparkled like his grandson’s when he smiled. Could Nicky see the resemblance? Did he get the sense he was gazing into some future mirror when he looked at his grandfather? “Irish.” Thick white hair fell across Luca’s forehead as he shook his head. “My father will not approve.”
Dani glanced at Nicky, who shrugged and smiled.
“Danielle writes for the Kenosha Times, Nonno. She’s a reporter.”
“I don’t like reporters.” His finger ticked back and forth like a metronome.
Nicky nudged her arm and mouthed, “Ask him.”
“Mr. Fiorini.” Dani pulled the diary out of its plastic bag. “I found an old diary across the street from Bracciano. It was written back in the 1920s by a young woman named Francine Tillman. Do you remember her?”
Weak eyes stared at her. “Fran…cine. No.” Gaunt shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. His eyes fluttered closed.
“Nonno.” Nicky patted a thin hand networked by raised blue veins. “Francine knew your mother. She mentions Bracciano and says that Renata helped her hide something important. It sounds like Francie Tillman worked at the restaurant. You would have been just a little boy then.”
“Francie?” Heavy-lidded eyes opened again. “I know…” His thick white brows converged. “No.” He stared at the wall behind Dani.
Dani turned to look at the spot that drew his attention. A framed picture of Bracciano hung on the wall. She recognized the people standing in front—Santo and Renata Fiorini with little Luca between them. She got up and walked to the picture. “You would have been about this age when Francie met your mother. I bet Francie played with you. She—”
“I don’t know her!” White fingers curled under.
A CNA they’d spoken to on the way in poked her head in the door. “Everything okay, Luca?”
“I don’t know her!” His voice rose even louder. “I don’t…”
“It’s okay, Nonno.” Nicky continued to pat his hand. “We just had to ask. You didn’t know her. That’s okay.”
Luca’s chin dipped to his chest.
The CNA turned off the overhead light. A pale glow from the tube light above the head of Luca’s bed softened the room. “Mood lighting,” she whispered. S
he turned to Nicky. “This hasn’t been a peaceful day. Maybe next time.” She offered a sad smile. “I think I said that last time you were here, didn’t I?”
Nicky nodded. He stood and put the chairs back against the wall.
“He’ll remember you were here. He talks about you all the time. ‘My Nicky,’ he calls you. ‘My Nicky has a dream. Can’t trust my sons with it.’ I hear that all the time.”
“What’s ‘it’?”
“I never asked. The restaurant? He talks about Bracciano so much I feel like I’ve been there. He says your tortellini is better than his mother’s.”
Nicky covered a look of little-boy pride by bending to kiss his grandfather on the top of his head. “I’ll see you soon, Nonno. Ti amo.”
The aide said good-bye, and Nicky put his hand on Dani’s back. “Sorry.”
“It was worth the drive just to see you with him.” She leaned on his shoulder. “You have a tender heart.”
He pulled her close. “That will be our little secret, okay?”
“Okay.” She kissed his cheek, stepped over to Luca, and crouched beside the wheelchair. A soft snore ruffled through his parted lips. She slid her hand over his. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fiorini. You can be very proud of your grandson. Your Nicky is a fine man.”
She waited for a sign that her words had pierced his sleep, but none came. She stood and looked around Luca’s small world. Pale blue walls, bedspread to match. A bedside table and a small dresser. A bookshelf lined with family pictures and a few books. On the wall, a crucifix hung next to a shadow box displaying medals, including a Silver Star and a picture of a tall, broad-shoulder Luca in a World War II Army uniform. “Where did he serve?”
“Italy.”
“My great-grandfather, Charles Gallagher, fought in Italy in 1918. The Battle of Vittorio Veneto. I have a picture of him with his chest full of medals.”
“Then my family is indebted to your family for sacrificing for our homeland.”
She smiled. “So your nonno went back to his roots to fight.”
“At one point he was only twenty miles from the little town of Bracciano, where his parents grew up. He went AWOL for two days so he could meet his mother’s parents for the first—and only—time.”
Dani rubbed the goose bumps popping up on her arms. She pointed to the Silver Star. “How did he get this?”
“Actually, he got that for going AWOL. My great-uncle fought with the Italian Resistance—against Mussolini. He met up with my grandfather in Bracciano and gave Nonno intel that helped the Allied forces blow up a dozen brand-new German tanks.”
Dani turned back to the man whose posture had once been military straight. Luca’s limp hands rested on a navy-blue lap blanket. “I’d love to hear that story from him.”
“I come up here twice a month. If we hit the right time, you could fill a book with—”
“Franky.”
They swiveled in unison. Luca looked up, eyes clear and bright. “It’s not Francie. It’s Franky.”
The goose bumps returned. Dani knelt in front of him. “You knew Franky?”
“Of course. He hated peas. Used to hide them in the cuff of his pants. Every week the old woman who did our laundry would come to the back door jabbering. ‘Piselli nell’acqua! she’d yell. Peas in the water!”
Nicky laughed. “I can only guess how much fun two little boys had with that.”
“We played in the tunnel, hunting for bad guys. He moved.” Luca looked up at Nicky, eyes glazed. “Did they want to hurt him, too, Papa? He wrote to me. Franky Becker…”
Nicky shook his head and dropped his chin to his chest. Dani felt the weight of disappointment as if a hand pressed against her chest. Was it a bizarre coincidence, or a delusion? Had he known a different boy name Franky? What could they believe from someone who thought his grandson was his father?
Luca’s gaze clouded. “Brecker. No. What was it? And why—”
Nicky suddenly looked up. “Brekken?” His finger jabbed at her purse. “Diary,” he whispered. “Theo. Was it Franky Brekken, Nonno?”
The white head gave the slightest nod. “Franky Brekken. He sent me a postcard.”
The soft snore began even before he closed his eyes.
As they walked across the parking lot, Dani looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. “How did you remember Theo’s last name?”
He could get used to that look. “We get our mozzarella from a farmer in Stoughton named Ed Brekken. It’s an unusual name, so it stuck in my head when you read it.”
They reached the Javelin. He opened Dani’s door and helped her in as she focused on her phone.
“Where do we start?”
“Let’s use a process of elimination. Look up Frank Brekken Kenosha then Chicago, maybe Osseo.”
Dani’s thumbs beat a frenzied rhythm as she searched. “There’s one on Facebook. Nope. He’s our age. Another one in Minnesota… high school kid…wait. Pastor Frank Brekken? He’s a missionary…with Overseas Outreach.” A tiny gasp. She turned to him and grinned. “A missionary to India.”
Nicky drummed the steering wheel. “How old is he?”
She tapped the keys again. It sounded like raindrops. “He has a blog.”
“That can’t be our Frank. No ninety-year-old guy has a blog.”
“This one does.” Her squeal filled the car. “Look.”
He leaned over her shoulder, inhaling a dizzying mix of spice and flowers, and looked at the picture she pointed to. An elderly man stood between a dark-skinned man in a white shirt and tie and a woman in a blue sari. Dani clicked on a tab labeled “Bio.”
“‘When I was a young boy, my adoptive parents were the overseers of an orphanage in New Delhi. I grew up speaking English and Hindi. We moved back to the States when I was seventeen. After college I wanted to start a church. God had other plans, of course. My story mirrored my parents’—my wife and I honeymooned in Bombay.’” She clicked the “Contact” button. “He lives in Maryland. I’m calling him now.”
As she dialed, his fingers wandered to the back of her neck. She’d put her hair up in a ponytail. It was ninety-three degrees, and he couldn’t blame her, but he wanted to rip out the band that held it high off her neck. Then again…he bent and kissed the spot where a fine gold chain fastened.
She pushed him away. “I can’t concentrate.”
“Ignore me. You just do your thing, and I’ll do mine.” But the moment she said “Hello,” he pulled his hand away.
“Mr.—Pastor Brekken, my name is Danielle Gallagher. I live in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I found a diary that I believe belonged to your aunt, and I’m wondering if you have a min—”
“You found it?” The man’s voice carried even before Dani put him on speaker phone. “You found Francie’s book? Lois! There’s a woman on the phone who says she found Frazzie’s diary!” A soft shout sounded in the background. “I’m sorry. That’s my wife. You have to understand…my aunt died ten years ago, and on her deathbed she told me her diary held the key to my future.” Frank laughed. “Imagine hearing that when you’re eighty years old!”
February 19, 1928
Francie stepped out of the beige crepe dress, threw it over the chair in the corner of her bedroom, and slid a simple cotton floral over her head. She went through this metamorphosis several times a week. A change of clothes brought on a change of personality. The seamstress kicked out of her high heels, put on comfortable shoes, and changed her vocabulary from pleats and darts and gussets to lasagna, rigatoni, and cannelloni.
She loved every minute of both worlds.
A spritz of perfume, a touch of rouge, and she was ready. Slipping into her coat, she ran down the stairs.
Fresh snow covered the tracks she’d made just minutes earlier. She lifted her face and stood statue-still as flakes dotted her eyelashes. Seductively delicious smells—onions, garlic, thyme, and oregano, drifted across the street, hovered on the still night air. This little corner of the world, this triangle hem
ming her life, was her slice of almost heaven.
A car passed, honking as it sprayed wet snow in her path. As she sloshed across the street, stepping high to keep the snow out of her shoes, a giggle pulled her gaze to the snow-filled space next to the restaurant. Luca lay on his back, arms and legs flailing. Snow angels. The vision made her laugh. And then her chest tightened. Her arms ached with an emptiness only one little boy could fill. If only… She lifted a prayer and walked around the corner to the side door.
Rich aromas welcomed her. Renata looked up from her cheese grater and smiled. “Does Mrs. Cardella like the gown?”
“She loves it. She wants the same pattern in blue.”
“Wonderful. You will be famous someday.”
Someday. The word had once held so much promise. She nodded at her friend. As she walked into the back room, she marveled at the fact that Paris no longer lured her and New York had lost its fascination. She didn’t want to be famous. She wanted nothing more than a future for a little boy. Someday.
She took a dust mop out of the closet and slipped it around the polished floor then used a white cloth to dust the light fixtures. When the room looked presentable, she opened the back door and swept snow from the back step. The simple action brought her back to a winter storm that now seemed a lifetime ago. She was fifteen, shovel in hand, doing what she could for “the business.” Though she now lived in a different world, some things had not changed all that much.
She walked back in, closed the door, and came face-to-face with Santo.
“Grazie.” He took the broom from her and set it back in the closet. “These little extras do not go unnoticed.” He reached toward her elbow.
She stepped away. “It’s my pleasure.”
“My wife, she does not understand how important these details are.”
Putting yet more distance between them, Francie laughed. “She understands. She disapproves.”
A large hand splayed on the top of the iron table in the center of the room. “Hard times are coming, Francine. I am doing what I have to do for my family.”
She shook her head. “I invented that line, Santo.”
