When I Meet You

by Olivia Newport

  A spattering of applause made Nolan wink at his daughter.

  “And what will you be preparing, Nolan?” Marilyn said. “Perhaps we should whet the appetites of everyone here and boost our reservations!”

  Jillian elbowed him.

  “You flatter me,” Nolan said. “I have a few things in mind, but I’m still finalizing the details.”

  It wasn’t the answer Marilyn wanted—the slight narrowing of her eyes told him that—but it was the best Nolan could do. She answered several questions, distributed a handout of FAQs, issued several more reminders, and dismissed the group.

  Nolan stacked his empty coffee cup on the remains of the snack plate and pictured sliced roasted chicken on a real plate beside colorful vegetables and wondered if Jillian had made rice or potatoes. And was there any ice cream in the freezer? He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten the last of the pralines and cream from Ore the Mountain.

  “A word, please, Nolan.”

  He turned toward the event organizer. “Hello, Marilyn. It’s going to be a grand weekend.”

  “I do hope so,” Marilyn said. “Should I be concerned that you don’t have a menu yet?”

  “Not at all. I promise to pin that down soon.”

  “We’re planning to print menus for the place settings.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “We can’t wait until the last minute to do that.”

  “Right.”

  “The designer will need some time to lay it out first, and then the printer will require time.”

  “Of course. I’m just trying to make sure I can be efficient with food preparation on the night of the meal.”

  “I’m sure you’re up to the challenge and it will be delicious,” Marilyn said. “Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

  Marilyn pivoted away to chase after another victim, and Jillian snorted a laugh.

  “You don’t have any idea what you’re cooking, do you?” she said.

  “Have you got your talk prepared?” Nolan shot back.

  “Not the same. I give genealogy talks all the time. I get paid to do it. I can do it in my sleep.”

  “I have one or two details to iron out,” Nolan said. “Then I can decide between littleneck clams in a delicate Italian sauce or barbecued rabbit.”

  Jillian laughed. “I would see how that would be a tough choice when you’re cooking for a hundred and twenty.”

  “A hundred and twenty!” Nolan’s response was louder than he intended. “But Nia’s dining room doesn’t hold more than about twenty.”

  “Dad, this is a fundraiser. Nia will have extra tables all over the Inn, and remember, you already agreed to jump from two seatings to three.”

  In fact, he remembered no such thing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jillian craned her neck to the left to confirm her suspicion. The large taupe mug with a maroon swirl around the lower portion—her favorite for the last six months—was empty. She would have to do something about that soon if she expected to maintain productivity on this family tree. It wasn’t complicated, as far as genealogies went. She’d met the client at a conference for amateur genealogists where she spoke a couple of months ago, and the woman had made a valiant effort on her own based on family stories, memorabilia, spotty documents, and public records. Several simplifications to name spellings of ancestors who came from Eastern Europe to the United States had slowed her progress, however, and after chatting with Jillian over a conference meal, she asked to hire her to finish the job. Ultimately she hoped to produce a book for the extended family, and she wanted to be as sure of the information as possible. Jillian had only had two cups of coffee that morning—the size of the cup was irrelevant in her thinking, and she would never apologize for a mug that required both hands to hold properly—and three was the magic number for her brain’s maximum efficiency.

  Fortunately, on the gray-speckled granite kitchen counter a coffee preparation system gleamed in a way that would stoke any barista’s passion. None of her father’s black coffee nonsense. That’s what the single-serving brewer machine was for. Jillian would maximize the potential of the machine that could produce the latte worthy of the mug her mother had loved. Jillian reached for the mug she had set a safe distance from her keyboard and rolled her chair back from her desk.

  The kitchen was only a dozen steps from her office in the old Victorian house that had once been a duplex of mirroring two-story residences, but Jillian didn’t make it to her destination. When the doorbell rang she angled her stocking feet toward the wide door on one side of the living room that served as the home’s main entrance.

  “Hey, Veronica,” Jillian said when she pulled the door open.

  “Well, hello, my favorite secret keeper.”

  “Huh?” Jillian stepped aside for Veronica to enter.

  “On occasion it takes awhile for my husband to get around to telling me things, but eventually he remembers. Why didn’t you mention the trunk yourself?”

  Jillian snickered. “Veronica, would you like to see this really cool, really old trunk my dad arranged for me to bring home from a museum?”

  “Why yes. Yes, I would. Thank you for offering.” Veronica tucked her dishwater blond hair behind her ears. “As you know, I have a lifelong interest in really cool, really old things.”

  “I was going to tell you last night after the meeting, but you disappeared.”

  “Luke and I hadn’t seen each other all day, and he made me promise not to dillydally.” Veronica gasped and took several long strides across the room toward the steamer trunk, which stood open. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “Slow down. Strict instructions from the museum curator.” Jillian set down her empty coffee mug and handed the white gloves to Veronica.

  Her hands covered, Veronica circled the trunk, gently touching several of its features. “This dates at least to 1900.”

  Jillian nodded. “It contains correspondence from 1909.”

  “E. P. B.” Veronica touched the monogram. “The owner?”

  Jillian shook her head. “We don’t think so—at least not the person who was traveling with the correspondence. I have to carve out some time to dig into it.”

  “Luke said there are some financial questions.”

  “Right.” Jillian pointed to a drawer for Veronica to slide open.

  Veronica’s eyes widened at the papers.

  “Three drawers like that,” Jillian said. “My dad hasn’t had time to go through it all yet either, but he’s enlisting help.”

  “Like Luke.” Veronica gently fingered each of the three suits. “The clothes are to die for!”

  “The ‘delicates’ are in the back,” Jillian said. “Hat. Shoes. Everything’s there.”

  “I can tell you right now that these are not off-the-rack clothes.” Veronica closed the drawer and removed the gloves. “It’s probably in the best condition of any trunk I’ve seen for its age.”

  “That’s saying something,” Jillian said.

  At the Victorium Emporium, Veronica catered to tourists looking for souvenirs. Many of the items she stocked were replicas and priced for rapid turnover to keep the shop’s cash flow in the black. Luke insisted on some practicality to the business model. But Veronica also scoured estate sales and auctions for authentic period pieces to put on careful display in one corner of the store for more discerning shoppers.

  “Don’t hate me,” Jillian said, “but I have another trunk I’ve never showed you. It’s at least as old as this one—probably older.”

  Veronica’s eyes narrowed. “Jillian Parisi-Duffy, what are you saying?”

  Jillian wasn’t sure why those unpremeditated words gurgled up her throat and out of her mouth, but she couldn’t wash them down now. Ever since she and her dad brought Lynnelle’s trunk home on Saturday, Jillian’s own trunk had been a specter lurking behind every thought. “It was my mother’s. It came from her mother’s side, but it also has things in it from the Parisi side.”

 
; “Oh Jillian.” Veronica softened. “I didn’t mean to make light. Your mom’s things—I understand you would want to be private about that.”

  Jillian exhaled. “I suppose that was it in the beginning. I was only fourteen. It used to make me cry to look inside. Then I would be frustrated that I didn’t understand the family history better, even though I tried to research it. Now I haven’t looked at it in years.”

  “I’ve never noticed a trunk any time I’ve been in your house, not even in your bedroom.”

  “It’s in the attic. Under some blankets to help keep the dust out.”

  “Well,” Veronica said, “if you’re ever ready to share it, I’d love to see it.”

  Jillian shrugged. “No time like the present.” Never would be a better time, but in the last three days, she couldn’t think about one trunk without the other swelling to fill the space as well. It was only a matter of time before she’d have to face it. Maybe the rock in her gut would not burn quite so hot if she had a friend with her.

  “Are you sure?” Veronica said.

  “No. But let’s do it. Be quiet, though. My dad is working at home today.”

  Jillian reminded herself to breathe evenly as they climbed the stairs that went up through the center of the house, and then she opened a door to stairs leading to the attic. She found the light switch, and they ascended the second set of steps, steeper and narrower and rough and wooden.

  “Watch your head,” Jillian said. “The eaves are fairly low except in the middle of the attic.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and swallowed against the stark dry sensation in her mouth, trying to force saliva from lost corners of her mouth. Veronica was behind her, so she couldn’t turn around and run from her choice.

  Neither she nor her father had reason to come up to the attic often. For just the two of them—and there had been only three when her mother was alive—the house had ample storage in two floors of living space, and there was a basement as well. Jillian stored several crates of mementos from high school and college, and Nolan kept a few pieces of small furniture that had belonged to his parents during his childhood with the notion that someday he would restore them to beauty and usefulness. Assorted, more modern but still dated luggage lined one wall. Jillian led the way to one corner where her mother’s trunk sat on top of one old blanket and under the protection of two more.

  “It’s dark in this spot,” Jillian said, “and we’ll bump our heads if we’re not careful. But we can drag it out under the light.” She eased out her breath, ignoring the pounding rise in her heart rate echoing in her ears.

  They gripped the corners of the blanket beneath the trunk and shifted it to a better position under a bare bulb before pulling the blankets off. The trunk’s blond wood finish had darkened with age and use—another project Nolan talked about restoring, but Jillian hadn’t wanted him to—and its two leather belts were well worn and brass buckles heavily tarnished. Both ends featured a light tan leather binding with some slight irregular stains from use.

  Veronica gave a low whistle. “When you collect trunks, you don’t mess around. Another beauty.”

  “Thanks.” Jillian unbuckled the straps and dislodged the primary latch, which hadn’t locked at any point in her lifetime, to lift the lid. Inside, the trunk was lined in a green cotton print fabric with white piping. The fragility of both lining and piping attested to their authenticity. “We can lift out this tray. Everything is underneath.” She hadn’t done this for six years, but she knew just what she’d see and in what arrangement.

  “Your mom’s things?” Veronica asked. “You don’t have to show me her private belongings.”

  “That’s not really what it is.” She’d come this far and managed to steel her nerves. Jillian knelt to move the tray and carefully set it aside. Chuckling, Jillian lifted out a sealed gray plastic tube. “My mother’s main contribution is a time capsule she put in the month I was born.”

  Veronica laughed. “I love that! When are you going to open it?”

  Jillian shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll leave it for a child I have someday.”

  “Even better. Did she tell you what’s in it?”

  “No clue. Even my dad doesn’t know.” Jillian set the tube aside. “Everything else is older—some of it quite a bit, as far as I can tell.”

  “What do you know about the Parisis?”

  “Not as much as I wish. They came from Sicily to New Orleans in the late nineteenth century, and my particular branch of the family ended up in Denver. I’m sure there were other brothers—at least that’s what I was always told—but I’ve never been able to get solid ties to what happened to them.” Family stories called them by American-sounding monikers Jillian never believed were the names the brothers left Italy with.

  “These dishes are lovely.” Veronica squatted to pick up a plate. “Early twentieth century, but not all of them are original. Somebody was trying to collect them by matching the pattern.”

  “How can you tell that?” Jillian asked. “They look like an Italian pattern, don’t they?”

  “It’s an incomplete set, which you would expect if they were someone’s original dishes and this old, but I don’t think they were manufactured together.” Veronica picked up a couple more pieces and pointed out slight variations. “The pattern was likely in production over a span of time, but these small differences mean these pieces didn’t come out the same year.”

  Jillian peered at the swirls and strokes and saw what she’d never seen before. “Grandma Marta must have been collecting. My mom’s mom. I wish I’d thought to ask before she died.”

  “What do you know about this wool coat?” Veronica asked.

  “Mom said she used to like to wear it for dress-up when she was little.” Jillian said. “That’s why Grandma Marta kept it. Mom too, I guess. Just sentimental.”

  “It’s a sturdy piece, that’s for sure.” Veronica stood up and let the black coat drape its full length. “Not much of a fashion statement.”

  “Nope.” Mannish and boxy, the panels showed decades of wear.

  Veronica opened the coat and ran her fingers around in the seams. “Here’s a label.”

  “Probably the brand,” Jillian said.

  “No, not that one. That’s in the collar. This one’s more hidden.”

  Jillian stood now as well. “What are you talking about?”

  Between them, they gently pressed the old label in a side seam near the hem as flat as they dared directly under the light. The lettering was faint, some kind of script or handwriting.

  “A, d,” Veronica said, “no, A, l, d.”

  “A, l, d, o?” Jillian asked.

  “Yes, that could be it, though most of the o is gone.”

  “My great-grandfather’s name.”

  “Did your mother know she was playing dress-up with her grandfather’s coat?”

  Jillian blanched. “I’m not sure.” She should know. Had her mother ever said and she hadn’t paid attention? Aldo Parisi was Grandpa Steve’s father, not Grandma Marta’s. Grandpa Steve had never struck Jillian as interested in the details of family history—perhaps because he never knew much about them to begin with. Perhaps he felt as unmoored from the Parisis as Jillian did. Her breath hitched.

  Veronica unfolded a cloth packet to reveal a christening gown. “Jillian, this is a treasure!”

  “I know. My mother wore it, Grandma Marta, and her mother. By the time I came along, it was too fragile.”

  “So it’s not a Parisi item?”

  Jillian shook her head. “The trunk is a mishmash. I’m not sure who it belonged to originally.”

  “Well, it’s yours now, and they are all part of you.”

  Jillian folded the coat and set it aside before kneeling again and lifting the last item out of the trunk, a cardboard box. “This is some odds and ends.” She set it on the floor between them and removed the lid.

  Stamps from Italy on crumbling envelopes gave clues of where the Parisis hailed from. She’d
had the letters the envelopes originally contained translated years ago, but their newsy nature gave few real clues about family roots. Even after she became more skilled in her profession, she could read between the lines well enough to draw credible conclusions. A couple other letters came from New Orleans. Both addressed to Sal, even in translation they were distinct from each other, one flowery, trying hard, with a request to be welcomed in Denver and signed simply Lou. The second was far shorter, straight to the point, a plea to At least take Geppetto. Save him. Think of Joe. Sal. Lou. Joe. In some versions of distant family lore, these were brothers, but in others the names were different. And Geppetto? Jillian didn’t know.

  A map of Denver’s streetcar system from the early 1900s threatened to fall apart if she unfolded it, as she had so many times as a teenager, so she didn’t.

  Fuzzy photos of New Orleans—fruit stands, docks along the water, a grocery sign with the Parisi name on the canopy, a trio of children standing and squinting into the lens.

  Veronica chortled. “That’s your hair!”

  “You are not wrong.” What was the point of trying to dispute that the mass of uncontrolled black curls on the little girl’s head was a near-perfect match for Jillian’s? In all the ways that her father’s large Irish family had dominated her upbringing, they could do nothing about that Parisi gene.

  She heard steps on the stairs. “Dad?”

  Nolan’s head poked out of the top of the staircase. “What’s this ruckus I hear?”

  “We didn’t mean to disturb you,” Veronica said.

  “Imagine my surprise when I went in the kitchen and found my personal barista missing,” Nolan said.

  “Very funny, Dad.” Jillian began to repack the trunk.

  “I came over to have a look at one trunk and discovered two gems,” Veronica said. “And look at all that gorgeous mid-twentieth century luggage over there.”

  “That’s my inheritance, which I shall someday bequeath to my daughter,” Nolan said.

  Veronica jumped up. “Oh. I almost forgot. Nia called me even before I swallowed my breakfast at the crack of dawn. I’m supposed to tell you both that she’d like us all to come over after supper and talk about décor and room arrangements for the big night.”