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“And what was the name of the town she came from again?” Vivi asked.
“Castiglione Santangelo,” Nell replied. “In Tuscany.” She turned the Fabergé picture frame that held the old photograph of Lucia’s father over in her hands. “Maybe that’s why she changed her name from de Luca to D’Onofrio. Because of this mysterious thing that happened. To her father. With her husband. Or both of them.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s just so strange that she never mentioned any of it.”
“I asked her once why she changed her name, but she didn’t want to talk about it,” I said. “She just changed the subject.”
“I asked her to go to Italy with me once, for an art and architecture tour, back when I was an undergrad,” Nell said, her voice low. “I’d saved up money for it. But she snapped my head off, and I was so taken aback, I never mentioned it again.”
“Hmm. Let’s run it all down again,” Vivi said. “The things we didn’t know about Lucia, and sadly, still don’t.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Her father. Her marriage. The mysterious object. The terrible event in the past. The unexplained name change. The system of checks and balances designed to protect our sisterly love. Whatever mystery that the necklaces are the key to. Then, to make things even more interesting, we now have the mysteries of the purloined letter, the murdered jeweler, and the pissed-off burglar. That’s a lot of mysteries. Makes a girl hungry.” She rolled up onto her side and reached for a slice of the pizza in the open box on the coffee table.
“I wish we had access to Lucia’s papers,” Nell fretted. “I’d like to go through her letters and photographs.”
“The burglar trashed Lucia’s office,” Vivi reminded her.
“He might have missed something,” Nell said stubbornly. “He probably didn’t stop to read the documents. Some of which are certainly in Italian.”
I held out my hand. “Can I see that photo for a second?”
Nell handed it to her. “Of course.”
I studied the fierce, hawklike face of the late Conte de Luca, Lucia’s father. His intense, blazing dark eyes were so much like Lucia’s, they made my chest ache. “I wonder when he died,” I mused. “He looks like he was in his fifties in this photo. Maybe there’s a date on the back.” I fumbled with the back of the delicate gold frame until I managed to carefully loosen the little hook that held it closed, and pried the back loose, shaking the contents into my hand.
We all stared, frozen, at what lay in her hand. Not one photograph, but two—and something else: a small, carefully folded square of yellowed paper.
I gently pushed Moxie out of my lap and scooted over toward the single dim lamp we’d left on. Nell and Vivi scrambled to look over my shoulder. Moxie stalked away, tail high, deeply offended.
“Oh, wow,” Vivi breathed softly, as we stared down at the picture. “That’s Lucia. Just look at her. What a bombshell.”
The young, beautiful Lucia had an elegant pouff of backcombed sixties hair, styled into a curled flip below her ears, and wore a smart little pillbox hat. Her lips were painted into a bold Cupid’s bow, and she gazed up into the face of a tall, handsome man who clasped her waist and looked hungry to kiss her. I turned it over. On the back, in faded, brownish ink, was written, Venezia,Carnevale, 1966.
“Who is this guy?” Nell murmured. “The missing husband. What’s on the paper?”
I unfolded the delicate, yellowing paper. It was lightweight, onion-skin
airmail paper, covered with fine, faded script. I held it to the light. “It’s in Italian,” I said, passing it promptly to Nell.
Nell fumbled for her glasses and pushed them up her nose. “It’s dated April of 1969,” she said, and began to translate.
Beloved Lucia,
* * *
I do not know why I continue to write while you continue to be silent, but I cannot seem to stop myself, undignified though I must seem, begging on my knees for your return to our life together.
I understand how shocked and horrified you are by what happened to Babbo, but believe me, it was like a knife to my own heart as well. If I could change the terrible events of the past for you, I would, at any cost. But I cannot.
But this is no reason to abandon your home, your family, your nation. You will never heal in a foreign land. You cannot run from this pain, my love. It will follow you wherever you go. Of this, I am sure.
You have always been obstinate. It is a part of your strength, which I love and admire. But true strength must be tempered by softness, reason, compromise.
But why do I waste ink? You are resolved to be cruel and immovable. I try to accept this, but I cannot swallow it. I enclose this photograph, in hopes that it will remind you of happier times.
I continue to work on deciphering your father's map. I have once again completely excavated the palace gardens, this time draining the lake in my search, which you hold to be both stupid and pointless. My efforts were entirely in vain, as I am sure you will be gratified to know.
Forgive my acid tone. I miss you desperately. For the sake of the children we might still have together, please, Lucia, come back to me. Come home.
In faith,