Page 19

T he late-day sun filled Rossi’s bedroom with indirect light, and Julia began unpacking her suitcase and putting her clothes in the mahogany dresser. She was going to stay in Rossi’s bed tonight. She couldn’t let a nightmare rattle her.

She put her underwear in the top drawer of the dresser, then retrieved her T-shirts and sweaters, opened the second drawer, and put them inside. She was about to close the drawer when she noticed a white paper stuck in its joint.

She reached back and pulled it out, surprised to find it was a small, black-and-white photograph of a baby, about nine months old.

She couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, but it had brown hair and light eyes.

The baby’s mouth was open, showing a few teeth, and the baby was lying on a white pad in a cloth diaper with old-school pins, its pudgy arms in mid-wriggle.

One side of the photograph was a bright white, as if the light source had been nearby or the picture was overexposed.

My God. Julia didn’t know enough about Rossi to know if it was her as a baby, but it could have been.

Or it could have been a baby of Rossi’s.

She flipped the picture over. The back was blank.

She examined the photo itself. It looked old, taken with a real camera, and was unusually small, maybe three by three, including a white border with scalloped edges.

Julia hustled out the door, into the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where Anna Mattia looked up from arranging pink and purple cosmos in a glazed green pitcher. “Anna Mattia, look what I found in Signora Rossi’s drawer.”

Anna Mattia’s lips parted in surprise when she looked at the photo. “A baby?”

“Yes, do you know who it is? Is it Signora when she was a baby?”

“Don’ know.” Anna Mattia shook her head, mystified.

“What do you think? Does it look like her?”

Anna Mattia squinted at the photo. “Could be, maybe no.”

“Did Signora have any friends who had a baby?”

“Don’ know.”

“What about a sister or a brother?”

“She say no.”

“Are you sure Signora didn’t have a child?”

“She say no.”

Julia went for it. “Anna Mattia, what if Signora lied to you and everyone else? What if she really did have a child?”

Anna Mattia shook her head. “Why she lie?”

“Maybe she was embarrassed,” Julia answered, off the top of her head. “She could have had a child but she wasn’t married. Maybe she didn’t want people to know, even you.”

“She say no childr’.”

“If she had a baby, given my age and hers, that could mean I’m her granddaughter, and that her daughter or her son is my birth mother or father. This picture could be one of my parents.”

Anna Mattia blinked.

“If we knew how old this photo was, then that would help us figure out who it’s a picture of.

It looks old to me. Was there a time in Italy when photographs looked like this?

The shape, the size? The way the edge is scalloped?

” Julia ran her finger along the bumpy side.

“Or what about the diaper? It’s cloth, it has real pins. ”

“Yes, is old. Don’ know how old. My Sofia, we ’ave pins.” Anna Mattia’s expression darkened.

“Okay, well, thank you. I’m going to take this to the investigator tomorrow.”

Night fell, and a stillness settled over the villa.

Dinner had been roast chicken with lemon and Vin Santo , a Tuscan dessert wine that flavored the meat with honey, fruit, and hazelnut.

The dish was served with roasted potatoes sprinkled with pecorino cheese and black pepper, so delicious that Julia vowed to exist only on Tuscan cuisine.

She ascended the staircase, her tummy full and her mood relaxed, thanks to two glasses of Chianti. She reached the top of the stair, then went into her bedroom, where she’d left the lights on. She slipped into her Notre Dame T-shirt, then took the baby picture and her laptop to bed.

She sat down, opened the laptop, and scrolled to her photo function.

She opened her phone, took a photo of the baby picture, then navigated to the earliest photo of Rossi and set them side by side.

There was a similarity of features, but also a difference in the jawline that didn’t change with maturation.

So, the baby in the photo might not have been Rossi.

Julia thrilled to think that the baby could have been either her biological mother or father. On impulse, she snapped a selfie, then moved her phone to the set of photos, placing it next to the baby photo and the young Rossi photo, as if they were three generations in the same family.

Julia eyed the three faces, comparing them.

There was a likeness, a relationship in the eyes.

The eye color was blue like hers, and their shape was roundish, set far apart.

She knew she wasn’t imagining it, but she didn’t have any facts to go on.

Her thoughts strayed to the evil eye, then to Caterina’s eyes in the nightmare.

“Stop,” Julia told herself. She didn’t want to get spooked before bedtime.

Exhaustion swept over her, and she set the laptop on the night table.

She plugged in her phone, climbed between the sheets, and slipped into bed without looking up at the ceiling.

No reason to tempt fate. She left the lamp on, too.

She was tired enough to fall asleep with the lights on.

And in the next minute, she did.

Then the nightmare began.