The Chocolatier Page 4

  Based on Lauro’s telegram, this was not what she had expected. She would have thought that he’d be more like Tony, who was glib and outgoing. Lauro displayed more restraint. Perhaps this was what Tony had meant when he’d described his family as cold.

  After pulling back, Lauro squatted on his haunches and peered into Marco’s face as though searching for physical traces of his brother. “Ciao.”

  Embarrassed, Marco turned to hide his face in the folds of Celina’s light woolen skirt. Celina slid her hand over her son’s back. “He’s not usually like this, but he’s tired. It was a long trip.”

  Looking up, Lauro stared at her again, unsmiling. “Your luggage?” He motioned to her suitcases. When she nodded, he hoisted them with ease and started toward a shiny Alfa Romeo sedan gleaming with chrome parked at the curb.

  Celina took Marco’s hand and hurried after Lauro. He wasn’t unattractive, and his gaze seemed to reach her soul, summoning emotions long buried and not exactly welcome now.

  After placing the bags in the rear, he opened the door for her. Celina tucked Marco between them, and they started off.

  As they wound through the city, Marco pressed his hands against the window in curiosity. Celina followed his gaze toward a plaza, in the middle of which stood a stone fountain trickling with water. Marco laughed, pointing toward a couple of boys who were splashing each other as they passed the fountain and chasing each other in fun. Nearby, children clamored at a gelato shop, women peered into a boutique’s fashionable window, and men sat on benches talking and chuckling.

  Lauro turned onto another street and Celina stared in awe at the delphinium blue ocean that spread out before them. Sunlight kissed the crystalline waves, throwing diamond sparkles across boats moored in the harbor.

  Soon they were traversing a road that hugged the mountains and crossed inlets, suspended in air. Celina marveled at the views, though she edged away from the sheer drop-off over the ocean.

  “This is the corniche road that runs from Sorrento to Amalfi,” Lauro said. Nodding toward the ocean, he added, “Il Mar Tirreno. A beautiful sea that flows into il Mar Mediterraneo.”

  Celina had read about the Tyrrhenian Sea, which stretched out like an endless sapphire sparkling in the sun. Gazing above the winding road, Celina could see rock-terraced gardens.

  Lauro followed her gaze. “Lemon gardens. Amalfi grows the finest lemons in the world.”

  As incredible as the scenery was, she wasn’t a tourist here for the views.

  “I suppose you want to hear all about Tony,” Celina began, picking at a seam in her glove.

  “It can wait until you meet our parents. They’re quite anxious to talk to you. To learn more about what happened. Although my brother disappeared in ‘45, this is all quite sudden for us.”

  “All of this. You mean Marco and me.”

  Lauro darted a scowling glance toward her. “I will never understand why he didn’t contact us. Or why you never wrote to us. Didn’t he speak of us?”

  Well, there it is. Celina cleared her throat. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Lauro glanced down at Marco and drew his eyebrows together.

  Celina caught the quizzical look in Lauro’s expression. Quickly deducing his thoughts, she was appalled. “Except for having his father’s temperament, Marco takes after my side of the family. He quite favors my father.”

  “And is he still living?”

  “My father, also named Marco—Marco Romano—died of a heart attack when I was a teenager.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He patted the top of Marco’s head. “And your mother?”

  Celina shook her head. “A couple of years later, she became ill.”

  Even now, she found it difficult to talk about her mother. So great was Stella Romano’s grief over the death of her husband that the summer before Celina was to start college, her mother’s body had revolted against the thought of living without him. When Stella discovered a lump in her breast, her doctor had immediately ordered a procedure to remove the cancerous tumor.

  Celina postponed college for a year to help her mother. However, during that year another, more aggressive tumor was found, and Celina put off school indefinitely to care for her. Lacking the will to live without her husband, Stella withered away, even losing her appetite for the chocolates Celina made for her that she had always loved.

  Celina touched a gloved finger to the corner of her eye. It still pained her to think of how her mother had wasted away at the end. “She’s no longer with us.”

  “Do you have other family?” Lauro’s voice held only a small note of concern.

  Celina shook her head. Her mother’s labor and delivery with her had been so difficult that she could never have other children. Celina was the only child. With her arm wrapped protectively around Marco, she rubbed his arm. “It’s just us now.”

  Lauro nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re Italian. Your family—where are they from?”

  “My father’s family came from Italy a century ago. I don’t think we have any family left here. My mother’s ancestry was Italian, German, and French, but we’re American.”

  “That explains it.” He turned onto a small lane that led up an incline.

  When they reached the rise, the hillside fell away and on either side of the car, glossy green leaves and sunny yellow fruit framed the azure ocean beyond. Celina sucked in a breath at the vast expanse of the sea met by an endless canopy of sky.

  Celina turned back to Lauro. “That explains what?”

  He cast another odd glance toward her. “Your blond hair.”

  Celina smiled wistfully and turned her face toward the passing landscape. Her mother had been a fair blond, and Celina had also inherited her gold-flecked hazel eyes. “How much longer until we arrive?”

  “We’re on our property now.” Lauro gestured to citrus groves on both sides of the car. “It’s not much farther.” He paused. “My brother told you about our lemons, no?”

  “He only mentioned the chocolate.” And that, hardly at all. Tony hated to talk about it, so she knew little. She imagined Tony’s family would find that odd. Lightly, she asked, “All this belongs to your family?”

  “The land has been in the family for many, many years.”

  Celina gazed from the window, awed at her surroundings and amazed that Tony had never told her about any of this. Why not? It was stunning. Lemon groves climbed the mountain slopes around them. She began to feel left out, and then an awful thought occurred to her.

  Maybe the fault had been with her.

  Could Tony have been ashamed to return with an American? An American with an Italian surname who stumbled through their language like a wild child out of control. Guilt sparked through her. Why hadn’t she tried harder to become fluent? Feeling color rise in her face, she pressed a hand to her cheek.

  “He didn’t talk much about Italy,” she said, preparing herself for the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow.

  Lauro shot a puzzled look at her. “The chocolate, the lemons, the olive oil—all this was his passion before the war. He was to follow our family’s traditions and manage the businesses with our father, particularly the fabbrica di cioccolato. The chocolate factory is our most profitable business for export.”

  “So why didn’t he?”

  Lauro set his jaw and stared ahead. “He left for America.”

  “He worked hard to provide for us and secure our future,” she said, yet now she was confused.

  It wasn’t like Tony to shirk responsibility. He was the most dependable person she’d ever known. She slid a glance toward Lauro. Whatever had happened between her husband and his family must have been tragic for him. Thinking back, perhaps Tony hadn’t been angry; he’d been hurt. Clinging to this thought, Celina pressed Marco close to her side. A wave of unease spread through her. How would his parents greet her?

  Lauro huffed and went on. “Our ancestors were quite industrious. They established several enterprise
s, and we’ve been working hard to expand them. People need jobs here.” He sent a sideways look at her. “We could have used his help after the war. We are family, and this is what we do in Italy. He should have come home. That is, if my brother were of sound mind.”

  “Which he was,” Celina shot back. “Tony was smart, and he worked hard to take care of us. We were his family, too.”

  His tone was accusatory. If not for his American wife... An uneasy feeling rippled down her spine. Why would Tony have kept all this from me? Was his upbringing so horrible? Had he fought with his parents?

  Lauro let out a dry laugh. “You call him Tony.”

  Celina didn’t appreciate the intimation in his voice. “That’s what he called himself.” Were his parents as angry as Lauro was?

  “Antonino was his name, but he was usually Nino to us. I guess he became Tony in America for you.”

  “I didn’t take him from your family. He was living in the U.S. when we met.”

  “You kept him there.”

  Celina was tempted to tell him that Tony had no desire to return, that he had nothing but disdain for his parents—but what good would come of that?

  Gritting her teeth, she turned to Lauro. “I know you’re grieving over him. We are, too.” She spoke as gently as she could, but she wanted to scream. Did you ask me here to interrogate me? But she couldn’t. No, she wouldn’t. She squared her shoulders. She had manners.

  By now she knew grief took many different forms. Some days her anger at Tony for leaving them burst from its vault. Some days her sadness stretched to infinity. And some days, depression descended like the devil’s darkness.

  But not today.

  She took Marco’s hand and stroked his soft skin, drawing on his innocence to will compassion into her soul. Marco looked up at her with his father’s adoring eyes, and Celina smiled down at him. Tony lived on in his son’s quick smile. The light and trust in his eyes always gave her the strength to carry on, and today would be no different than the other dark days she’d faced down.

  Closing her eyes and turning her head from Lauro, she tried to summon empathy for Tony’s family.

  Lauro said nothing more until he turned the car into the entrance of a property at the top of a mountain that took Celina’s breath away. When they reached the villa, he parked in front of a pair of imposing, carved wooden doors. “Siamo arrivati.”

  Celina and Marco didn’t move, enthralled by the view. Lemon and olive trees surrounded the expansive, sun-bleached yellow villa. Built on several levels, the house was topped with a tiled, pitched roof and situated to take advantage of the astounding view. Arched windows and walkways echoed the curved shoreline and hillside slopes. Riding stables flanked one side of the property, while a vegetable garden thrived in the sunshine on the other. Ruffled mounds of pink and blue hydrangeas spilled from urns near a long reflecting pool.

  Beyond it all, the ocean swelled beneath them, its waves rolling ceaselessly onto the sandy shores below, the distant roar a constant symphony of nature. Celina sat, taking in the astounding beauty of the setting and wondering how Tony could have left it behind.

  She grasped Marco’s hand. “This is where your daddy was born.” Even he was quiet, awed by the magnificent artistry of nature.

  Perfunctorily, Lauro opened her door and held out his hand, his eyes lingering on her.

  “Grazie,” she said, ignoring his studied gaze as she slid out. His insinuating comments and token courtesies seemed at odds with the warm message contained in his telegram.

  In a flashing moment, she regretted their journey, but she tried to shake the feeling, telling herself it was important for Tony’s parents and little Marco. She would not let a surly-faced brother ruin that.

  Now she dreaded meeting his parents. If they were anything like Lauro, she understood Tony’s reticence to return to Italy. She sighed in resignation. A few days, a week perhaps. She could change their tickets and return early. Lizzie’s friends would understand. Celina and Marco could sleep on Lizzie’s sofa if they had to.

  Barely touching Lauro’s reluctantly outstretched hand, she stepped out, gravel crunching beneath her low-heeled T-strap shoes. She lifted Marco from the car and set him down, taking care that Rocky, the grinning stuffed monkey, accompanied them, too.

  Following Lauro, they had not yet reached the entryway when the door was flung open. A modern-looking woman in her early fifties lifted her hand in a tentative wave. She wore a charcoal black dress, and her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a thick bun.

  A tall, distinguished man appeared beside her, protectively sliding his arm around her shoulders.

  Tony’s parents. Celina had pictured an older, domineering couple. A wave of guilt surged through her. They hardly looked like the monsters Tony had portrayed them to be, but who knew what went on in some families? Lauro was certainly handsome, but his manner could only be described as ugly. She was his brother’s widow. If nothing else, that deserved some modicum of respect. Celina clutched Marco’s hand and pulled him close beside her to shield him. He ducked behind her skirt.

  “My parents,” Lauro said with a curt nod, introducing them.

  Celina nodded, and Marco peeked from behind her skirt.

  As soon as Sara Savoia saw Marco, she pressed a hand against her heart. “Cuore mio,” she cried. She held out her hands to them in greeting, and a smile grew on her face.

  Celina stepped forward.

  To her surprise, Sara gripped her hands with genuine warmth, and her husband Carmine, a silver-haired man with an imperious air, was nevertheless polite and engaging.

  Celina was partly relieved, though still guarded. At once she knew who must have dictated the telegram Lauro sent. Only a grandmother would want to see her grandchild so desperately.

  “And this is Marco, Tony’s son,” Celina said, her voice catching on a note of regret. She wished now that she’d at least sent baby photos. Tony had been adamantly against that, too.

  “Che tesoro, che dolce.” Her face shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and joy, Sara hitched her slim skirt and sank to the little boy’s level. “Ciao, Marco. Sono tua nonna.” When Marco darted a look of confusion to Celina, Sara quickly added, “I am your grandmother.” She held her arms open to him.

  Marco hesitated.

  “We have a gift for you.” Bending over, Carmine Savoia held out a wooden toy train engine. “It was your papa’s.” He raised his eyes, which were now brimming with emotion, to Celina. “It was Antonino’s favorite toy when he was a boy.”

  Lauro cut in. “He called himself Tony in America.”

  Blinking back the sadness etched on his face, Carmine said, “That was probably easier for the Americans.”

  Marco looked up at his mother, a question looming in his round blue eyes. “That was Daddy’s?”

  Celina brushed aside Lauro’s snide comment. She nodded her permission and gently nudged her son forward. She’d told him they were going to meet his grandparents, and he’d been excited. He’d never had the pleasure of knowing any of his grandparents, but he sensed they were a special breed from watching his friends with their loving, pampering grandparents.

  With a shy smile, Marco stepped toward Sara, and she took his hand. Tears gleamed in her eyes. As Carmine gave Marco the toy, the older man blinked heavily.

  Sara gazed up at her with pure joy blooming on her face. “Mille grazie,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart. “I cannot thank you enough for coming. Marco is our only grandchild.” She hugged Marco to her, and his little arms swung willingly around her. As tears of gratitude spilled onto her cheeks, Sara closed her eyes and swayed with a blissful expression.

  Sara’s joy was palpable. Celina watched as the wonderment of discovering the love of his grandparents illuminated her son’s sweet face. Her reticence dissolved, and she felt prickles of emotion behind her eyes.

  She wondered what could have happened between Tony and these seemingly kind, caring people. Couldn’t the love of famil
y have led them out of emotions wracked with anger and hurt?

  Standing beside her, Lauro coughed into his hand and turned away.

  “I only wish we’d come sooner,” Celina said, allowing the remorse she felt to shade her words. At that moment, she knew she had done the right thing by coming here, though due to Lauro’s behavior, she’d had misgivings.

  Seeing Sara with Marco, Celina realized that whatever had happened in this family that had forced Tony away, his mother had suffered over her son’s disappearance. Being a mother, she empathized with Sara, yet she could only imagine the magnitude of her despair over losing a child. Sharing her son with Sara and giving the older woman the gift of time spent with her grandchild could hardly make up for her lack of contact. For this, she was genuinely sorry.

  “I hope you can forgive me for not contacting you earlier to tell you about Marco,” Celina said. To blame Tony now seemed insensitive to their memory of him.

  “We were shocked by your call,” Carmine said. “We’d held out hope for so many years. While this is not what we expected, we’re glad you came.”

  Sara rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “At least we know he experienced the joy of having a family before he died.”

  To his credit, Carmine didn’t ask why she hadn’t bothered to contact them before. Celina had no doubt they wondered and would ask her about this at some point. Now that Tony was gone, did it matter what had happened between them?

  Lauro turned back to her. “As you might imagine, my parents have a lot of questions about my brother. They’re wondering why he didn’t come home. Why he returned to America.”

  There it was.

  A flush crawled up Celina’s neck. Clearly, Lauro was more vocal. “Tony said America was his home. He didn’t tell me why he never returned.” She looked helplessly from Lauro to his parents, fervently wishing Tony had left her with something that she could share with them. Tentacles of resentment slithered around at her heart, restraining the finer memories of her husband she tried to keep fixed in her mind.

  If only her husband had at least written to his family. She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t—not even once to let them know he was alive. Why had Tony cultivated this situation? What’s more, Tony’s family seemed just as perplexed—and angry, she thought, casting a glance at Lauro—as she was at Tony’s neglect. Even if Carmine and Sara were more restrained than Lauro, they must have those thoughts, too. Surely Tony could have imagined the pain his actions would cause.