Oh, God, Antonio. She hadn’t told him…Couldn’t. His life was elsewhere. Irrevocably tied to another woman. A disabled woman. But it seemed as if, somehow, he’d come here, to this place.
Her face aching with the smile that was attempting to force its way through tight cracked skin, Francesca blinked, hoping to bring his face into clearer focus. His face, with its permanent shadow of a beard that would be thick and full were it permitted to grow longer than twelve hours.
Had someone found out? Called him from halfway around the world? Because she was dying? Or his baby was?
Another pain rose to unbearable levels and she couldn’t hold on to his image.
Don’t leave, my love. Stay. Just for a few minutes.
Blinking the sweat and tears from her eyes, Francesca sought out her only remaining source of strength. Antonio’s smile. And saw, instead, a younger face in glaring light. A concerned gaze. A few escaped tendrils of brown hair sticking out from beneath a light green, tied-on cap. A female face.
She blinked again. The pain wasn’t subsiding at all.
“Antonio!” The word was a scream inside her mind. In the room, it sounded more like a harsh whisper.
Antonio.
Her biggest sin.
He was one of the few people who’d managed to penetrate the defenses she’d wrapped around herself after she’d left home and the stepfather who’d hit her and the mother who’d been too emotionally battered to help her. Defenses that had served her well as she became the determined Italian-American photojournalist who’d managed to make a name for herself with her pictures and accompanying text by the time she was thirty.
The nurse was leaning over her, placing her face so close to Francesca’s, Francesca could hardly breathe, let alone make out what the woman was trying to say.
Turning her head to the side as her lower stomach twisted inside out, ripping away from her spine, Francesca took one last breath.
“Antonio!”
His face was there again. Just his face this time. Floating above her.
And then everything was dark.
Gian was a popular name for Italian boys. But that wasn’t why the little guy’s mother named him that. Gian meant “God is gracious.” And that was the reason Francesca had bestowed the name on her little son. Because the powers that be had been gracious that morning two and a half months ago and preserved the life of the infant who’d been almost strangled by the umbilical cord in his mother’s womb.
Francesca was trying to be quiet so as to not wake her paternal grandmother. Sancia Witting, the current matriarch of an old Italian family that had immigrated to Italy from Wales centuries before, needed her afternoon siesta. Rolling up a dozen summer-weight sleepers Francesca stuffed them into the far corner of the second of two oversize dark green duffels on the double bed in Sancia’s guest room. Gian, who’d been asleep for more than an hour in his portable crib, wasn’t a concern. This son of hers could sleep through a minor hurricane, as he’d proved three weeks before when a debilitating storm had hit the coast of Naples, waking all within a hundred-mile radius. But not Gian.
His washcloth and hooded towels were next. The lotions and powders that left his little body so sweet-smelling already lay secure in a plastic bag in the other duffel, along with a week’s worth of disposable diapers padding all her cameras. This late-spring time out of time with her newborn son—and the grandmother she’d just met the month before—had been without doubt the most joyful she’d known since her father’s death almost twenty years before. But life was calling on her to begin moving again.
Actually, although she’d never admit as much to her overprotective grandmother, Francesca had done the calling herself. She’d left messages for a couple of magazine editors who were always eager for a Francesca Witting piece.
She’d had calls back from both. And now she and Gian were off to spend June in New York, Boston and San Diego before returning to Sacramento to introduce him to the grandmother who didn’t yet know he existed. Francesca had sold the piece she’d come to Italy to do almost a year before—an in-depth look at Italian people through their weathering of disasters. And she’d been asked to do a follow-up piece highlighting the similarities of their character and culture to Italians living in neighborhoods in America. This time she’d have a companion during her travels.
The little guy was sleeping so soundly he hadn’t moved since she’d put him down. She’d have to wake him soon or he’d be up all night. Gian’s favorite four rattles and a stuffed horse his great-grandmother had given him went in next, beside two pairs of soft-sided shoes.
In the many months since Francesca had left her home in Sacramento, she’d visited families in Sicily who’d lost loved ones in a train crash a couple of years before, those who were affected by Etna’s boiling lava spewing forth, and the parents of children who were killed when an earthquake leveled their school. A freelance photojournalist with enough money to follow her artistic inclinations rather than take one of the many job offers she’d received from national magazines and Reuters and newspapers all around the state of California, she’d done the story of her career.
It was while she was visiting Milan, where she’d documented people whose loved ones had died in a plane that had crashed into the top floors of a thirty-story building two years earlier, that Antonio Gillespie, her former boyfriend, had arrived on business from Sacramento. His father-in-law was a retailer with upscale shops all over the states. Antonio, who was second in command, had come to finalize a deal with one of Milan’s top designers. And to take a break from the wife he’d described as more of a child than a woman since the car accident that had left her brain-damaged and paralyzed.
Francesca hadn’t been able to stay angry with him for having kept the woman a secret during the two years she’d known him, hadn’t been able to hold on to feelings of betrayal, because she’d understood. Especially now, glancing over at her tiny son who gave himself as completely to his sleep as he did his play. Her heart was open wide and filled with forgiveness. Gian’s father was an admirable man who could not heartlessly send the woman who’d once been his life partner to an institution, in spite of the instant and undeniably rich attachment he and Francesca had shared since she’d first interviewed him for a story she’d done on the debilitating impact of fashion in America. This was the man she’d tell Gian about when he grew up and asked questions about the father he didn’t know.
Folding, stuffing, Francesca remembered that last scene in Sacramento. Another retailer had told her that Antonio was married, that the company she’d thought his own actually belonged to his father-in-law. He hadn’t tried to deny it. To lie. And in the end, after she’d heard the heart-wrenchingly sad story of a fairy tale gone wrong, she hadn’t been angry. Just devastated. And had left the States to get over him. He’d known that. But he’d been as lonely as she….
The sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen across the small villa brought Francesca back to the task at hand. Her grandmother Sancia was up from her siesta and would be expecting Francesca to join her for an afternoon snack. And she still had all her own clothes to pack into the other half of the second duffel.
Although she’d spent more than nine months in Italy before she’d contacted her father’s mother, introducing herself to the grandmother she’d never known, Sancia was probably the real reason Francesca had come to this country. Looking back, she could recognize the quest that had driven her halfway around the world at a time when her mother had needed her at home.
Nothing in life had made sense anymore. Nothing, other than her career, had made her happy. She’d begun to question her basic beliefs, her decisions and motivations, even her ability to offer compassionate stories to the world.
So she’d