A scar. Tony had called the gunman Ibrahim. It had to be the same one.
“What kind of scar?” Nicco’s voice tensed. “Could they tell you?”
Giorgio raised his eyebrows. “Jagged, they said, across his forehead.”
“With a flat nose, like a fighter?” Nicco asked.
Acie turned to her fiancé. “You’ve seen him, too?”
“Once,” Nicco said.
“And?”
“He was with Roberto, in a café.”
Giorgio looked at him sharply. “With Roberto?”
“They spoke together at a table in the back, some papers passed between them, I think money. Roberto told me he was a client.”
“A client?” Acie asked. “Why would a client of Roberto’s follow Rina all over Umbria and run down your grandfather? He was also on the same train we took—the train from which the Englishman was thrown. He shared a compartment with Rina. But where’s the tie-in to Roberto?”
“This Ibrahim was on the train? He followed you?” A frown creased Giorgio’s brow as he questioned Rina.
“He kept appearing. I’ve no proof that he was following me.”
“He showed up in Assisi. Twice, you said.” Acie slipped closer to Nicco, but her attention tripped between Rina and her brother-in-law. “When I saw him in the Standa, the Englishman’s friend Natalie was nearby. She could have been following him.” Acie looked at the others. “The plot is thickening to mud. Maybe even to quicksand.”
“But he followed Rina?” Nicco repeated. “And knew Roberto and Tony. This is very puzzling.”
“Maybe he was the one I saw,” Acie said. “In the vision, pushing Tony toward the car.”
“I don’t understand.” Giorgio ran a hand over his forehead as if to wipe away confusion. “You saw this Ibrahim pushing Tony? What’s he actually got to do with Tony?”
“He and Tony knew each other through the dead man,” Rina said. “The one under the bridge.”
Acie nodded. “And Tony’s missing. I had a vision of someone forcing him to leave at gunpoint—and forcing him into a Mercedes.”
“But,” said Giorgio, “how does this connect with Roberto and with Nonno?”
They stared at one another in silence until Nicco finally spoke. “The money to Israel. Grandfather sent much money to Israel. And, obviously, this Ibrahim was for hire. You know how Roberto felt about money going anywhere except to him. And his politics made him hate Nonno’s generosity to the Jewish state.”
“No, no, that can’t be.” Giorgio shook his head, his face paling even as he denied the thought. “Roberto has plenty. You’ve seen how he spends.”
Nicco shrugged. “Yes, but that may have been the problem. Perhaps he needed more.”
“But my own brother?” Giorgio said. “To want to hurt our grandfather? To perhaps kill him?”
“Greed is a terrible thing.”
“Here, have your tea,” Mae said, handing Giorgio a cup. “Will you go to the police?”
“What can they do now?”
“But Roberto?”
“I will look into this.” Giorgio sipped his tea, his forehead creased in worry.
The twins trooped in and snuggled up to their father’s legs. Giorgio reached around Bertie to set his cup on the table. “Ragazzi,” he said, bending down to give both boys a hug. “I must return to the restaurant. Get your backpacks, and I’ll drop you at school on my way.”
As they raced each other to the coat hooks near the door, Giorgio turned to his wife. “I’m not leaving until you promise to go lie down.”
“I promise,” Mae said, reaching up to kiss his cheek.
“Per piacere, cara, do not worry about Roberto. It will come right in the end.”
When he called her cara, Rina heard the echo of Tony’s voice using the endearment for her. Cara. She’d have called him caro. She would have, if he hadn’t vanished.
Mae touched her round stomach and leaned into her husband. “I won’t worry.”
“And you two,” Giorgio said, turning from Mae to face Nicco and Acie. “Again, auguri. I think you have made a wise choice, my cousin. These Smith women make very good wives. Look at the sons they produce.”
Everyone laughed, and even Rina eked out a smile. She rejoiced with Acie. But the image of Tony at the mercy of that horrible man haunted her.
She tried to leave when Giorgio did, saying she really ought to get back, she had a million things to do, but Acie dropped her glasses down the bridge of her nose. “What things?”
“Oh, you know.”
“You’ve taken your exam. You live with a housemaid to clean your room, so what’s this about busy? Just stay here with me, please. Nicco’s off to work for a few hours, then he’s coming to take me to see his grandmother, and you’ve got to go with me. I’m scared silly about this whole thing. Please, you must.” Acie reached out. “Please?”
“Ah, then, I suppose I must.”
Nicco arrived at a quarter to four, but Acie’s curling iron wouldn’t work, she couldn’t find the right top to wear, she lost the only shoe that would go with her outfit, and, really, couldn’t they maybe go the next day, please, Nicco? He laughed at her, told her not to worry, she was beautiful, and then asked, “You’re not afraid of my little grandmother, are you?”
“No, of course not. Well, yes, I guess I am. I’m afraid she’ll think me a fool. Or worse.”
“That is not possible. This will be good, you will see. She is a wise woman, my nonna, and she will love you.”
Rina sat in the back seat while her friend nibbled on her fingernails in the front. She had no idea how to soothe Acie and so stared out the window, trying to damp down her own anxiety that seemed to blossom right along with the other woman’s.
Nicco parked in back next to an old shed that looked like it had once been a chicken house. While the lovers spoke quietly to each other, Rina climbed from the back seat and stared over the tops of the olive trees, across the rolling slopes of grapevines, toward neighboring fields, until she caught sight of the afternoon sun dancing on a small lake. Its far border ended in shadowed hills—hills all around and, here, this oasis. It looked different today. More peaceful than it had the day of the family meal.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Acie approached with Nicco at her side. “You can see why Italy has all those artists. Me, I’d probably become a poet if I could live here every day.”
Nicco’s fingers traced over her friend’s cheek in a gesture so intimate that Rina’s breath caught. She leaned back against the car, watching the caress, feeling the air around them close her out.
A call from the house turned their attention. “Domenico! Figliolo mio! Venite!”
“Veniamo, Nonna. Here we are.” He bent down to kiss both wrinkled cheeks.
His grandmother held onto his hand as her gaze traveled over him, smiling when she met his eyes.
“Nonna,” continued Nicco in Italian, “you remember Acie’s friend.”
Signora Bertelli was so little that Rina had to bend low to receive the kiss of welcome. “Certo, of course. Come,” the signora said, speaking mostly in Italian. “Let us go into the house. I will prepare some nice caffè or tea, if you would prefer, and we can visit.”
Nicco cradled her elbow as she climbed the steps. “You sit. I will fix whatever you would like.”
“That is a good boy, not too proud to help in the kitchen, yes? The water, it is almost boiling for tea. Signorine, you would like?”
“Sì, grazie,” Acie answered for them.
“Bene, tea then, Nicco, and we shall go to the parlor.” She apologized for her limited English, but they’d each learned enough for rudimentary conversation.
“So many people at the picnic that we were not able to speak together, but now we may be comfortable,” the grandmother said.
“Grazie, signora.” Rina searched her memory for the correct words to express sorrow about the signore’s accident.
“You are very kind. He is m
uch better now, grazie al buon Dio.”
Nicco brought in the tea tray, and they chatted and sipped, nibbling on sweet cakes and speaking of America and of the Bertelli vineyards and the wines they made. Nicco translated when they couldn’t manage the words. Soon, Nicco shifted the discussion to Acie’s dreams.
The conversation swirled around Rina. She studied the room, which was comfortably eclectic, as if it had grown around its owners over the centuries. Instead of the remodeling that had overtaken the kitchen, the parlor was filled with a dark brown overstuffed couch; a tall secretary and several tables, shining from years of polish; and three comfortable, unmatched chairs covered in fading earth colors. Floral prints hung on the walls, lithographs probably, as well as a large landscape. Long windows overlooked the yard, the trees, the hedge, and down the slope to the olive groves.
Sipping her tea slowly, Rina focused again on their words. Although daydreaming was easier than trying to understand the signora’s Italian, politeness required she make an effort. The old woman seemed to be telling Acie about someone who had been involved in some sort of—what was it? She didn’t catch that.
Nicco translated: gypsies, a fortune teller. It seemed that Signora Bertelli’s sister Maria, heard voices, had nightmares. The kicker came when Nicco explained that his great-aunt had ultimately been so overwhelmed by these that she’d committed suicide.
Cold washed over Rina. She’d feared for Acie—not for her life, but certainly for her peace of mind. But didn’t Acie’s relationship with Nicco change the equation? Wouldn’t he give her the peace she needed?
Now what were they saying? Something weird about attacks that weren’t from God. Being freed from these. Acie’s tears flowed freely. As Signora Bertelli talked about God’s goodness and grace, Rina slid from her chair and backed toward the door.
Nicco drew Acie close. “It will be all right, cara.”
Rina’s throat constricted. She mumbled, “Excuse me, please.” At the door, she waved over her shoulder and fled.
She let herself out the front. The voices of the others were almost muted behind the stone walls. Faint echoes reached her until twigs crunched under her feet. Pulling the collar of her shirt close against the sudden chill that made her forget how warm it was, she wandered out among the olive trees.
So many emotions had assaulted her that day. She could release worry about Acie. Nicco seemed to have that under control, and surely the signora only meant well. She bent to pick up a broken twig and snapped pieces off as she walked. She didn’t understand what was going on inside, but as she had nothing better to offer, she should be fair and leave them to it.
That brought a certain relief, but too much melancholy lurked right behind it, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out its origins. Her own loneliness stood in stark contrast to the love affair blossoming a few yards from where she stood.
Loneliness exacerbated by fear for Tony.
All those wasted years believing she loved Jason. Why hadn’t their hesitation to set a date hinted that something was wrong? And Tony? Those few days with him seemed eons removed from this present, this person strolling across the yard under a sky that shone a darkening blue with hints of yellow. Had it been real, any of it? Or had she been a fool, imagining something that existed only in her imagination? Was he in some bar, even now laughing at her innocence? Had he left on purpose? Or was he really the prisoner of this Ibrahim?
Questions superimposed themselves, one over another, until she had to run to banish the fear, following a path between the trees. Her breath came in gasps, and the air pierced her lungs with each intake. Finally, she fell against a tree, glad of the pain, glad of the exhaustion that gave a respite to thoughts better left unvoiced.
She didn’t know how long she sat there before the clear air carried Acie’s voice to her sanctuary. She answered in barely a whisper and rose to her feet. Her legs felt leaden, but she made it to the edge of the grove. “Here I am. Coming.”
“We were beginning to worry.” Acie ran to her, taking her arm. “Come, have some wine before we go back to town.”
“That would be nice. I exhausted myself.”
“Did you decide to jog through the trees?” Acie laughed, leading her into the house and through the hall to the living room. “I’m glad you didn’t stumble on the roots or run into any branches.”
“I needed to clear my head.”
“I just got mine cleared.”
She stared at Acie under the lights, not knowing what she expected to see. Certainly not the calm, yes, even the radiance that replaced the raw nerves of this afternoon. A glass of wine seemed a very good idea.
Nicco handed her one. She sipped and then said, “È delizioso. Grazie,” and lifted her glass in salute.
The signora beamed. “Nicco’s father and brother—now Nicco, too—create it. They are good wine makers, no? They learn from my dear husband. We are so glad that Nicco is back to live, to work the land now that he is no longer busy with the schooling. My husband and I are grateful to have land that sons will keep, but so many go away to do other things.”
Rina set her empty glass back on the sideboard. Not that she wouldn’t have liked another one. Or two. But not here and not now.
“We must go,” Acie said, bending over to hug the signora, who bussed her cheek. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”
With a gnarled hand, the signora cupped Acie’s chin. “I am very glad you will be my granddaughter.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Rina, you will come back to visit? A visit only next time. I would like to see you again.”
“Why, yes, thank you.”
“Then, good evening to you all.”
“Buona sera.”
She hesitated to ask, but the questions niggled at her as they drove back down the hill. She leaned forward. “So, what was that?”
Acie turned toward the back. “She prayed that I be freed from things that weren’t of God.”
“Did it work?”
“It certainly seems to have. I feel so much lighter, freer. So much happier.”
“Then, if your nightmares weren’t of God, does that mean they aren’t true? That nothing happened to Tony?”
“I don’t know, honey,” Acie said. “I wish I did.”
On her return to the pensione, she found an envelope bearing a New Bern postmark and carried it warily upstairs. New Bern meant Jason.
Perching on the side of her bed, she broke the seal and scanned the typed words, wondering if he’d dictated it to his secretary before printing it off on the firm’s letterhead. My dearest Rina, it began.
I’m not angry. How can I be, merely because you choose to imagine yourself in love with the first romantic figure to come your way? I’m certain you’ll get over your infatuation, and so, no, I won’t release you from our engagement. Instead, I’ll be patient. After all, wasn’t this supposed to be your last fling before you settled down to marriage?
My only regret is that I allowed you to travel alone. You’re such an innocent.
A pain settled between her breasts, worse than heartburn. When it persisted, she wondered if this were the prelude to a heart attack. Wouldn’t that be fitting? She pressed the heel of her hand where it hurt and finished reading.
Surely I can be liberal-minded while you go through what I can only describe as a period of rebellion. I suppose it was to be expected after you discovered your father’s secret. You’re gaining experience, just as I’d hoped. That way, we’ll both know you don’t enter our marriage by default.
I know you too well to imagine you’ll do anything you’ll regret, so I will trust in your good sense, knowing you’ll soon see where your loyalties and best interests lie, how perfectly the two of us are suited.
My mother sends her love, as do I.
The pompous… She bit back the word she wanted to use but threw the sheet of ultra-fine, watermarked stationery to the floor. A moment later, she picked it up and tore it into little pieces
. What did she have to do? Spell it out? Well, all right, she’d do that. She’d also ask Auntie Luze to mail him the diamond ring she’d left in her drawer at home. Maybe that would convince him.
And Auntie Luze might actually be pleased. Jason had never been the beau ideal of Luze’s romantic fancies.
31
TONY
Once, Tony thought he saw a man’s face hovering a few inches above his. Voices sounded far away, stray words that made no sense. He must be almost dead and dreaming.
When he finally awoke, his throbbing head pulled him fully conscious, but any movement turned dizziness into nausea. So, not a dream. He stared at the ceiling of the room, dingy white with a crack running across it. Looked like a rabbit. Some story his mother liked, an orphan who lined up, what was the name? Two straight rows, no, that wasn’t it. Oh, right, two straight lines, and Madeline, the youngest one was Madeline. Ridiculous to be thinking about a little girl’s story with this banging in his skull.
The place smelled of antiseptic. The walls were white, and a white curtain hung to one side of his bed. An IV dripped into one arm. So, a hospital. What he didn’t know was which one. If Bahir or, worse, Achmed found out he was still alive—well, he wouldn’t be for long. He tried to sit up, but the dizziness spun him back onto the pillow. Even if he could escape this place, he couldn’t go back to his apartment, couldn’t get his passport, couldn’t get out of the country.
Think, Tony, think. There had to be a way.
“So, finally you are with us.” A nurse approached, speaking in Arabic with a Jordanian accent. She counted his pulse, her smile broad over small white teeth. “We thought you would not live through the surgery, but you are strong, yes?”
He winced as she checked the bandages. “Please, this hospital, we are in Amman?”
“Yes, in Amman.”
“How long… When did I arrive?”
“Four days since you were brought. It was a miracle you were still alive, with the fever, the exposure, and the blood lost from the bullet.” She moved a tray table closer and laid out bandages. “I must change this one, so I will lift you. Yes?” She didn’t wait for him to agree, and the pain shivered through his body as she tried to turn him. “I am sorry. I am trying to be gentle.”
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