Unforgotten

by Kristen Heitzmann

With pandemonium. “I wish she didn’t go to all that trouble.” Truly.

  He finger-combed his windblown hair and looked up at the empty window. “She’ll be deeply offended if we don’t accept.”

  That went without saying. She was obviously touchy. It reminded her of Lance in their first days together, how he’d work up a steam over nothing. Her mouth twitched remembering the times she’d infuriated him without even knowing. His heritage was volatile.

  “Of course we accept. Mmm, spaghetti.”

  He smiled. “You’re hungry.”

  “Starved.”

  The apartment was empty when they went to wash up, so dining with Star and Rico and Chaz would not have been an option. Dining alone with Lance could have been nice or difficult, depending on his state of mind, and the fact that he’d forgotten to stop for food the whole time they were gone indicated a serious instability. So in the interest of sustenance, she prepared for mayhem.

  But only Lance’s mother and his sister Sofie were there when they went in. A strong tomato aroma that was not unpleasant filled the air, and a violin played a lilting melody on the stereo. Rese felt as though she’d been braced for an attack that didn’t come—but she expected it still.

  Lance raised his brows to his mother. “How is she?” Nonna Antonia being the first and only thing on his mind.

  Doria shrugged. “Not very coherent. Sleeping mostly.”

  “Unconscious?”

  Doria shook her head. “Not like last time.”

  Rese accepted the glass of red wine that Sofie, standing at the kitchen counter, handed her. With nothing in her stomach, it should incapacitate her soon enough. But Doria took a tray of thick mushrooms slathered with something green and chunky from the oven. It was hard to imagine anything less appetizing.

  “Portobello with pesto.” Doria sent Lance a pointed look. “Sofie made the pesto.”

  “Ma.” He took the glass of wine his sister offered and a strip of mushroom. This last he held out, and Rese had no choice but to take it.

  The mushroom was rubbery, but surprisingly tasty. Hunger charged in, and she finished the appetizer with only two sips of wine, then accepted a second slice as Lance’s father came in.

  “Roman, you got the bread?” Doria called.

  “I got the bread.” He brought a brown paper bag to her, and a warm yeasty aroma wafted from the crusty loaf she pulled out.

  Rese thought she might faint.

  “Good, it’s hot.” Doria set it in a basket and folded a cloth over it like a baby.

  Sofie carried the basket to the table. She had yet to say a word. Monica was obviously the talker. And Lucy. And all the aunts. And several cousins, uncles, and brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, and even Lance. But at the moment, it was quiet enough to think and observe, and what Rese noticed was a sag in the kitchen ceiling that didn’t bode well. Was it polite to mention it? Probably not.

  “You might check the pasta, Momma.” Lance raised his chin toward the steaming pot.

  “I know. I’m checking.”

  Lance winced when she pulled up a wad of spaghetti.

  “So a little past al dente.”

  “Want me to drain it?” He reached for the pot and unloaded its contents into a metal cone in the sink.

  “The sauce is perfect.” His mother dipped a spoon and held it toward Rese. As Doria had no intention of surrendering the utensil, that left no choice but to lean in and suck it off the spoon.

  Rese smiled and nodded. The sauce was pastier than anything Lance had served, but if they could just eat… .

  A noisy faucet turned off in the bathroom, and Lance’s dad emerged. “How much longer?”

  “Okay, already. Did you say hi to your children?”

  “What, I don’t see them every day?”

  “You don’t see Lance, or his … Rese.”

  Roman shook his head, taking his place at the table.

  “Hard day, Pop?” Sofie patted his head.

  “Oy.” His hands fell open on either side of his plate.

  Doria pressed a bowl of meatballs at Rese that she took to the table, debating where to put them. Sofie indicated a spot in front of her dad. Lance brought a platter of spaghetti and a pitcher of sauce.

  Doria came behind him with a tossed salad. “Fast enough for you?”

  “Sure.” Roman tucked his napkin into his shirt.

  Doria tugged it out and laid it across his lap. “We have company.”

  He looked up. “I thought it was our children.”

  “Our children and our guest.”

  Under his gaze, Rese slid into the chair Lance held and jerked it awkwardly forward. Lance sat across the table from her. Sofie sat down beside her and Doria at the other end from Roman. This was it? Just the five of them? Joy and terror.

  They said Lance’s prayer in unison, and chin dropped, Rese moved her lips as though she knew the words. Roman’s napkin went back into his shirt, and he spooned three large meatballs onto his noodles, then drowned it all in sauce. Rese took everything that came her way, including a small dish with oil in the bottom.

  “For your bread,” Sofie told her.

  The bread wasn’t cut. They tore off chunks as it came to them. Rese took a hunk of her own, then watched Sofie break hers into bitesized pieces and dip them in the oil.

  “Who’s with Nonna?” Lance still had only one thing on his mind.

  “Celestina. She’s staying the night.” Doria looked up. “You know who I saw at the store? That funny little man with one leg. Johnny Grope.”

  Sofie frowned. “Momma, it’s not nice to call the handicapped funny.”

  “But he is funny. He makes jokes about his name, said he might be one leg short, but at least he’s got two hands.”

  “And one cracked skull.” Roman took a hefty bite of pasta.

  The amount of food on the table exceeded anything they could eat, even hungry as Rese was. And it did go down more like something she might cook than Lance. It didn’t taste bad; it was simply dense.

  “I got a new student. Four years old and already she’s got presence.” Doria turned to Sofie. “Just like you at that age, all neck and legs.”

  “Good for soup stock, not much else.” Lance yelped when she kicked his shin under the table.

  Doria plopped another meatball on Lance’s plate. “Where did you go off to today? Myrna Caravaggio wanted to see you.”

  “Myrna Caravaggio thinks I’m still six years old. She’d squeeze my face and say how cute I was in my tomato costume.”

  Rese shot him a glance that he returned with a wink.

  “Well, you know she likes seeing you. She only gets back a few times a year, and you were her favorite tomato.” Doria laughed.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Have some more bread, Theresa.” Doria pressed the basket at her.

  The bread was delicious once she got used to dipping it in oil. Rese took more salad too. It was crisp and tasty as long as she avoided the limp brown strips that had to be anchovies. Considering she hadn’t eaten since the pastry that morning before seeing Lance’s grandmother, it was all just what she’d needed.

  She brought her plate to Lance at the sink. “I’m so full.”

  “Momma’s sauce has its own gravity.”

  “I heard that.” Doria came in and set the bowl of meatballs on the counter.

  “Sticks to your ribs.” Roman gave her a squeeze from behind. “As it should.” He bent in and nuzzled her neck.

  Rese tried not to stare, but was that normal parental behavior? Lance caught her gaze and grinned.

  “Not now.” Doria wriggled free.

  “What? A man can’t hug his wife?”

  “Shoo.” She laughed. “I have work to do.”

  Roman surveyed the kitchen. “Looks like it’s covered to me.”

  “Guests don’t wash dishes.”

  Rese froze when Roman turned his gaze on her. “Welcome to the family.” He took Doria’s hand. “Come on. We’re taking
a walk.”

  “I have to—”

  “We’re taking a walk.” He tugged her along with a swagger in his step.

  Rese stared after them all the way to the click of the door. Well. Lance was certainly his father’s son. He wouldn’t meet her gaze when she turned back, just swabbed and rinsed the dishes.

  Was Dad’s personality as evident in her? Lance said she punched like a man, walked like a man. She certainly worked like a man; she’d done that much to excel in his world. She picked up the dish towel and realized it was hopeful thinking, because if it wasn’t Vernon Barrett people saw, it might be her mother.

  Sofie held the bottle over her wineglass, offering a refill, but Rese shook her head.

  “I won’t sleep.”

  “Wine’s supposed to help that. Good for the heart and all.”

  “Rese has chronic insomnia.” Lance handed her a slippery plate.

  “Stress?” Sofie filled her own goblet.

  Rese snorted. “What could possibly be stressful?” And then she realized how that might have come across. “I mean …”

  “You mean us?” Sofie sipped.

  “No.” Not individually anyway.

  Sofie tipped her head. “Have you tried relaxation techniques?”

  The only thing that worked was Lance’s voice, and that required a more intimate situation than she was willing to repeat. She waved the towel. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’d be surprised. REM sleep is essential to well-being. And sleep disorders can indicate underlying conditions—or generate them.”

  Rese stiffened.

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking? I’m older, anyway.” She grimaced. “Thirty last week.”

  Rese swabbed the plate and set it aside. “I turn twenty-five in July.” She did not want to discuss her age, her insomnia, or her predisposition for schizophrenia. “And thirty’s hardly old.”

  “Well, it’s one of those years everyone expects you to dread.”

  Rese nodded. If she made it to thirty without psychotic episodes she’d celebrate.

  “Well, let me know if you want some ideas. To help you sleep.”

  Rese shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  Sofie put the last dish into the cabinet and Rese draped the towel over the rod to dry. There still seemed a lot of clutter on counters and shelves, but Lance told Sofie good night, and Rese went with him upstairs.

  He stopped at Antonia’s door, then went in. Though he hadn’t said to, Rese waited outside, watching from the hall as he stopped beside the bed. Both Antonia and his aunt Celestina were asleep, Antonia swallowed up in the bed, and Celestina overflowing her chair.

  Lance crept in so softly neither stirred. He could have gone up earlier. But she knew he was seeing Antonia when she wouldn’t see him, as though the mere sight could cause another stroke. Hadn’t he noticed how her eyes changed every time he got near? If he wanted a mirror, he should look in that one.

  Antonia stayed asleep, but Lance stood a long time beside her bed. Then he murmured, “Good night, cara mia,” with such love it hurt.

  ————

  Lance’s soft good-night tried to penetrate, but she couldn’t open her eyes. The scene of that awful night played in her head as it had so many times before. Only now it seemed skewed, something awry in Marco’s “finding” her in the tunnel, Papa’s “telling” him about it. Not as a suitor, but a conspirator?

  It wasn’t possible. She could not have spent a lifetime with Marco and not known, not been told. Marco had saved her from Papa’s trouble. He could not have been part of it.

  He had come to Papa in good faith, unaware of the secret liaisons with Arthur Jackson. “It was your assumption, Miss Shepard, that I represent an underworld figure.” He had been innocent of Papa’s imbroglio, wanting only discretion for his client. How could he know… ? How could he be… ? But hadn’t she wondered? So much of Marco was mystery.

  Waves of pain. She would trust nothing that came from an heir of Arthur Jackson. A federal agent? Impossible. That would mean he came there knowing about Papa. Had he courted her to trap Vittorio Shepard?

  Could Marco have shot Papa? No! Lance said they were in it together. Undercover. Again, that wasn’t possible. Papa would never allow him to court her as a ruse, to use her that way.

  “I think you should kiss me.”

  “Your papa asked me not to.”

  Papa, who didn’t interfere, who trusted her in matters of the heart. Why had he put boundaries on Marco’s courting? All their private talks. How could they have so much to say about her? Or had she assumed in her vain navet that she was their most pressing matter? She was twenty, enraptured with herself, alive with Marco’s attention.

  She moaned, in her sleep or not, she couldn’t tell. Federal agent. Undercover. The terms twisted and turned in her mind. What had she put into motion? Awakening the curse to torment her last days. Papa. Nonno. Marco. Her heart melted like soft cheese, a heart that had learned to be strong, sinking back to those dark days… .

  Marco is saying things I won’t hear. “Marry you?”

  “Your papa’s trouble isn’t over.”

  “What trouble? How do you know? What did he tell you?”

  Marco shakes his head. “You already know more than you should.” He stands tall beside the car, stretching his legs from so many hours’ driving. The grass and ferns smell savory in the afternoon sun, crushed down where he has stomped the life back into his legs. “Suffice it to say, you’ll be safer with a new name.”

  Dazed and angry, I glare. “How can I marry you in mourning?”

  “Extenuating circumstances.”

  My grief, circumstances? “I don’t know you.”

  “Matches have been made from less.”

  “Not for me; not like this. I want …” What does it matter what I want? Fury seizes me. “I hate you.”

  “Antonia …” He takes my hand. “Let me help you.”

  I jerk away. “I don’t care what happens. Let them kill me.”

  “I won’t.” His words close around me like dread. “You’ll be safe as Mrs. Marco Michelli.”

  “Uffa.” I thumb my chin. “What is it to you?”

  “You know what it is.” His eyes are unfathomable. What does he think I know?

  “What happened? Why won’t you tell me?”

  “They ambushed your father.”

  “I know. I saw them come.”

  “That’s why you’re in danger.”

  “I don’t care about me.”

  “I do.”

  “Why were you there? How did—” He takes my hands. “Stop asking. The less you know the better.”

  Why am I trying to understand? I am cursed. The Lord has turned His face from me, and there will be nothing but bad luck and hardship. What Marco says could be truth; it could be lies. What difference does it make?

  He puts me back into the car. “Where are we going?”

  He squeezes my hand. “Home.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lance woke with his face wedged into the navy leather cushions and a taste of copper in his mouth. His calves and hamstrings ached from slogging through tar up to his knees hour after hour. Reaching down to rub, he realized the leg didn’t ache; it was the dream lingering.

  He worked himself up on one forearm and wiped the leather sweat from his cheek as the day’s reality set in. He had set out to discover the past, to right its wrongs, bring peace and restoration, but one thing had complicated the next until it all stood like a house of cards. His stomach clenched with worry.

  Nonna had looked peaceful in sleep, but he knew when she awakened it would not be peaceful. She must be frightened, discouraged, and angry as a cat with its tail in a door. How could he be so thoughtless? He groaned.

  Whatever the family had been mixed up in, it was over. Done. When she recovered, there’d be nothing to upset her, to jog unpleasant thoughts. He would never bring it up again. She could keep the box, or better yet he’d
tuck it away where she wouldn’t see it and be distressed. Whatever secrets it held could fade with time.

  He pressed up from the couch and saw Rico soundlessly beating bongos to whatever he had on his headset. Lance checked his watch. Earlier than he’d thought, but still the first time in history he’d outslept his friend. Of course he’d tossed and worried most of the night. Should have had Sofie give him a relaxation technique.

  He glanced toward the bedroom, wondering if Rese had slept. She’d been in no mood for aid or assistance last night, couldn’t wait to close the door between them. And who could blame her? He was a walking hazard. How to derail your life in one fell swoop.

  Rico set one of the earphones behind his ear but didn’t pause his hands. “Want to add lyrics?”

  Lance stretched and sat up, kicking the blanket free. He cleared his throat. “I’d have to hear it. See what comes.”

  Rico pulled off the headset and walked it over. “You comfortable there?”

  Lance looked down at the couch. “Never buy a couch without sleeping on it.” He put the earphones on, sat back, and let the sounds of steel drum, Star’s ethereal voice, and occasional bongo rhythm sink in. It was lovelier than he’d expected, with an energy and depth of tone that he hadn’t anticipated.

  He let his mind wrap around the tones and rhythm, looking for rhyme and verse. But all that came were single words. Sustenance. Beckoning. Winsome. Lachrymose. Bereft. Mercurial. Possibility. He spoke them as they came to mind, eyes closed, ears covered. Nothing that really went together. No specific emotion or thought he could attach, just a simple flow of yearning and hope. Was he hearing Star’s spirit? Or his own?

  He opened his eyes to Rico’s face.

  “Man, you gotta do it.”

  Lance removed the headset. “Do what?”

  “That. Stream of conscience, or whatever it was.”

  Lance shook his head. “It’ll be different for everyone, Rico. Why should I tell them what to get out of it? Their own consciousness needs to speak.”

  For once Rico didn’t argue immediately, even if it would mean having his participation in their project.

  Lance handed back the headset. “It’s got power as it is. I think you’re onto something. Has Saul heard it?”