“He did love his books,” Emma admitted as she set the plastic cups on the table. “It was how he perfected his English.”
“I know. He was extremely well read, and his vocabulary was impressive.”
“Nona always felt like Poppi had the advantage over her.” Emma laid the napkins out in a little fan design. “Because Poppi’s father was a Lutheran pastor.”
“I know,” he said again. “I was a bit surprised to hear that. You usually assume all Italians are Catholic.” He stepped back to view the table, nodding with satisfaction.
“Yeah, just having the name Burcelli, I’ve explained quite a few times why I’m not Catholic.”
“Poppi told me about the persecution his family suffered during World War II because of their religious beliefs. I never realized that was going on.”
“What’s that?” Emma was surprised.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“About being persecuted?” She shook her head. “No. I realize many of his relatives, including his father, died in the war. But he never spoke of it much.”
“They were hard stories to speak of…but Protestants in Italy were not very popular. And Lutherans in his town, after the war, were associated with Nazis.”
“Really? He told you that?”
“I think he needed to talk.”
She was trying to absorb this—her grandfather’s family had been persecuted for their religion. It just seemed so strange…and strange that she’d never heard about it. “But I remember hearing stories about how Poppi’s parents tried to help and protect Jewish friends. They got a number of Jewish families safely over here.”
“Yes…but apparently the Burcellis had enemies just the same. Some people choose to hate simply because of differences.”
“That’s so sad.”
The bell on the door tinkled now. “Ahhh.” Lane waved to the two men coming into the store. “The fun is about to begin.”
“I’ll get out of here,” she said. “I’m sure they don’t want to see a woman around.”
“Don’t worry.” He winked. “Once the men get to talking, they’re pretty oblivious as to who is listening.”
Just the same, Emma busied herself behind the coffee counter. She had noticed that the entire area looked due for a good scrub-down, and since there didn’t seem to be any other customers in the store, she decided to attack it. However, since the lounge was nearby, it wasn’t difficult to overhear parts of the conversation. To her amusement, there were mixed feelings about the book and some of its characters. About midway through the discussion, and after the coffee machines and counters were clean, she sat down on the stool and, pretending to be reading on her iPad, she listened.
“Erik was a disingenuous bully,” a man declared. “Someone should have killed him the first time he kidnapped Christine.”
“And then there’d be no story,” Lane pointed out.
“Erik wasn’t disingenuous,” an older man argued. “He made it perfectly clear that he loved Christine and would do anything to win her.”
“Including holding her against her will, even though he knew she loved Raoul?”
“But Raoul was a wimp,” a young man said.
“Was he weak or was he just trying to be understanding?” Lane asked.
“That’s right. Raoul knew that Christine cared for Erik.”
“And don’t forget Erik helped her with her career.”
“But that doesn’t make him a hero,” the young man said.
“And forcing her to marry him—that was all wrong.”
“He didn’t force her,” Lane said.
“Well, he coerced her. And she was willing to marry him, out of pity.”
“Poppi thought this was a love story,” Lane said evenly. “What do you guys think—is it about love?”
“It’s a story about unrequited love,” an older man said. “But not true love.”
“But Erik truly loved Christine,” someone said.
“Did he love her? Or did he just want to own her?” Lane asked.
“And what about Raoul? He loved her too. In the end, it’s Raoul who gets her. Is that the love story?”
They kicked this around for a while, and it was amusing hearing men talking about love and romance. In some ways they seemed even more candid than women might be. Or perhaps it was the wine talking. Several bottles were opened now.
“You know what I think,” Lane said with finality, and Emma’s ears perked up to listen. “I think that every woman has a phantom in her closet.”
The men laughed and made a few jokes.
“What do you mean?” the young man asked.
“Well, maybe not every woman,” Lane clarified. “And to be fair, let’s not limit my statement to women. I think most people have a phantom in their closet.”
“Can you please explain that,” the older man said.
“Think about it…have any of you had someone who has loved or admired or even been obsessed over you? At any time in your life?”
It was quiet for a bit, but then most of them chimed in, admitting that was true. “And it feels rather flattering to be the object of someone’s affection, doesn’t it?”
Again they agreed.
“And don’t you think most people dream of loving and being loved like that?”
Again they agreed.
“But what if the illusion of the phantom kept people from risking themselves because they were afraid they wouldn’t experience the measure of love and romance that they so desperately longed for? What if they closed the door to love?”
“Is that what the story was about?” someone asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” Lane admitted. Now he laughed. “I guess I was just hoping to come up with a great line…the way that Poppi used to do.”
“Well, that was pretty good,” someone said.
“And I know people like that,” the young man added. “I won’t name names, but I have a female friend with a phantom in her closet.”
They laughed and made light of this. But as Emma considered Lane’s words, she couldn’t help but wonder if they were aimed at her. Although it was ridiculous, not to mention narcissistic, since he couldn’t even see her where she was sitting tucked away behind the cappuccino machine.
Eventually the meeting broke up, and after the last of them left, she went out to help Lane clean up. “Sounds like you guys had a fun evening,” she said as she gathered up paper plates and napkins, dropping them into the plastic trash bag she’d brought out.
“Were you listening?”
“Some of the time. But I didn’t hear everything.”
Lane held up a bottle of wine. “There’s a couple glasses left in here. Want to finish it off?”
“Unless you’ve already had too many.” She peered curiously at him. “You have to drive, you know.”
He laughed as he filled a plastic cup. “Don’t worry. I limited myself to one. I wanted to stay on top of things as the leader tonight.” He handed it to her.
“Did they like having you as leader?”
“They seemed to…although I couldn’t begin to replace Poppi.” He filled his own glass then held it up to her. “To Poppi?”
She nodded, touching the plastic cup to his. “To Poppi. I think he would be proud at the way you handled the book group tonight.”
They sat down and she asked him some more questions about the Burcelli family history in Italy, listening and sipping her wine as he told her some of the stories Poppi had told him. “As sad as those things were,” he finally said, “it’s a wonder that Poppi was such an eternal optimist.”
“But he was, wasn’t he?” She smiled to remember her grandfather.
Lane nodded, looking at his nearly empty wine cup. “Poppi always saw the glass half full…even when it looked like this.” He finished his wine and stood. “I guess we better get this place cleaned up so you can go home, Emma.”
She didn’t want to go home. However, she knew she couldn’t say
that. Especially after her conversation with Anne yesterday. And the memory of those red roses and Anne saying how much Tristan loved Lane and how Anne expected their relationship to rise to the next level soon…perhaps by Valentine’s Day. “Yes.” Emma stood and continued gathering things up, wiping down the table, and soon she was turning off lights and they went outside and she locked the door.
“No ice escapades tonight,” Lane said a bit sadly.
She peered up at the sky. “It’s clear as can be.”
He looked up too. “When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine, that’s amore!” She laughed to hear the words to the old Dean Martin song and joining with him, she sang as he walked her to her car. “Goodnight, Emma,” he said warmly.
As she tried to say goodnight, a lump filled her throat as if she were about to break into tears, which seemed totally silly. And so she simply waved and got into her car.
Chapter 12
The next morning, Emma’s dad showed up at eleven for what he said was the final cooking lesson, although Nona disagreed. “Tomorrow’s the big night,” he told Emma as the three of them stood in the kitchen, watching as he carefully cut out raviolis. He was trying to increase his repertoire.
“Big night for what?” Emma asked.
“He’s going to kidnap your mother from work tomorrow,” Nona explained.
“And I’ll take her home with me and cook spaghetti and meatballs,” he told Emma. “Do you think it’ll work?”
She suddenly remembered what Lane had said at the men’s book group. “I think it could work, Dad. After all, every woman has a phantom in her closet.”
“What?” Rob and Nona said simultaneously.
She laughed. “Everyone wants to be loved fully and completely, and I’m sure that’s all Mom wants too.”
“How better to love than with spaghetti and meatballs,” Nona concluded. “As long as you make it with good Italian sausage and ground veal and minced garlic and sweet onions.” She smacked her lips. “And sun-dried tomatoes and virgin olive oil and red wine and lots of fresh basil and oregano.”
“Sorry I can’t stick around and sample your cooking lessons today,” Emma said, “but I am needed at the bookstore.”
As she walked to town she wished she’d taken the time to talk to her dad about the situation with Lane…and Anne’s recent heart-to-heart. But she didn’t really want to have that conversation in front of Nona, because she didn’t want her to feel stressed that there was any trouble between the two sisters. Nona used to warn them whenever they would bicker as girls that “bad blood between sisters was the worst thing that could happen to a family.” Emma didn’t want Nona worrying about that now.
The bookstore was fairly quiet in the afternoon, but with Virginia gone again, spending a couple hours with her ailing mother-in-law, Cindy and Emma managed to stay busy enough. And when Tristan showed up after school, Emma asked him if had homework, and he claimed that he didn’t. “So have you done your valentines to give out at school yet? Did your teacher give you a class list?”
“Yeah…but that’s girl stuff,” he proclaimed.
“Really?” She peered curiously down at him. “So you don’t like it when you get valentines? You’d rather no one gave you any?”
“Well…” His brow creased.
“Because if you don’t give anyone a valentine, it seems selfish to expect them to give you any. But it might be embarrassing to be the only kid in your class who doesn’t get a single valentine next Tuesday.”
Now his eyes got wider. “Well, I guess maybe I should give out valentines too,” he admitted.
“And we did have a nice selection over there. Although a lot of kids from your school have been buying them lately, so it might be getting limited.” She pointed to the table. “Why don’t you pick some out and you can sit down and work on them in the lounge. Need some cocoa to go with the job?”
He nodded eagerly, hurrying over to peruse the various boxes and packets of cards. And before long, he was hard at work, with his list spread out in front of them, carefully writing them out.
At five o’clock, she and Tristan went home and, thanks to her dad’s cooking lesson that morning, they had leftover raviolis for dinner. Naturally, Saundra assumed that Nona and Emma had made them earlier, and no one said anything different. Still, Emma couldn’t help but be amused to think that her mother would be kidnapped to her own home tomorrow night…and to her husband’s cooking. Emma had been praying that it would go well. Not just because she and Nona were weary of having Saundra living here, but because she knew her parents belonged together. She just wished they knew it too.
“Time to go home,” she told Tristan after they finished cleaning up the dinner dishes. “Gather up your stuff.” Soon they were on their way, and she could tell by how quiet he was that Tristan was either tired or worried.
“You okay?” she finally asked as they walked up to the steps to the condo.
“Yeah…” He said a bit sadly.
“Really? You don’t sound okay to me.” She waited as he fumbled to find his key in his backpack and then unlock and open the door. “You sound like something is bothering you,” she said as they went inside.
He shrugged, dumping his backpack and then his jacket onto the floor.
She kneeled down and looked into his face. “Did I do something to offend you?” she asked with concern.
He shook his head. “No. It’s not you, Aunt Emma.”
“What is it?”
“I…uh…I miss my dad.”
“Oh.” She nodded, slowly standing. Then, placing a hand on his shoulder, she walked him to the living room. “Want to talk about it?” She sat down on the sectional and he sat down beside her, fidgeting with a hole in the knee of his jeans.
“Dad called me a couple days ago,” he began.
“Uh-huh?”
“He just wanted to talk and stuff.”
“What do you guys talk about?”
“He asks me about school and playing basketball. Just regular stuff.”
“Do you enjoy talking to him?”
“Yeah.” He nodded eagerly.
“But it makes you miss him?”
He let out a long sigh. “Mom doesn’t like it when he calls. She got mad at him last time.”
“Why did she get mad at him?”
“For talking too long.”
“Oh…”
“She said from now on we can only talk for ten minutes.”
“Oh…” Emma grimaced.
“And that makes me miss him even more.”
“Do you want to talk to him right now?” Emma asked.
“Yeah!” he said hopefully.
She pulled her cell phone from her purse. “You know his number?”
“Sure.”
“Well, go for it. I won’t tell if you don’t tell.” She handed him the phone. “But you have to promise to end the conversation by your bedtime, okay?”
“Okay!” He was already dialing her phone.
Emma knew she was probably overstepping one of Anne’s boundaries, but she didn’t care. After all, Anne had entrusted Tristan to her care, hadn’t she? She hadn’t given any real instructions. What was wrong with Tristan speaking to his dad?
Emma picked up a slick fashion magazine and leaned back into the sectional, absently flipping through it until she got tired of seeing one expensive ad after another—all seemed to be for diamonds or chocolate or vodka or beauty products. She looked at the front to see it was a February edition. Or course, the magazine was capitalizing on Valentine’s Day. She set the magazine down, listening to the lilting sound of Tristan’s voice as he chatted with his dad. He was telling him about how Aunt Emma made him do his valentines today. But she could tell that he wasn’t really mad about it.
Finally, she realized that it really was close to his bedtime and he hadn’t even put on his pajamas or brushed his teeth. She went into his room and pointed to her watch. “Sorry, Trist, but time’s u
p.”
“I gotta go now, Dad. Yeah, that’s Aunt Emma. Wanna talk to her?” He told his dad goodnight and that he loved him then handed the phone back to Emma.
“Hey, Gerard,” she said in a friendly tone. “How are you doing?”
“Great, thanks. The job is really working out. It won’t be long until I can get a transfer.”
“Really? Do you think you could move back here?”
“I hope so. I won’t know until June.”
“Oh, Gerard, that would be wonderful.”
“I’m glad you think so. I wish your sister felt the same.”
“Oh…well, Tristan would sure be glad to know this. Have you told him?”
“I hate getting his hopes up. He’s already counting the days until spring break.”
“I know. That’s so cool you’re taking him to Disney World.”
“I wish Anne would come with him. I don’t really like the idea of him flying all that way alone. And I told her that there’d be no strings attached. She could stay in a hotel and do her own thing and enjoy some Florida sunshine while Tristan stays with me.”
“That sounds like a great offer. Anne loves the sun.”
“Yeah…but she refuses to come.”
“I know.”
“Any chance you could talk her into thinking about it?”
“I doubt it.” She walked through the kitchen, running her hand over the sleek cold granite countertop.
“So you think she’s really finished with me then?”
“I don’t know, Gerard. To be honest, I don’t really get it.”
“No…I don’t expect you do. Sorry, Emma, I shouldn’t trouble you with my problems.”
“That’s okay, really. If I could do anything to help, I would.”
“And if you had any suggestions, you’d let me know?”
“Absolutely.”
“The roses obviously didn’t work.”
“Roses?” She looked at the dining room table, staring at the red roses, which were starting to wilt.
“Yeah. Dumb idea. I sent her two dozen red roses on the anniversary of our first date back in high school. She never even acknowledged them. Probably threw them in the trash. I almost asked Tristan, but didn’t want to make him feel bad.”
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