by Dana Faletti
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
Pandamoon Books
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Beautiful Secret
BY
Dana Faletti
© 2016 by Dana Faletti
This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
http://www.pandamoonpublishing.com
Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing
Art Direction by Matthew Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing
Illustrations by Ayush Pokharel: Pandamoon Publishing
Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, and Rachel Lee Cherry: Pandamoon Publishing
Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC
Edition: 1
Dedication
To Nana.
Beautiful Secret
Prologue
June
The next worst thing could happen any minute now.
Tate Robbins had to get to the hospital before it did. Nana’s last breath was on the horizon, and Tate’s heart twisted around the need to say one more good-bye. She threw her purse over her shoulder and bounded down the stairs two at a time. On the bottom step, Tate tripped over her husband’s briefcase and stumbled into the foyer, clumsy confusion stopping her in her tracks.
Nathan was home this morning? Anxious prickles crawled along her arms, but she rubbed them away. She couldn’t afford to let his presence slow her down.
As she hurried into the kitchen to grab her car keys, Nathan’s arrogant eyes assaulted her.
“There are coffee grinds everywhere,” he said in a monotone that she thought sounded at once both judgmental and apathetic. “I just Cloroxed the counter this morning.”
Of course you did.
Without another word, Nathan sauntered out of sight, leaving Tate with her fists clenched at her sides, biting back the temptation to fight for the last word.
“Damn,” Tate muttered and swiped a tea towel half-heartedly over the granite to sop up the grainy mess. She didn’t have time to get emotional over the ridiculously expensive coffee maker Nathan had given her the Christmas before last, back when they were still exchanging gifts. In fact, she didn’t have time to entertain Nathan’s obsessions with cleanliness and perfection, either. Each minute that ticked by was a gamble with fate, and with ovarian cancer whispering death threats Nana’s way, the odds were not in her favor.
“Screw this.” Tate tossed the tea towel, not bothering to watch where it landed, and grabbed her car keys from the rack on the side of the refrigerator. Her reflection glinted from the sheen of too-pristine stainless steel, mocking her with its dark circles and incorrigible curls. In a moment of rebellion, she licked her middle finger and dragged it in zig-zags across the front of the fridge.
There.
Let her emotional dropout cheat of a husband enjoy a few smudges in his otherwise spit-spot environment.
That ought to shake him up a bit, Tate thought as she slipped through the back door and into the garage.
“I’m coming, Nana,” she whispered and slid into the driver’s seat. She glanced up from behind the wheel at the Saint Christopher medal that was attached to the visor. As was her habit, Tate kissed two fingers and touched them to the bronze-plated figure Nana Maria had given her as a token of safety when she’d bought her first car.
With a prayer on her lips and her heart bouncing like a super ball in her chest, Tate raced through the wooded hills of suburban Pittsburgh. As she crossed over the Fortieth Street Bridge, she stared at the murky flow of the Allegheny River, idling in summer slowness below. Its stagnant waters made her think of the conversation she hadn’t had with Nathan this morning. He hadn’t asked about Nana. She hadn’t divulged any emotion.
Suddenly, a feeling of dread washed over her shoulders.
Something was happening with Nana.
She could feel it.
When her cell phone started to ring, Tate knew it was the hospital. She dug inside her purse until her sweaty fingers closed around its smooth case.
“Hello?”
“Hey there, chickie.”
“Suri.” Thank God. The bright voice on the line was an anchor, as always, and Tate grabbed onto it before she dipped into an anxiety attack.
“You sound a little stressed.”
“I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“Any changes?”
Suri was asking if Nana was worse. She would want to say her good-byes to the woman who was like a second grandmother to her.
“I don’t know.” Tate stumbled on the words. “I just have that feeling in my gut.” That feeling like the bottom was going to drop right out from under her and she’d have nothing left to stand on.
“I bet she’s just resting, Tate.” Suri laid on the horn, and Tate could hear muffled cursing, even though her friend had obviously tried covering up the microphone. “Sorry. Goddamn people are driving like there’s a full moon.”
Tate’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Her best friend’s road rage always made Tate laugh—except when she was a passenger in Suri’s car. Then it made her toes curl.
“Listen, Tate, I bet when you get to the hospital, Nana Maria will be sitting there in her blue nightie, sipping her coffee and chatting up one of the nurses.” Tate smiled at the image of a healthy Nana, but she knew it was impossible. “And as soon as you walk into the room, she’ll shoo out the staff and it’ll be story time, okay?”
“I hope you’re right, Sur.”
“And tonight, you’re going to meet me at Patron’s, and you’re going to share every last amahhhzing detail of Nana’s story with me over a few salty margaritas.” Tate didn’t respond, but Suri pushed into the quiet. “Sì, señorita, it’s happening. I have to hear what happens next.”
“I’ll text you whe
n I leave the hospital, Sur.” She couldn’t think about drinks or later or anything else right this second.
“Don’t text me. Just meet me at Patron’s at seven.”
“Sur—”
“See you there.”
And Suri was gone.
God, she was forever wanting to talk about every emotional nosedive, always trying to dig up the things Tate tried to shove down deep. And as much as it annoyed and exhausted Tate, she knew that her friend acted this way out of love. They were as close as sisters, Suri having grown up just two houses down from Nana’s. They’d gone from Barbie’s to boys together, and now to asshole husbands—at least in Tate’s case.
Tate felt no guilt about sharing Nana’s life story with Suri. Nana loved Suri and treated her like family. It was Nana who taught Suri how to use a tampon. She’d altered Suri’s prom dress when it was too tight around her chest and then nursed her back to standing when she was drunk and falling over from too many after-prom drinks. She made sure Suri had sobered up before sending her home to her parents and then gave her hell for it the next day.
Nana wouldn’t mind if Suri knew her secrets, and it was cathartic to retell the words, to be talking of drama, love, and scandal instead of sickness, death, and divorce. Maybe she would meet Suri at Patron’s tonight. If everything was status quo with Nana, she’d consider it.
As the hospital loomed into view, Tate felt her grip tighten on the steering wheel and a rubber band squeeze around her chest. The conversation with Suri had briefly eased her mind, but now the feeling of dread was back in full force.
A few minutes later, her arms numb with terror, her feet propelled by hope, she burst through the door of Nana Maria’s private room at Shadyside Hospital. As she choked on the smell of disinfectant and urine, Tate’s gaze landed on her grandmother’s still body, lying still beneath a mountain of bedclothes.
Oh, God. Was she too late?
“Nana!” Tate cried, running to her grandmother’s bed and kneeling beside the starchy sheets that puddled around Nana’s shrunken frame.
The pale woman’s cloudy eyes fluttered open, their serene blue littered with a gauzy haze of pain medication and disease.
“It’s okay, Tati,” Nana Maria said through cracked lips. “I’m not dead yet.”
A wheezy, muted laugh escaped Nana’s mouth, sounding to Tate like a death whistle. Tate shook her head at Nana’s easy sarcasm and exhaled sweet relief.
“I was afraid I missed my chance to say good-bye,” Tate told her grandmother, placing an open palm on Nana’s cool cheek and leaning in to kiss her.
“Don’t be afraid, Tati,” Nana said, her raspy voice layered with familiar comfort, wrapping around Tate like a worn wool sweater. “Don’t we say good-bye every day, bella? Good-bye, I love you, be careful. All of these things, right?”
“I know.” Tate was silent for a moment, letting the anticipation of this loss crawl over her. “It’s never enough, though, Nana. I’m always hoping for one more kiss good-bye, one more story, you know?”
“Ah, bella, you’ve been coming here every day for weeks. Haven’t I told you everything there is to tell?” Nana took Tate’s hand into her own.
Tate stared into her grandmother’s eyes and mustered a smile. “I don’t know,” she teased. “Have you?”
Nana rubbed Tate’s fingers quietly, her parched skin drawing dry circles over Tate’s.
“There’s always a little more to tell. A little for today. A little for tomorrow. I’ll hold onto a few of my secrets too, okay, tomorrow girl?” Nana said.
Tate smiled at Nana’s use of the nickname her father had given her as a child. Tate’s maiden name, Domani, was the Italian word for “tomorrow.”
“No one’s called me that since he died, Nana.”
“No?” Nana’s skin pulled together where her eyebrows should have been. “What does Nathan call you, then?”
Tate sighed, suddenly swallowed in a drowning fatigue at the mention of her husband. “You don’t want to hear what Nathan calls me, Nana.”
Nana Maria nodded, and the two women quieted.
Tate found herself studying a brown water spot on the ceiling, trying to ignore the blush of flames that licked her cheeks at the thought of discussing her marriage with her grandmother. She just didn’t want to go there. Not now, when they had so little time.
Suddenly, Nana Maria folded into a fit of coughing, breaking the silence and forging an exit route for Tate’s unwanted conversation.
“Can I get you some water, Nana?” Tate placed her hand on Nana’s bony shoulder. She applied pressure and tried to steady Nana’s frail, quaking body.
Nana shook her head and swallowed as the convulsions eased.
“How about some ice chips?” Tate asked.
“Okay,” Nana managed to murmur.
Tate stepped into the hallway and moved toward the nurses’ station, where they kept the ice machine. Grief strangled her thoughts as she filled Nana’s pink plastic pitcher. Ice chips plinked noisily while Tate dwelt on the necessity of Nana’s presence in this lifeless place where everything smelled of rubbing alcohol and overcooked food. Quite unexpectedly, a voice from behind her broke into her thoughts.
“That grandmother of yours is really something, isn’t she?”
Tate turned around to find one of the nurse’s aides, a petite woman with worry lines around her eyes and muddy brown curls that stuck to the sides of her face. Before Tate could say anything, the woman went on.
“My whole married life, my husband hates my cooking,” she said, and Tate felt her eyebrows furrow. “He eats it, of course, because what else is he gonna do? Thirty years we’ve been married. He could have starved by now.” The woman’s laughter reverberated along the silent corridor.
At a loss, Tate sidestepped away from the ice machine and gave the woman a half-smile. What did any of this have to do with Nana?
“I told your grandmother about my husband, and you know what she does now?”
“What?” Tate asked, doing nothing to hide her confusion.
“Every day, she tells me what to cook and how to cook it, and every day, I leave work and go straight to the grocery store. I buy everything I need to make whatever she tells me.” The woman nodded and placed a wrinkled hand on Tate’s arm.
“She’s a great cook,” Tate said, a smile of comprehension creeping onto her lips. “She taught my mother how to cook, too.”
“She’s not just a great cook. She saved my marriage.” The woman’s voice boomed. “My husband’s never been happier.”
“That’s fantastic.” What a character this woman was. Tate glanced at her nametag. Joan.
“Last night, I made breaded veal cutlets and pasta, and my husband actually stood up from his chair and applauded.” Joan’s eyes widened, and she inched close to Tate’s ear. “And the appreciation didn’t stop there. My bedroom hasn’t seen so much action in ten years.”
Tate’s shoulders shook with laughter.
“Thanks for sharing that, Joan. I’m glad my Nana is sharing her recipes with you.”
“Me too, dear. And so is my husband.” Joan winked at Tate before turning on one foot and walking away.
When Tate returned to her grandmother’s room with the pitcher of ice, she found her sitting straight up in bed, looking more alert than she had in weeks. Tate felt her eyes stretch wide in shock that Nana could have found the strength to hold her body upright.
“Tatiana,” Nana said. “I want you to do something for me.”
Tate placed the ice chips on the bedside table, carefully climbed onto the bed, and cuddled into the woman who always smelled of Oil of Olay and fried dough.
“Anything, Nana. What is it?”
“I want you to go to France,” Nana said.
“France?” Tate parroted, her voice betraying its confusion with a squeak. “Why?”
“To meet my sister-in-law, Luisa, the one I told you about.”
“Nana, I can’t go to France. I’m not
going anywhere. I’m here—”
“Tati, you always take the summers off, and it’s only June. I don’t have much longer here, bella.” Nana’s voice grew quiet, her wrinkled fingers sneaking beneath the pink turban that swathed her bare head, fiddling with the seam until it was straight.
“When I’m gone,” she continued, “I want you to go. Zia Luisa will have some things to share with you, things I cannot bear to speak of here, like this.”
“What are you talking about?” Tate asked, the strength of her curiosity overpowering her grief. “Why can’t you just talk to me now?”
Nana sighed, turning to stare out the window with eyes that were too big for her shrunken body. “You must see some things for yourself, child. Now listen. I am not finished with my request.”
“There’s more?”
“Oh, yes, Tati. After you visit Luisa and her family in France, I want you to go on to Calabria. There, you need to let the waters of the Ionian Sea heal that broken spirit of yours.”
“Nana—” Tate began, but her grandmother waved a pruney hand and shushed her.
“Do you think, bella, that all the things I’ve told you over these last few weeks have been for myself, that I shared these secrets I’ve guarded all my life just to hear myself say the words?”
Tate was silent, studying the woman who had been her rock when she’d lost her parents. Then later, it was Nana, not Nathan, who’d scraped the fragments of her heart off the floor when she’d crashed into that solid stone wall at what seemed like the very end of all things.
When the worst thing had happened.
Without realizing what she was doing, Tate ran her fingers along the tight band of abdominal muscles she’d worked hard to rebuild. Any trace of slack, saggy flesh was gone. For a moment, her breath caught, remembering the strange, stretched sensation. She pushed it away and focused once more on the question her grandmother had posed.
Why had Nana told Tate her story over the past few weeks?
Nana Maria never did anything for herself, so of course she hadn’t told Tate her scandalous history out of self-indulgence. Tate had simply thought it a gift and had absorbed every detail of Nana’s life story with a thirst for more.