I smiled at her. “I only have one sister, but I do understand that need.”
“I’ve been such a mess this week without them here to anchor me.” She shook her head. “Father Sebastian had mentioned something about this church in Orleans which I misunderstood to be a convent. The night I decided to go in search of it, I found my car gas tank on empty. I hadn’t even checked before I left Boston. I was lucky to have made it out to the Cape.”
“Why did you decide to drive out the day before the storm?” I asked.
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d just learned that my sister had died.”
“I thought Christopher said she died over a month ago.”
“She did. But … it’s a long story, and I’m afraid I will only have the energy and the will to tell it once.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen Christopher?” I asked as we drove up toward The Bluffs.
She turned to look at me. “I’ve never met my nephew.”
34
Renée
New York ~ Six weeks ago
Renée had become terribly thin and was always cold. She was enjoying the warmth of the brightly lit sunroom overlooking the courtyard below when the shrillness of the phone interrupted her peaceful afternoon.
“That was Brandan. He’s stopping by for a visit,” Michael told her as he draped a shawl across her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”
She nodded as she watched a hummingbird at the feeder on their balcony, though she wasn’t shaking from the cold. No, it was fear. But of what? Was death coming for her? Would she be punished for her sins?
Not long afterward the doorbell chimed, followed by the murmurings of her husband and best friend. She supposed Michael was preparing Brandan for the condition he would find her in.
“There’s my girl,” Brandan said, leaning down to kiss her sunken cheek. “I brought you cinnamon brioche from Levains. Your favorite.”
He opened the white pastry box to display the baked goodies. “Take a whiff.”
“Yum,” Renée said, pretending enthusiasm. The truth was, she had no appetite for sweets—hardly any appetite at all. And there would be no point in asking what Levains was. Even if he told her, she wouldn’t be able to remember.
“I’m just going to run to the corner market,” Michael popped his head out to tell them. “Be back in a jiffy.”
“He’s giving us some alone time for you to say goodbye to me,” Renée said.
“Nonsense.” Brandan eschewed the thought. “He says the new treatment is working.”
“It’s hard enough to keep up the act for Michael,” she pleaded with her friend, “don’t make me do it for you too.”
“Whatever you say, Renée.” He squeezed her hand, and for the next few minutes he brought her up to date on what was happening at the business. “Everyone sends their best to you. Some would like to visit.”
“No visitors.” She’d been adamant. “Only you and Christopher.”
“And Isabella?” he asked.
She looked at him crossly. “Sister Bernadetta.”
“What do you want me to do with this?” he asked, pulling the age-worn manila envelope from the inside pocket of his sports jacket.
“What is that?” She narrowed her eyes.
“The envelope you kept in a secret compartment of your jewelry box. You gave it to me last time I visited.”
“Did I?” She was focused on the hummingbirds. “Did you know that hummingbirds almost never stop moving? It’s how they survive.”
“Just like you, huh?” She’d said something similar to him on the day she’d told him about her life before Michael and Christopher. When he’d urged her to tell them, she’d said, “There’s no going back. If I don’t keep moving forward, that’s when my world will fall apart.”
She nodded as the ghost of a smile played on her lips.
The day she’d given Brandan the envelope containing all her secrets, she’d only shared bits and pieces about that past life. She’d assured him that all would be explained by the contents of the envelope.
Today he had come for guidance on what to do with it.
“Should I give it to Michael? Or Christopher?”
“Christopher,” she whispered.
“Okay.” Now that he knew her wishes, he hoped for a little clarification. “But what does it all mean, Renée? I’ve looked through everything in the envelope, but it makes no sense to me.”
“Christopher will figure it out.” She finally tore her gaze away from the fluttering activity at the birdfeeder. “He’ll know what to do.”
Brandan unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to her.
“What is this?” She reached for her glasses.
“I met someone who helped me find out who the man in The Globe article is,” her friend answered. Then gently he told her, “His name isn’t Antonio.”
She rubbed her forehead as she looked at the photo, trying her best to summon the memory of why it had been so important. Then she saw Phillip in the center of the picture, bringing fragments of memory together.
“But the photo looks so much like Vito. It must be Antonio.”
“There’s a letter from Vito, but I couldn’t read it. I don’t know Italian.” Brandan asked patiently, “Will the letter solve the mystery?”
She shook her head and the tears came. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Michael rushed in, having just returned from the market.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” Renée dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and said, “I get so frustrated when I can’t remember.”
“All you have to do is ask, and we’ll fill in the blanks for you.” He caressed her cheek.
She glanced at Brandan. Was it pity for Michael she saw in her friend’s expression? It was too late now to tell her husband about her tragic life before he’d rescued her. She’d take the coward’s way out and let Brandan give him and Christopher the envelope after she was gone.
“How about a cup of tea?” she said to her husband.
“Coming right up.” Michael offered a loving smile and squeezed her toes before motioning for Brandan to join him in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” she heard Michael ask.
“What’s going on? Open your eyes, man,” Brandan said. “That woman, whom we all adore, is slipping away from us.”
Michael said something she couldn’t make out, and then Brandan returned and took hold of her hand. For the next hour, the two friends reminisced about all their wonderful memories of their early days in New York.
“What would I have done without you?” she asked.
“Fate would have taken care of you.” He winked.
“Fate has not always done so.” She shook her head and handed him back the envelope she’d tucked under her shawl to hide from Michael.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
Renée’s face lit up, and Brandan turned to see what had caught her eye. Christopher was leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey, Ma.”
“My beautiful boy.” She lifted her arms, and her son came to her as Brandan tucked the envelope back into his jacket. He tapped his chest, assuring Renée that he’d keep his promise, then touched his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. It was the last time the friends would see each other.
35
Cassandra
Whale Rock Village ~ Present day
Laura’s car was there when I pulled up to The Bluffs, and I found her sitting at the kitchen table with Christopher. They both stood when I entered with Sister Bernadetta.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Laura took the woman’s hand and smiled, while I explained, “This is Laura, who I told you was helping me look for you.”
Sister Bernadetta nodded politely but could not take her eyes off of Christopher.
“And this is Christopher.”
He also stared, as if he was trying to figure out how he knew her. And then, as if something click
ed inside his head, he said, “Are you … Isabella?”
Isabella? Sister Bernadetta nodded but looked as surprised as I was. She brought her hands together at her chin and then tentatively reached up to place them on Christopher’s cheeks.
The tautness in his face seemed to relax with her touch, as though the nun passed him some serenity through her fingertips.
“You’re my aunt?”
The nun covered her face with her hands as a moan escaped. Christopher patted her arm before turning to pick up his messenger bag, which had been draped across one of the kitchen chair backs. He withdrew an envelope that contained the letters I’d seen when snooping earlier.
“You wrote these to my mother?” He held the letters reverently.
She nodded, tears making her eyes shine brighter.
He pulled from the envelope an aged photograph of two girls and a boy, who looked to be in their teens. “Is this you with my mother?”
She gazed at the picture, a sad smile forming. “So long ago.”
My heart broke for the woman, and I was relieved when Christopher went to her, draping an arm across her shoulder and leading her to a chair. He took the seat closest to hers and rested his clasped hands on the table.
“Such waste,” she managed to say through the sobs. “All these years. Gone now.”
Though Laura stood mesmerized by the scene, I felt intrusive and busied myself with the teakettle. Even though we were in the midst of a heat wave, there was always something comforting about a hot cup of tea.
“Your father told me the treatment was working when I last visited,” Sister Bernadetta told Christopher. “And she seemed to be feeling much better.”
“You’ve met my father?” It was clear that Christopher found this surprising news.
“Yes, but he knows me only as Sister Bernadetta,” she told him. “Your mother didn’t want to reveal who I really was. She told me all about you, though. I’m sorry our paths never crossed.”
“The treatment wasn’t working,” Christopher admitted, “and I’m sure Ma knew that it wasn’t. But my father needed to believe that she was going to get well again.”
“Perhaps that’s why I believed it as well. Your mother and I had agreed that I’d return on her birthday.” Sister Bernadetta sighed. “I tried many times to call her to make our plans. Then I got the message that her cell phone had been disconnected, so I called the home number. That’s when I learned that she had died.”
“I’m so sorry nobody told you,” Christopher said.
For a couple minutes, the only sounds were Sister Bernadetta’s sniffles.
Finally, in a gentle voice, Christopher said, “What I don’t understand is why you came out to the Cape, looking for me, on the day of the storm.”
“When I spoke with your father, he said that you had argued, and you hadn’t been taking his calls.”
“That’s true. I needed some space,” he said, his tone tinged with shame. “I just couldn’t believe he’d kept this from me.”
“He didn’t,” his aunt assured him. “It was your mother who stubbornly refused to tell him about her past.”
“Why?”
“She had a complicated fear of losing you, of losing your father’s love.” She shook her head. “But your father knew that your mother’s friend, Brandan, had given you an envelope with some articles and letters.”
Christopher nodded.
“When your father told me that you’d gone to Cape Cod to find out who Antonio was … I just knew I needed to find you first. To explain.” Sister Bernadetta closed her eyes and took in a deep breath to compose herself. When she opened them again, she looked with interest at the chain around Christopher’s neck.
“A St. Christopher medal?” she asked. “Have you always worn it?”
“No. Ma gave it to me right before she died.” He pulled the chain from his shirt so she could examine it. “She said it was to keep me safe.”
“He’s the Patron Saint of travel, and your namesake.” As Sister Bernadetta said this, the scent of burnt sugar tickled my nostrils.
He smiled warmly. “I was told I was named for my grandfather on my father’s side.” He reflected a moment before saying, “Ma wasn’t the least bit religious.”
“Perhaps not, but she was superstitious,” his aunt replied, then asked, “May I show you something?” She reached her hand out, and he obediently took the medal from his neck. She flipped it over and pointed to the back. “See this mark right here?”
He squinted and then nodded.
“It’s the mark of a local medal worker in the small town we came from in Italy. Before we left, he made us each a special medal to make sure we arrived safely to America.”
“You have one too?” he asked.
“I did once, but I gave mine to Antonio.” This brought on another emotional reaction. “Though it did not keep him safe.”
“In her last weeks, Ma mentioned an Antonio. Who was he?”
Though I was also bursting with curiosity, I quietly set the steeping teapot on the table while signaling Laura to bring the tray of cups, sugar, and milk.
“We’ll be out on the porch if you need anything,” I whispered to Christopher while tugging a disappointed Laura by the sleeve to follow me.
He sent me a look of gratitude.
From the kitchen window that opened to the porch above the rockers where Laura and I sat, we could only hear bits and pieces of a story both of us were dying to know.
Still, Laura sat with pen and paper, jotting down the snippets she could hear. Vito. Uncle. Italy. Boston. 1969.
“What do you plan to do with that?” I whispered, indicating her notes.
“Don’t know,” she whispered back. “Force of habit.”
A while later, Christopher brought Sister Bernadetta out to the porch and said, “My aunt would like to see the famous cliffs.”
Laura stood and said, “I can walk out there with you.”
“Thank you, I’d like that.” The nun smiled, and the two headed off.
“Can you get in touch with Chief Kincaid?” Christopher scratched his head, watching as the two women walked toward Cape Cod Bay, before turning his gaze toward me. “I have to get home. I need to talk with my father.”
After Christopher and Brooks spoke, he and I waited in the kitchen for Laura and the sister to return.
“Evidently, my mother had an entirely different life before my father and I came on the scene.” He bore the slumped posture of a betrayed man. “I had an uncle who lived in Italy. Heck, I have a whole extended family I never knew about.”
“Parents are hard to figure out.” Hoping to mitigate his pain, I suggested, “Maybe she had a good reason for keeping that other life to herself. Your aunt didn’t tell you?”
“She wants to talk to me and my father together.”
I sensed he was holding onto something he wasn’t prepared to share, so I ventured elsewhere.
“What made you choose Whale Rock?” I asked.
“My mother had saved a couple of old newspaper clippings that mentioned this town.”
I knew that, and felt a flush from guilt for having snooped.
“I was going to go to Boston, but when Tyler told me about the beach rental in Whale Rock, I changed my plan.”
“Boston? Whale Rock?” I lifted my hands in question. “Is there a connection?”
He picked up the worn envelope and tapped it against his chest— a lifeline to his new past.
“There was also a more recent article from The Boston Globe. She’d circled someone in a photograph of a front-page article.” He opened the envelope and removed the newspaper clipping to show me. It was an original of the photocopied article Edgar and I found in the books he’d borrowed from Christopher.
I looked closely at the caption.
“The man isn’t identified,” Christopher said, “but he may be part of the ambassador’s entourage.”
I handed the article back. “Who did she think this migh
t be?”
He looked at the clipping again, shaking his head. “Antonio, whoever he is. I’m hoping I’ll find out soon enough.”
“What did your aunt say about the articles?”
“I didn’t show her. When I started to open the envelope, she stopped me and told me she would tell me and my father everything.”
“Was there a link between the Whale Rock articles and the Boston article?”
“That was what I was trying to find out.” He lifted a shoulder. “But so far I’ve struck out on that front.”
I wondered what else might be found in that envelope. Then I remembered the other article I’d kept about the Cape Cod shipwreck, but since Christopher hadn’t brought it up, I couldn’t let on that I knew about it.
As he fingered the medal that had so interested Isabella, the room filled with the scent of burning sugar. What? What? What? A memory was nagging its way to the surface.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said to me, patting Gypsy’s head when she jumped to attention. “Can I leave her here with you for a couple days?” He tipped his head toward the dog, whose tail shifted into high gear, seeming to understand she was the topic of conversation.
“I’d be happy to take care of this sweet girl.” I reached down to pet the dog, and she wriggled onto her back, begging for a tummy rub, which I granted. “Truly, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
The dog nudged him eagerly as Christopher assembled his belongings and wrote out Gypsy’s care instructions. “No table scraps. Her stomach is as skittish as her personality.”
He got down onto the floor and rubbed her ears, whispering calming words. They had an enviable bond. I felt terrible for separating them, but also couldn’t deny being excited to have a canine companion in The Bluffs again, even if only for forty-eight hours, when Christopher would return for her.
“Have you left her with anyone before?”
My concern about how the dog would react must have shown, for he went on to assure me, “Only once, with my parents, but there was no destructive separation anxiety. She’ll remain very calm and quiet, possibly a little depressed.”
Calm, quiet, and a little depressed; at the moment, the description could just as easily fit Gypsy’s owner.
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