“I wish we had access to Lucia’s papers,” Nell fretted. “I’d like to go through her old letters and photographs.”
“The meathead trashed Lucia’s office files,” Vivi reminded her.
“He might have missed something,” Nell said stubbornly.
Nancy held out her hand. “Can I see that photo for a second?”
Nell handed it to her promptly. “Sure.”
Nancy studied the somber, hawklike face of the late Conte de Luca. His intense, deep-set eyes were so much like Lucia’s, they made her chest ache. “I wonder when he died,” she murmured. “He looks like he was in his fifties. Maybe there’s a date on the back.” She fumbled with the back of the delicate silver and gilt frame until she loosened the little hook that held it closed and pried the back of the frame loose, shaking the contents into her hand.
She sucked in a startled breath. They all stared, frozen, at what lay in her hand. Not one photograph, but two. And something else, besides. A small, carefully folded square of yellowed paper.
Nancy gently pushed Moxie out of her lap and scooted over toward the lamp. Nell and Vivi scrambled to look over her shoulder. Moxie stalked away, tail high, deeply offended.
“Oh, wow,” Vivi breathed softly, as they stared down at the picture. “That’s Lucia. Just look at her. What a bombshell.”
The young, beautiful Lucia had dark curls clustered over her shoulders and wore a smart little hat. Her lips were painted into a bold fifties Cupid’s bow. She gazed up into the face of a tall, handsome young man, who clasped her waist and gazed down as if he were hungry to kiss her. Nancy turned it over. On the back, in faded, brownish ink, was written, Venezia, Carnevale, 1957.
“Who is this guy?” Nell murmured. “Maybe he’s the missing husband. What’s on the paper?”
Nancy unfolded the delicate, yellowing paper. It was lightweight airmail paper, covered with fine, faded script. She held it to the light. “It’s in Italian,” she said, passing it to Nell.
Nell fumbled for her glasses and pushed them up her nose. “It’s dated April of 1964,” she said, and began to translate.
Beloved Lucia,
I do not know why I continue to write while you continue to be silent, but I cannot seem to stop myself, undignified though I must seem, begging on my knees for your return to our life together.
I understand how shocked and horrified by what happened to your Babbo, but you must believe me, it was like a knife to my own heart as well. If I could change the terrible events of the past for you, I would, at any cost. But I cannot.
But this is not a reason to abandon your home, your family, your nation. You will never heal in a foreign land. You cannot run from this pain, my love. It will follow you wherever you go. Of this, I am sure.
You have always been obstinate. It is a part of your strength, which I love and admire. But true strength must be tempered by softness. Compromise.
But why do I waste my ink? You are resolved to be cruel and immovable. I try to accept this, but still, I cannot swallow it. I enclose this photograph, in hopes that it will remind you of happier times.
I continue to try deciphering your father’s map. I have once again completely excavated the palace gardens, this time draining the lake, in my search which you hold to be both stupid and pointless. My efforts were entirely in vain, as I am sure you will be gratified to know.
Ah, God. Forgive my acid tone. I miss you desperately. For the sake of the children we might still have together, please, Lucia, come back to me. Come home.
In faith,
Marco
The sisters stared at each other after Nell stopped reading, eyes wide with shock.
“Wow,” Vivi whispered. “That guy knew how to lay a guilt trip.”
“I bet that’s why she never married,” Nell said. “She had men chasing her, up into her seventies, but she blew them all off. She must have still been in love with this Marco. How romantic.”
“And how awful that they spent their entire lives apart.” Nancy stared at the photo. The innocent happiness radiating out of the young couple made her stomach hurt. “And all because of some horrible thing that happened to the Conte. Between the years of 1957 and 1964.”
“And do you think…that this horrible thing could possibly be connected to the horrible things happening now?” Vivi’s voice was timid.
Nancy folded the letter delicately back into its original creases. “Well, this Marco had a map,” she said slowly. “And he was looking hard for some hidden object. In Lucia’s letter, she refers to “this thing,” plus what happened to her father and what it did to her marriage. So, yeah. I can’t imagine how, but yeah. Somehow, they’re connected.”
“And this is not good news,” Nell said. “Since we’re clueless.”
“At least the letter I found in the garbage makes it clear that the ‘thing’ she’s referring to isn’t the trio of necklaces that she gave us,” Nancy said. “The necklaces are the key. So maybe this secret thing is in that safe that the carpenter installed.”
“Yeah, the one we have no combination for.” Nell held up her pendant. It spun, tiny rubies and diamond chips winking in the light of the candles she’d set around her studio apartment in SoHo. “I guess we could count the stones, try the different sequences we come up with as possible combinations to the safe,” she said thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t use our love of music, literature, or the visual arts. It seems blah and obvious. Lucia had a much more devious personality than that.”
Nancy tucked the photograph and the letter carefully back into the picture frame. “She was gearing up to tell us more when she was killed.”
“Killed?” Vivi put down her slice of pizza, and swallowed the mouthful she had with a pained gulp. “God, Nance. You really think…?”
“The jeweler and his family get whacked the night that the house is trashed, before I can talk to him about the necklaces? Hell yes.”
Nell reclasped her pendant around her neck, her dark eyes worried. “I’ve never seen you this way, Nance. You’d say you were fine even if you were bleeding to death. I about dropped my teeth when you asked to come over here tonight. Not that you aren’t more than welcome. I’m scared, too, and damn glad to have you.”
Nancy fidgeted. “Oh, that’s just because I swore a vow,” she blurted. “I would’ve been perfectly fine at home.”
“Vow?” Vivi straightened up, her eyes wide. “What vow? To whom?”
“To Liam.” Nancy picked at the fabric of her jeans, regretting her incautious words. “The carpenter who was going to do the remodel.”
Nell and Vivi exchanged significant looks. “He made you swear not to stay alone?” Nell asked. “This is the carpenter who flash memorized Lucia’s letter? My. He certainly is taking a personal interest, isn’t he?”
If they only knew. “I guess you could say that,” Nancy said.
“Tell us about this carpenter,” Nell prompted. “I’m picturing a potbellied guy with a bushy beard and a red nose and twinkling eyes. Like a young Santa. Jeans slipping down over a big, hairy ass. Am I close?”
“Um, no,” Nancy admitted, with a snort. “Light-years.”
Her sisters exchanged knowing smirks this time. “So?” Vivi asked. “No potbelly, then? No big, hairy ass?”
“No,” Nancy hedged. “Lean belly. I can’t speak for the hairiness of his ass, but shapewise, it was, well, proportional, let’s just say.”
“Proportional, hmm?” Vivi purred. “Height?”
“Maybe six two,” Nancy admitted.
“Six two,” Nell said dreamily. “Eye color? Blue, right?”
“Wrong. Very pale green. Like a dollar bill.”