He looked up, the questions on his face. What are you doing? How did you manage? Only now did he really look at her, and there was only one question left: Who are you?
There was no way to make him understand. How could he when she herself had changed so much? Now she was engaged to someone that Mother and he would disapprove of. In the back of her mind, she heard Bernd mocking her: Italian imposter.
She pulled herself up, the way Filipa did before she took charge of the troops, and strode past her father. At the entryway, she tried to insert the key to the front door with a shaking hand. He was next to her then, and she whirled on him.
“How did you find me?”
“I’ve been searching everywhere for you. Then I came across the billet in the paper for a play, and I saw your name. Casa de Pietra,” he scoffed.
There was nothing funny about it. What was funny about it?
He reached to touch her face, his eyes full of some sort of pity or pain, but she pulled back.
“The reviews were good,” he said, his hand dropping to his side.
She shifted on her legs, her feet cold and wet.
“Christmas is soon, Annamarie. You’ll have a break from your studies. Would you at least like to come home and celebrate with us? At least visit?”
More than anything. “I can’t, Papa. I have commitments…I have a family here now. They’ll expect me to be here.”
Her father shook his head, as if he’d not heard her correctly. “I don’t understand.”
Annamarie looked down at her hands just as her father looked up at the building.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I’m not here to force you. I’ve come to ask. Please. Your mother’s heart is broken, and the boys…I…we all miss you.”
“I don’t want to,” she lied. “I mean, I can’t right now.” This was killing her. “I’ll pay you back after the next play, Papa. I promise.”
“It’s not…” He reached for her again, but she pulled back, just enough.
“It’s not about the money, Annamarie. How can you think that? It was for you anyway. There’s just things you need to know. About us, about your family. Please come home so that we can talk. And then we can help you plan a future. There’s the German League. They’ll help us.”
She wanted so badly to share the news of her engagement, but her insides felt wobbly. “I have a future. Here. I have friends. Even a family.”
“New family? What, the Fascists? You’re a fascisti now, Annamarie? You can’t—”
“Yes, I’m a Fascist. A loyal citizen of Italy! I’m proud to be Italian!”
The disbelief, the hate, the fear that filled his eyes! “No!” He grabbed her upper arm, held her hard. “You’re Tyrolean. First and foremost! Who’s told you otherwise?”
“No one told me, Father! It’s who I am.”
He seemed stunned, and it was just what she needed. She whirled to the door and this time shoved the key in and pushed it open.
“Annamarie, stop! I’ve done this all wrong. Let me talk—”
She held the door. She had control. “For all your accusations about the Italians being racists and prejudiced, look at yourself. Go home, Papa.”
She slammed the door in her father’s face and knew—instantly—that she would never forgive herself for it.
***
A nnamarie waited in the foyer, stifling her sobs, afraid Marco’s grandmother would come downstairs and discover her there. When she felt certain her father was no longer on the street, she stepped out and suddenly wished she could start all over again, from the moment she had seen Papa standing at the fountain. Go look for him. The church bell tolled. She was late. Marco was waiting.
She hurried to the Villa Adige, not caring if she showed up to the anniversary party in uniform. To her relief, Marco was standing outside when she arrived, blowing into his hands and looking anxious. She blamed her friends for delaying her and told him she’d had no time to change.
“There’s no need to be distressed,” he said. “Come in. Father’s late too, as per usual.”
The way Marco spoke of his father made Annamarie feel worse about how she had treated her papa. Her father had never hit her, and the night he had taken the switch to her did not count. Even then he’d had a light hand.
She followed Marco to the top floor, where he opened the door to a bedroom.
“I’ll tell Mother you’re here. She’ll help you.” He seemed to see her for the first time that entire day. “Don’t worry, Annamarie. I know you’re nervous, but we’re going to do this together.” He took both her hands. “There is nothing to be afraid of. You are my fiancée. Whether anyone else agrees doesn’t matter.”
He kissed her on the cheek, and when he left she stared at the door, a sense of dread trickling into her. Go look for Papa. You made your bed.
She turned to face the room, and when Annamarie took in Chiara Grimani’s bedroom, she swore beneath her breath. How could she have doubted herself? This was what she was striving for, was it not? This! This was her destiny!
From the middle of the room, Annamarie absorbed the décor and vowed that—after her first film—she would have a bedroom just like this. The pale-blue-and-cream wallpaper looked as if it were a plush quilt. Whereas Marco’s grandparents tended towards dark, old-fashioned tastes in mahogany, his mother decorated in light, soft colours. There was a silk cream chaise lounge at the foot of a four-poster bed, covered in bedding and pillows in the same fabric. The matching chair, its wooden frame curled back
