But a nagging worry dimmed the excitement of Olivia’s homecoming. Would Papà allow her to come back? Surely she’d paid for her sins and had earned admittance back into the family. But deep down, part of her railed against asking for aid from the man who’d caused her suffering in the first place.
Forgiveness, preached so easily from the tongue of the prison chaplain, sat hard on her unwilling spirit.
But if humility granted her a place to lay her head while awaiting Rory’s return, then she would swallow her pride and bide her time. Once this dreadful war was over and her fiancé came home, maybe then she could put the past eighteen months of misery behind her. Her hand rested on her flat abdomen, and the perpetual ache in her chest intensified. Would that even be possible after all she’d lost?
A lone figure stepped out onto the sidewalk beside the crates of apples and oranges and began to sweep the dirt from the entrance.
Mamma!
Her heart leapt at the sight of her mother’s kerchief and apron, head bent in concentration on her task. Unbidden tears burned Olivia’s eyes. How she’d missed Mamma’s comforting touch while she was locked away these many months, treated worse than a caged animal in a laboratory. How she’d longed for her mother’s love, her words of encouragement, her home-cooked food that cured every ill or worry.
Olivia’s steps quickened, a smile tugging her lips upward. “Mamma,” she cried, emotion strangling her voice.
Her mother looked up. The broom dropped to the ground as she rushed toward Olivia and clasped her in a tight embrace.
“Oh, mia preziosa ragazza.”
The whispered words of endearment washed over her soul like a balm. After kissing Olivia’s cheeks, her mother wiped her eyes with her apron.
“You are too thin,” Mamma clucked as she held her by the shoulders. “You need to eat.”
As if in answer, Olivia’s stomach growled. She laughed at her mother’s raised eyebrows.
“I am hungry, Mamma. Is there anything left from the noon meal?”
“Sì. There’s some soup and—” Mamma stopped, a sudden frown wrinkling her brow. “We must not let your father find you here. Come around to the back.”
Olivia straightened, her gut giving a painful lurch. So Papà had not forgiven her, just as she’d suspected.
Mamma grabbed her arm, and they slipped like thieves down the side alley to the rear entrance into the storeroom. Bypassing the storage bins, they climbed the narrow staircase up to their apartment. Mamma moved swiftly into the kitchen, opening the icebox to remove a large cast-iron pot. Olivia’s mouth watered just thinking of the delicious meal it might contain. Minestrone soup, perhaps?
A large loaf of bread sat on the cutting board on the counter. Olivia hesitated, then hunger overcame her reticence, and she reached for the knife to cut a thick slab. After slathering on a layer of butter, she took a large bite. Never had anything tasted so good.
Mamma ladled the soup into a bowl. “It’s cool now, but it will fill your belly.”
“Cold is fine, Mamma.”
Olivia pulled out a chair at the table, the same green tablecloth she remembered still in place. She gulped down several spoonfuls of the soup, relishing the burst of flavors she’d almost forgotten existed. Prison fare had been bland at best. She swallowed, glancing around her old home. It seemed like forever since she’d been here, yet nothing had changed. The same worn sofa and armchair. The same radio on the rickety table in the corner.
Down the narrow hall, all appeared unchanged as well. The door to their parents’ room was closed as usual. Neither she nor her brothers ever dared venture in there without an invitation. The door to Leo’s room sat slightly ajar. And her door, the first one visible, was also closed. Would Mamma have left Olivia’s room exactly as it had been before she’d been banished?
“I do not think he will allow you to return.” Her mother’s soft voice was filled with regret. Sorrow clouded her dark eyes, now etched with many more worry lines than two years ago.
Before this horrible war had started.
Before Olivia had made the worst mistake of her life.
“I want to come home, Mamma. What can I do to make it so?”
Mamma shook her head and turned away to return the soup pot to the icebox.
Footsteps stomped on the stairs. “Rosina? Sei qui?”
The spoon in Olivia’s hand trembled, spilling liquid onto the tablecloth.
Her mother sent her a panicked look. “Go to your room. I will talk to him.”
Olivia stood and headed toward the bedroom, her instinct to run quickening her pulse. But then she stopped. “No. I will face my father. I will not hide.”
“Olivia, please.” Mamma’s eyes went wide, darting to the stairs.
A second later, Papà appeared in the doorway. The moment he spied Olivia, he came to a halt, the rag rug skidding beneath his feet. The color drained from his face, and, for an instant, Olivia thought she saw a flicker of happiness flash in his eyes.
She took a tentative step toward him. “Papà.”
He held up a hand, his features hardening, and turned furious eyes on Mamma. “How dare you defy me and bring her here?” he said in Italian. Papà only used English when absolutely necessary.
“Enrico. Per favore . . .” Mamma cowered behind the table.
Why had Olivia never realized what a tyrant her father was? How he bullied everyone into submission? Outrage sparked her courage, and she stepped forward, shoulders squared. “It’s not Mamma’s fault. Don’t be mad at her.”
His dark brows formed a solid line over his eyes. He crossed his arms, his stance combative.
Her legs shook, from fear or fury she couldn’t tell, yet she didn’t retreat. Ugly words, accusatory words, circled her brain, but before she said something she couldn’t take back, she worked to rein in her emotions. Despite what he’d done
