Yet again, I was struggling with déjà vu. Like the hard-eyed expression on Signora Marradi’s face, this place was all too familiar. The crucifix hanging near the door, the thin lace doily covering the coffee table, the dark, old-fashioned furniture scattered around the apartment. It was different than home, yeah, but there was enough in common with this place, between this woman and the one who raised me, that I was having a hard time feeling anything but sympathy for her. I couldn’t help wondering how it would be if this were Nonna and some broad showed up telling her that her husband had fathered another kid with someone else before he died. I’d probably show her the door before she could say another word.
But this wasn’t some broad. This was Nina. And unlike some stranger, I knew her side of the story. I knew she wanted only the best for Olivia. I knew she wanted to free herself from the chains of the past, not bind them. And that she had more than made up for her mistakes.
Nina picked up her cup and saucer, finally able to take a drink herself. I’d been the only one making use of the refreshments Signora Marradi had prepared. But there was still no response by the time Nina had replaced her espresso, recrossed her ankles primly under the chair, and placed her hands in her lap.
For the first time, she was more patient than I was. I was used to interrogating witnesses, to waiting out the answers I knew were coming. But right now, the tension was just about killing me.
“Signora Marradi,” I said finally. “I know it’s a lot to take. Perhaps we should come back—”
“No,” she replied curtly, then set down her cup hard enough that some of the coffee splashed over the side to the saucer. “No, not yet.” She sighed. “You are…well, you are not the only woman”—disdain dripped from the word, making it clear she might have preferred another word completely—“Giuseppe had when he was a professor.”
Nina’s face didn’t move, but she couldn’t manage to look up either. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Yes, I…I see.”
“And you all think it is okay? Taking up with another woman’s husband?”
Signora Marradi’s voice was openly bitter, but I didn’t think it was just to do with us. We all knew the stereotypes, of course—that men called their girlfriends and wives names like “sweetheart” and “doll” so they could avoid mixing up names in the heat of the moment. Somehow, my grandfather made it something different when he called every other woman by their Christian names and turned the endearment into something special for his one and only. Nonna would flush because she knew she was the only doll he had. He took something crass and made it a gift.
Nina, to her credit, just shook her head solemnly. “No, Signora Marradi, I do not think it’s okay. I’m not asking for your forgiveness, because I know I don’t deserve it.”
“So, what do you want?” asked the woman. “Money? We are not rich. I work in an office only a few days each week, and my husband, he only owns a, how do you call it, negozio di ferramenta.”
“Hardware store,” I supplied, finally feeling useful. “He runs a hardware store, doll.”
Nina blinked back at Signora Marradi. “Oh, no, no, you misunderstand. I don’t need money. But if you—”
She cut herself off as she caught the quick jerk of my head. I didn’t know Signora Marradi well, but something told me she wouldn’t take kindly to her husband’s former mistress offering charity. I knew it was coming from a good place, but now wasn’t the time.
“No,” Nina said, this time more firmly. “No, I don’t want money or anything like that, Signora Marradi. I only wanted to come because, well, my daughter. She doesn’t know, you see. She couldn’t, until now, for reasons I won’t bore you with. But I plan to tell her soon about her father because, well, I think she deserves to know. For a long time, especially after Giuseppe passed, I believed it was in her best interests not to. But now…”
She shuddered, clearly thinking of Calvin. I reached over and took her hand. She squeezed lightly and let it go, letting me know she was all right.
“Now, I know that was another terrible mistake,” Nina continued. “My daughter needs to know where she comes from. And if you’re willing, I would like her to know her family too. You and Giuseppe had two daughters, is that correct?”
Signora Marradi’s eyes flashed. She had just been about to take another sip of espresso, but Nina’s question stopped her again. “Yes.”
She did not elaborate. Nina waited again.
Signora Marradi set down her cup. “Do you have a picture? Of the little girl?”
Nina nodded. “I do. One moment, please.” She rummaged through her purse to find her phone, then quickly pulled up a picture of Olivia and turned it toward Signora Marradi. “This is her just a few weeks ago before Christmas. She had just come in from riding her horse.”
I craned my head to look with them. Olivia was standing outside the barn at the Long Island estate, looking a damn sight like her mother in riding clothes, smiling shyly at the camera while she held her helmet in one hand and the reins attached to a big black horse in another.
“Damn, she’s getting big,” I murmured.
“Ten now,” Nina said, mostly to me. “We celebrated her birthday late, when she was home for the holidays.”
Signora Marradi studied the picture for a few minutes.
“She looks like Giuseppe,” she admitted. “She has his eyes.” But then she pushed the phone back to Nina. “No. I don’t think so. Your daughter, she looks very nice. But she is not a part of my family. Tell her that her father is dead. But we do not need to know her. Or you.”
Nina’s mouth dropped in pure disappointment. “But—”
“He wanted to
