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I had no doubt that Giusy would rule over her own small fiefdom here. I only had one last question.
“The pages you took said nothing about who murdered Serafina?” I asked. “She didn’t suspect that anyone wanted to hurt her in the end?”
Giusy shook her head. “She suspected that everyone wanted to hurt her in the end. But she did not write all the way to her death. The journal stops. I have thought much about it. It could not have been her husband, Giovanni, even though many people believe that it was. He took the baby in and he raised her. He would not murder his wife and then do that. He would have given the baby away if that were the case. Others think it was her lover. My own great-grandfather Marco. But he loved her. Could it have been a crime of passion? Perhaps. But I do not think so. From her writings, from what I know, he was not that kind of man. He was not capable of that sort of thing. I have my own theory. I am no Inspector Montalbano but I think it was Marco’s wife, angry at Serafina for disgracing her. They were best friends, close as sisters, and Serafina played her for a fool. I do not think we will ever know. But we do not need to know exactly how her life ended. That is not what your aunt wanted for you. Rose wanted you to learn how she lived, how she persevered against all of the odds, and I have given you that. Serafina was a badass woman like us who wanted more than the world was willing to give to her. She found a way to live on her own terms.”
“Until they killed her for it.”
“Yes. Until that.”
I didn’t shove her away when Giusy leaned over to hug me. My heart hitched a little at her affection. “Do not feel sorry for yourself, Sara. Women are like the cats. We have nine lives. It’s that most of us do not realize it. You will go back to America and you will thrive. It is what Serafina would have wanted. She died so that you could have that. Never forget her.”
“I won’t,” I mumbled.
She embraced me even tighter as she whispered in my ear, “I will see you one day in America.”
—
I woke up to the million-dollar view, the craggy cliffs, the rolling hillside, an expanse of azure sea. My sister had booked the Airbnb sight unseen, didn’t even bother looking at the pictures, but it turned out both of the bedrooms overlooked the edge of the village, giving visitors the Sicilian postcard that was even better in person.
A voicemail from Luca had come in overnight.
“I heard what happened to you. Sara, you have to believe that I did not know anything about it, but I should have done better. I should have stayed with you that night in Palermo. I am so very sorry. I was called to meet with Nino thinking it was about the restaurant but all he wanted was to take his car back. If I had known he would be driving to...” There was a long pause. The thought ended there. “Please call me. I would like to see you before you are gone. Or after. I was thinking that maybe I would make a visit to America, to New York City, visit family, friends, maybe pick up some work in a kitchen later in the year. Who knows what will happen with my restaurant now. Maybe I could see you in your home city?”
Maybe, I thought, but didn’t call back. I was thankful for our time together. He saw me as a woman again, as someone worthy of desire. I hadn’t felt that way since becoming Sophie’s mother and that was something to be grateful for.
I held on to Carla as we walked through town to her rental car. My sister supported my weight as we scuttled down a narrow stairway and into the main piazza. Carla broke away from me for a moment and dug into her bag, leaned down, and placed something on someone’s stoop.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Rosie’s mugs. I brought a couple with me.”
“That’s perfect,” I whispered, reaching into her bag to help her.
Carla yawned. “I need a coffee before the drive. I don’t suppose there’s a Starbucks here?”
I pointed toward the pasticceria.
“Espresso. In there. Grab me one and something to eat too.” I stood on the edge of the fountain and admired the sculpture at its center, Nicolo’s sculpture. Unlike most sculptures of women the world over this one didn’t look downtrodden or overly pious or pissed off. In fact a hint of a smile tickled her lips, her eyes alight with a joy rarely afforded women in art. I took a familiar comfort in her face.
Too familiar.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. I pulled the only picture I had of Serafina out of my backpack to confirm my suspicions before walking to the grand marble door next to the bakery.
Nicolo opened after a few knocks. He didn’t look surprised to see me. I pointed to the statue in the fountain. “May I ask you something?”
He followed my gaze. “You look like her.”
“The statue? You carved her based on a real person?”
He clearly thought I already knew the answer to that question, as if it were obvious.
“It is Serafina,” he said quietly.
“She looks happy. No. That’s wrong. Maybe ‘happy’ is the wrong word. She looks content, satisfied. Satisfied and strong.”
“She was all of those things. Her strength is what I admired most about her and there was a lot to admire.”
“You created this from your memory of her from when you were a child? You were so young when she treated you for malaria. And so ill. How was it possible?” This woman was much older than Serafina was when she died. In stone Nicolo gave her the years that were taken away, or so I assumed.
