The Chocolatier

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Naples, 1953

“Napoli Centrale,” a train attendant called out as the train slowed to a stop in the bustling city. Weary from the arduous journey that had taken them from the airport in Rome to the southwestern region of Italy, Celina slid her leather handbag over the sleeve of her light gray traveling suit and adjusted a chic crimson scarf Lizzie had given her. With care, she hooked a bag containing a box of chocolates over her arm. She’d made her best truffles for Tony’s parents.

She gripped Marco’s shoulder, determined in her mission, and stepped off the train. Passing through the crowded station, the smell of roasted espresso and sweet sfogliatelle teased her nose, accompanied by the whirring clatter of grinding beans. The flow of the crowd carried them outside onto the sidewalk, where she glanced around, looking for the person who would be meeting them.

With a gloved hand, she secured her hat against an early summer breeze, hardly believing they were here. She’d taken leave from her job and sublet the apartment to a pair of actress friends of Lizzie’s who were hoping to find theater parts in San Francisco.

Just two weeks ago, she could never have imagined this. The flight over the Atlantic Ocean had been scary at times due to frightening turbulence, but the stewardess attending them had put Marco at ease by giving him a small replica of the Boeing 377 Stratocruiser airplane they flew. He’d been enamored with it until he fell asleep after a dinner served on fine china with real silverware. Only then had Celina allowed herself a glass of wine to take the edge off her anxiety.

Screwing his face against the sunshine, Marco stumbled on a cracked cobblestone and let out a wail. He clutched a worn gray monkey Celina had stitched together from knitted socks. The crimson heels formed a wide mouth in a perpetual grin.

“You’re all right,” Celina said, kneeling to hug him and brush off his dusty trousers. “Be sure to hold onto Rocky. He’d be so sad if you lost him.”

She’d woken him from a deadened sleep. Despite the clacking rails and her thrill over the awe-inspiring countryside from Vesuvius to the shoreline rushing past, she’d also been lulled to sleep by the rhythmic movement. After the turbulence of the air flight, she was relieved to touch her feet to solid ground once again.

Their fellow passengers bustled past and melodic strains of the Italian language rose around them, flowing forth with the energy of the tumbling sea. “Ciao! Come stai?” People hugged and pressed their cheeks to each other, trading multiple kisses. “Benissimo! Che piacere!”

Celina kissed Marco’s cheek. “Listen. Hear it? There’s happiness in the air.”

Marco stopped crying, and the edges of his mouth curved upward.

To Celina’s relief, a tentative smile grew on Marco’s face. Gazing around with saucer-round eyes, Marco was enchanted. She had to admit she was, too. From the fresh sea air to the warmth of expressions bubbling around them, Naples was already sunlight to her soul.

Then, biting her lip, she thought of Tony, and how she’d always wanted to visit Italy with her husband. He’d never wanted to see his family again—yet they were family, and she couldn’t imagine how he could turn his back on them. As a spirited teenager, she’d sometimes argued with her parents, but she would never have thought of breaking off relations with them. Tony seldom spoke of his parents, and he’d always found an excuse not to visit Italy—any part of the country.

Taking in the beauty of her surroundings, Celina regretted that they’d missed experiencing the land of her husband’s birth together.

If only she’d been more insistent, perhaps Tony would have relented. How would she explain this to his parents? She swallowed against a lump that rose in her throat. She would do the best she could, though apologies would hardly absolve her of fault to a family robbed of their son and the chance to see him one last time.

Yet, maybe they were the ones who should be apologizing. Had the kind words in the telegram been a veneer over a scarred and ugly past? During the trip, it seemed the closer they got, the more nervous she’d become. Would his parents blame her? If she learned a dark family secret, would she wish she’d never come?

A train attendant placed their leather bags beside them.

“Grazie,” Celina said. She’d learned a spattering of Italian from Tony, but they’d mostly spoken English, although now she was glad that Tony had started teaching Marco a few phrases.

At least Tony’s parents would have the joy of seeing their grandchild. Despite what had transpired between Tony and his parents, she knew this was the right thing to do. She couldn’t help but wonder if Tony would have acted differently if he had known his time would be cut short.

Neither of them could have foreseen the events of that foggy evening that stole Tony’s life. Or that the last words they’d uttered to each other would have been so sharp—his so full of vitriol, and hers so full of accusation. She had lain awake at night in regret, but no amount of midnight prayers begging for forgiveness could erase the last words they’d spoken in anger. She’d wanted him to stay in and kiss her at midnight of the New Year, not charge out into the night after a mysterious telephone call.

Now that seemed such a trivial matter.

She let out a small sigh. Her mother had always told her that even the best marriages were complicated. Now she understood. Or at least, she was trying to.

After his death, she’d committed herself to remember only his generosity, his gregarious nature, and the good times they’d shared, but the truth was that when he had been in one of his dark moods, his fury frightened her, and his scathing comments sliced off slivers of her confidence and burrowed into the marrow of her bones.

As the distance in years from the war increased, his darkness had lifted, but she’d always felt he was concealing a part of himself that he could trust with no other soul. Not even his wife. She assumed this secrecy had to do with his military service, so she let it be. She wasn’t the only person whose spouse shielded loved ones from nightmarish memories. Maybe if he had unburdened himself… She swept away the questioning thoughts that could drive her mad if she let them.

Blinking, Celina shaded her eyes from the sun, growing worried that no one might meet them, yet she had to keep her wits about her. As thoughtful as Tony’s parents’ gesture seemed, this visit could be a disaster. At least she would know she had tried to do the right thing. And someday, Marco would understand that she had not kept him from his father’s family.

Celina knelt and wrapped her arms around Marco. When Tony was feeling good and in fine form, few could outshine his charm or his devotion to his little family. She’d never doubted his love for her or Marco.

Was his family like that?

To one side, a well-dressed man stood staring at her.

“Scusami, Signora Savoia?”

Angling her face toward the voice, Celina rose and tented her hand against her forehead. The sun framed the man who stood before her. “I’m Celina Savoia.”

“Buonasera.” He furrowed his brow and stared at her for a moment as if he recognized her. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly removed his hat, revealing sleekly groomed, ebony hair. “I am Lauro.” He glanced at the small boy who clutched her hand. “Your son?”

“And Tony’s. This is Marco. Your nephew.” She turned slightly from the sun to see Lauro more clearly, and as she did, she was startled, though not at his resemblance to Tony, but rather, at the lack thereof.

Wearing a fitted, dark charcoal suit, Lauro was as broad-shouldered as Tony, but there the likeness stopped. He was taller, and where Tony had a proud face, high forehead, and thick features, Lauro had a classically chiseled profile and well-proportioned features. Strong cheekbones balanced an aquiline nose and a full lower lip that undoubtedly drew women’s attention.

Lauro was undeniably attractive, but more than that, he stood comfortably in his space, exuding quiet self-assurance. Tony’s usual stance had been with his chest thrust out in forced confidence, daring to take on the world—or defend it. She could only surmise that they took after different branches of their family tree.

Celina smiled and held out her hand in greeting.

Though Lauro took her proffered hand, he also leaned in respectfully, kissing first one cheek and then the other in a traditional Italian greeting Celina knew well. The warmth emanating from his neck and his spicy, sandalwood scent drew her in. She was surprised to find that his closeness was pleasant. He was proper enough, though sadness rimmed his olive green eyes and he seemed aloof.

Based on Lauro’s telegram, this was not what she had expected. She would have thought that he’d be more like Tony, who was glib and outgoing. Lauro displayed more restraint. Perhaps this was what Tony had meant when he’d described his family as cold.

After pulling back, Lauro squatted on his haunches and peered into Marco’s face as though searching for physical traces of his brother. “Ciao.”

Embarrassed, Marco turned to hide his face in the folds of Celina’s light woolen skirt. Celina slid her hand over her son’s back. “He’s not usually like this, but he’s tired. It was a long trip.”

Looking up, Lauro stared at her again, unsmiling. “Your luggage?” He motioned to her suitcases. When she nodded, he hoisted them with ease and started toward a shiny Alfa Romeo sedan gleaming with chrome parked at the curb.

Celina took Marco’s hand and hurried after Lauro. He wasn’t unattractive, and his gaze seemed to reach her soul, summoning emotions long buried and not exactly welcome now.

After placing the bags in the rear, he opened the door for her. Celina tucked Marco between them, and they started off.

As they wound through the city, Marco pressed his hands against the window in curiosity. Celina followed his gaze toward a plaza, in the middle of which stood a stone fountain trickling with water. Marco laughed, pointing toward a couple of boys who were splashing each other as they passed the fountain and chasing each other in fun. Nearby, children clamored at a gelato shop, women peered into a boutique’s fashionable window, and men sat on benches talking and chuckling.

Lauro turned onto another street and Celina stared in awe at the delphinium blue ocean that spread out before them. Sunlight kissed the crystalline waves, throwing diamond sparkles across boats moored in the harbor.

Soon they were traversing a road that hugged the mountains and crossed inlets, suspended in air. Celina marveled at the views, though she edged away from the sheer drop-off over the ocean.

“This is the corniche road that runs from Sorrento to Amalfi,” Lauro said. Nodding toward the ocean, he added, “Il Mar Tirreno. A beautiful sea that flows into il Mar Mediterraneo.”

Celina had read about the Tyrrhenian Sea, which stretched out like an endless sapphire sparkling in the sun. Gazing above the winding road, Celina could see rock-terraced gardens.

Lauro followed her gaze. “Lemon gardens. Amalfi grows the finest lemons in the world.”

As incredible as the scenery was, she wasn’t a tourist here for the views.

“I suppose you want to hear all about Tony,” Celina began, picking at a seam in her glove.

“It can wait until you meet our parents. They’re quite anxious to talk to you. To learn more about what happened. Although my brother disappeared in ‘45, this is all quite sudden for us.”

“All of this. You mean Marco and me.”

Lauro darted a scowling glance toward her. “I will never understand why he didn’t contact us. Or why you never wrote to us. Didn’t he speak of us?”

Well, there it is. Celina cleared her throat. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Lauro glanced down at Marco and drew his eyebrows together.