Final Belongings by Sarah Beauchemin

Author:Sarah Beauchemin [Beauchemin, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-12-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

As I drive to the Sardos’ house, I try to steel myself for more disappointment. They probably either don’t live there anymore or they won’t remember a damn thing about a car crash that occurred half a century ago. Both scenarios are equally likely.

I pull up to 65 Piazza Spiega and get out of the car. Straightening my shirt, I walk slowly up to a house that is the complete opposite of Giovanni’s. Vibrant yellow begonias smile up at me from wrought-iron plant stands on either side of the polished wooden door. Airy symphony music comes from inside, and I feel an ache in the back of my throat as I remember Mom playing the same in her office.

I knock. After a few beats an attractive, older woman opens the door.

“Buongiorno,” she says, smiling up at me while drying her hands on a floral linen dish towel. She’s teeny, only about four-foot-nine, and she looks to be in her late seventies. I do the math and feel a surge of hope—she’s the right age to be Maurizio’s mother.

“Buongiorno, Signora Sardo?”

“Yes…” she answers, in English. My American accent is pathetically obvious. But thank God people in this town really do put down their roots. Like Giovanni, she’s still here in her house, all these years later.

“I’m Juliet Barton,” I say quickly, remembering myself. “I’m so sorry to just show up this way, but do you have a son named Maurizio, by any chance?”

She pulls her head back, lifts her delicate eyebrows. “Yes, of course,” she says. “He’s out at the store, but should be back soon.”

Maurizio is in his late fifties. And he’s still living with his mother? Damn strange, but it’s none of my business.

Her face clouds over. “What is this about?”

“Oh, it’s nothing bad,” I assure her. “I—don’t know how to say this, but I think your son might have witnessed a car accident where someone died. It was my uncle. My uncle Henry who died. A very long time ago. In 1971.” My face feels hot and I trail off, waiting to see if anything I’ve said lands with her.

She lifts the dishtowel to her mouth and her eyes grow wide.

“Dio mio,” she whispers. “You are that young man’s nipote? I cannot believe it. Please, come inside. We can talk.”

I float over the threshold into her living room. This woman actually knows what I’m talking about? She leads me to a comfortable velvet chair and heads to the kitchen. She’s back seconds later pushing a glass of cool water into my hand. I thank her, and she takes a seat on the edge of the armchair across from me.

“Call me Daniela, by the way,” she says, watching me sip. “It’s true. My son witnessed a horrible car accident at his grandfather’s that day. He was just outside, playing, and then—” She shakes her head fast. Her sleek silver bob darts left and right. “I’m so sorry to hear that was your uncle.”

“Thank you. I never knew him personally, of course, but it is horrible all the same.

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