Page 81 of Head Over Heels

My mother has a sister she doesn't know about.

I gather the most important documents with shaking hands. I need to tell Florence about the things Karl stole from her family and return them.

Downstairs, the sound of a key in the door echoes through the empty space. Someone's here—someone with access to the penthouse. As footprints approach the room, I already know who it must be.

"I wondered when you'd find those letters," Donna's familiar voice says from the doorway.

"I need to show you something." I lead Florence into the penthouse. My heart is pounding so loud I'm surprised she doesn't hear it.

"You're shaking," she says, turning to face me. "What's wrong?"

"I—" My throat tightens. "I need to show you something," I repeat, my voice unsteady. "Come upstairs with me."

She leads me up the stairs, her touch both supporting me and making me more apprehensive.Is she going to hate me for this?

We head to the final door in the hallway, the one Karl undoubtedly kept most guests far away from. "Go in," I tell her softly. "Look at the painting on the wall."

Her eyes find the Italian landscape immediately. "It's beautiful," she says softly. "The cypress trees remind me of the stories Nonna used to tell when we were kids. Catalina loved them so much she went back."

"Florence." I wait for an interminable minute for her to look at me. "You know the photograph your grandmother has on the wall by her room? The one across the bathroom?"

"The one of her with both my grandfathers. Her first husband who died in the war, and his best friend, who took her to America and created a life with her. A last promise to hischildhood friend." She looks at the painting, then back at me. "I don't follow."

"When I saw it last night—" I close my eyes and let out a long breath. "In that picture, on the wall behind the three of them— It's the same painting."

She blinks. "That's not possible. That painting was lost during…" Her voice trails off.

"During the war. December, 1943." I carefully remove the painting from the wall and place it along the window. My fingers shake as I spin the dial, opening the safe. I sigh heavily. "My— I won't claim him as my grandfather anymore. Karl. Karl kept meticulous records."

Florence stands perfectly still as I lay the documentation for the painting across the desk, her face more blank with each page she reads.

"There's more," I say quietly. "The items in the bank deposit box—a gold ring engraved with 'Vittorio and Elena, 16.10.1943.' There's a locket and a set of silverware, too. They belong to Nonna. To your family."

Florence brings her hand to her chest. "He stole everything from her." She swallows thickly. "Did you know? When you came over last night, did you know while you spent the evening enjoying time with my family?"

"I recognized the painting in the photograph last night." I shake my head. "If you hadn't been there to check on me when I saw it, I think I would've fainted from the shock."

"You spent the rest of the evening with my family," she accuses. "You didn't say a word."

"I had to check. I wasn't one hundred percent certain." I bite my lip thoughtfully. "Even if I had been sure, it wouldn't have been the right time. You know your Nonna and your family better than I do." I reach for her hand, my voice softening. "I want to give them back to her. The painting. The ring. All of it."

33

Florence

I can't breathe. The painting has been here, only a few miles away, all these years. He took—stole—everything from her. While her husband was fighting and dying for the Allies. While she was still carrying my mother, growing and nurturing new life and grieving her lost love, this despicable human was cataloging her stolen treasures.

"The coins." My voice sounds hollow. "Are there records of the coins?"The legendary family wealth.

"There's a list, Florence. Your family will get every piece of it back. I swear it." Her eyes are filled with tears.

"How many?" I ask.

"Over a hundred pieces." She pulls another folder out of the safe on the wall. "They're all listed, and they're all yours."

I sit down hard on the leather chair, countless family dinner conversations suddenly making horrible sense. How Nonna would get quiet when Joe talked about his coin collecting. It was always Nonno Roberto, her second husband, who was obsessedwith coins. I wonder if he thought he had any chance of recovering them—a needle in a haystack the size of the universe. And they were hiding in our own backyard.

"Florence." Josie kneels beside my chair. "I'll return everything. I need your help to do that the best way possible. I want you to give your grandma back her wedding ring yourself. Did you notice how she unconsciously fiddles with it, even though it's not there?"

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