Page 89 of Head Over Heels

Mom nods decisively. "Tomorrow. I don't want to waste any more time."

37

Josie

The usual Sunday dinner at the Pietras is in full swing when I arrive—voices and laughter spilling out onto the porch, the aroma of garlic and herbs filling the air. But today feels different.

Joe meets us at the door. Today is the day we're bringing Nonna's lost treasures back to her.

"Come in," he says softly. "Mom and Dad sent Rosie and the kids out to the garden."

The small box in my pocket feels heavy as we follow him to the living room. Nonna sits in her usual spot on the couch, Florence's parents next to her. Catalina perches on the arm of the sofa, having flown in from Italy to be here for this. Hettie and Joe stand back, leaving room for Florence.

"What's all this about?" Nonna asks, taking in the unusual gathering. "Why do you all look so serious?"

Florence kneels beside her grandmother's chair. "Nonna, we found something. Something that was taken from you a long time ago." She glances at me. "Show her."

My hands tremble as I take out the small box. I open it, revealing the gold ring nestled inside.

Nonna's breath catches, her hand flying to her heart. "No," she whispers. "It can't be."

"It is." Florence's voice cracks. "Josie inherited it from her grandfather. He—he was one of the soldiers that night. In Naples."

Nonna's eyes close, decades-old pain washing across her face. "I remember his face," she says softly. "He was so young. He couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. His eyes were so cold."

I step forward, holding out the box. "I'm so sorry for what he did. I want to return everything. The ring. The locket. The painting from your family home. All of it."

Nonna's hand shakes as she reaches for the ring. "I never thought I'd see it again." She traces the inscription inside.Vittorio ed Elena 16.10.1943. "I was eight months pregnant with Lucia," she says softly, glancing at her daughter. "Vittorio had been dead less than a week when they came. This ring—it was all I had left of him."

The room is silent except for muffled sobs. Lucia has her face pressed into her husband's shoulder.

"I don't know if you want it back," I say gently. "I know it might bring up painful memories. But it's yours to choose what to do with now."

Nonna looks up at me—really looks at me. "You're nothing like him," she says firmly. "You have a great heart,tesoro.Life takes strange turns, no? Sometimes pain leads to healing, if we're brave enough to face it." Her fingers close around the ring. "I want it back," she decides. "Not to wear—that chapter is done. But to keep safe. For the future."

"The painting," I manage, my throat tight. "Would you like to see it?"

Nonna nods. "Yes, but not today. Today is for family." She looks around the room—Lucia in Mario's arms, Florence holding my hand. Joe, Hettie, Catalina. "All of you, come closer."

We gather around her as she slips the ring onto the chain around her neck. Florence and I settle on the loveseat as Nonna begins to tell a tale—the story of her first love, of Vittorio.

"I was fourteen when we met—just a girl, really." Nonna's fingers trace the inscription on the ring, her eyes taking on that faraway look she gets when she talks about her youth. "He was Roberto's best friend, always coming by our house after working in his father's vineyard." She smiles, lost in the memory.

"He was so handsome, my Vittorio. Tall and strong from working the vines, but gentle, too. He had eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed, like rays of sunshine." She sighs at the memory.

"The first time he spoke to me, I was hanging laundry in the garden. He asked if I needed help reaching the line—I was still quite short then." She chuckles softly to herself. "I told him I'd been managing just fine without him,grazie mille.But every week after that, he'd find some reason to pass by while I was doing laundry."

Her voice warms with the memories. "We'd talk about everything and nothing. He loved poetry. Can you imagine? This strong young man who spent his days tending vines—he could recite Petrach from memory. He said the Italian sonnets reminded him of me. I told him he was full of nonsense." There's a hint of laughter in her voice.

"Roberto would tease him about it, but Vittorio just smiled—said some things were worth looking foolish for." She pauses, touching the ring again. "He proposed to me in that same garden, kneeling right there between the sheets drying in the sun. Said he'd been practicing his speech for weeks, but whenthe moment came, all he could say wasElena, marry me.Just like that."

The smile falters. "We had ten months together as husband and wife. Ten perfect months. He was so excited about you," she looks tenderly at Lucia. "Our baby. He would talk to my belly every night, telling you stories about the vineyard, about our future together."

Her voice grows quiet. "When the war came closer, he and Roberto joined the resistance. They thought they could help from inside, being local boys who knew the area. Vittorio said it was his duty—to make sure our baby would grow up in a free Italy."

Tears glisten in her eyes, but she blinks them back. "The last time I saw him, he kissed me goodbye like any other morning. Said he'd be home for dinner." She's silent for a long moment. "Roberto came instead, three days later. To tell me Vittorio wasn't coming home."

Her fingers still absently caress the ring. "A week later, the Nazis came to the house. They took everything—the painting Vittorio's mother had given us as a wedding gift, the silver that had been in my family for generations. But this ring…" Her voice catches. "This was the last piece of him I had. When they ripped it from my finger, it felt like losing him all over again."

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