Page 80 of Head Over Heels

When we finally say our goodnights, Lucia hugs me tightly. "You'll come again next week."

I hug her back, not trusting myself to answer. I hope so. Florence's hand finds the small of my back as we walk out to her car. As we drive through the darkened streets, all I can think about is how quickly things can change.

***

I can't sleep, my mind racing with thoughts of Florence's family. Of the painting. Of realizing that my own flesh and blood stole from hers.

It's three in the morning when I decide to go to the penthouse and look through his files of notes and records. I wasn't looking for it before. Maybe there's something that I overlooked about the painting there. I have to look. I can't talk to Florence and her family without looking for answers first.

The place feels different at night. The moonlight streams through the window, casting shadows across the space. I head upstairs, straight for the wall safe in the last room, covered by the unique painting of the Italian hills. The same one I saw in that old photograph.

My hands shake as I twirl the dial and enter the combination. Inside, I flip through half a dozen meticulously labeled folders before I find what I'm looking for.

A carefully typed inventory card reads:"Olive Grove at Sunset- acquired December 1943, Naples region. Original owner: Elena and Vittorio (now deceased). Surname unknown." I want to be sick.Florence's grandmother's name is Elena.

There's more. A handwritten note describes "additional items of interest" taken from the same location—a gold wedding ring, and a matching locket engraved with "V&E 1943" and a similarly marked silver service set. These are the items I found in the bank safe deposit box—and the ring mentioned in my grandfather's letter to me. I suspect its discovery led my grandmother to her death. The very things that haunted him.

"Shit." I sink into the leather chair behind the desk. I watched Florence's Nonna tonight. She unconsciously touched the phantom ring on her finger, missing now for more than eighty years. Opa stole it from her when she was just a teenager while her husband, her first love, was fighting—and dying—in the war.

Forcing myself to keep reading, I pull out another folder labeled "Acquisitions - Coins (Southern Italy)." Inside is a long list detailing collections he looted during the war. My bloodruns cold when I see the label "V&E 1943" next to more than a hundred of them.

The coins didn't just belong to Florence's nonna. They must have been part of a family collection. Opa—

No.

I won't claim him as family.Karlhad not only stolen their personal momentos, but robbed them of their family heritage as well.

How in the world am I supposed to tell her this?" I whisper into the empty room. She just let me into her family's world, showed me their warmth and their love. And now I have to tell them that my grandfather robbed them of their history?

I pull out the next folder, hoping there are no more revelations about the woman I'm growing to care about. Unlike the other folders, this one looks worn, like it's been handled frequently. Inside, I find nearly fifty years of correspondence and financial records. At first glance, most of it appears to revolve around a maid named Maria who worked for the Vanderveen household in the 1970s.

At first, I don't understand why. Are the Vanderveen's connected to Florence's family? I know Hettie married one of them, but these records go back a lot further than that. I know Karl did business with them before they went their separate ways in the 90s. Maybe this Maria cleaned for him?

Then I see a letter from Maria to Karl, dated 1971. "Our daughter Donna deserves better than to be your dirty little secret. Either acknowledge her properly or leave us alone."

Donna. His housekeeper Donna. She's also Florence's housekeeper whom she met through Hettie. Through the Vanderveens.

My hands tremble as I skim through more letters. Apparently, Karl had maintained contact with Maria and Donna for years while respecting their wishes to keep the relationship private.He paid for Donna's education and helped her start her housekeeping business without revealing their connection to the outside world.

The most recent letter is from Karl to Donna herself, written only weeks before he died.

My dearest Donna,

You were right about Josephine. She deserves the chance to do something good with my fortune—to make amends for wrongs I've committed. Maybe, through her, both our families can find healing.

I regret many things, but never you. I wish I'd had the courage to acknowledge you properly when you were younger—to be the father you deserved. Instead, I watched from a distance as you grew into someone far better than I could ever hope to be.

Your suggestion I leave everything to Josephine was inspired. I hope that, somehow, the inheritance might help heal the rift between you and Monika—your half-sister, though she doesn't know it.

Take care of them both.

Your father, Karl

I read the letter over and over again, my mind struggling to process this new reality. Donna isn't just my grandfather's housekeeper—she's my aunt. And she's been quietly watching over me my entire life.

The implications hit me in waves. She's been taking care of me—us, now—in her own quiet way.

A photo slips from between the pages of another letter. It's a photo of a young woman who looks remarkably like my mother—the same high cheekbones, the same determined set to her jaw. On the back, in neat handwriting, it says "Donna, age 25."

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