Page 50 of Return to Whitmore
Chapter Twenty-One
Together on the veranda, Charlotte, Nina, and their mother, Francesca, watched as the tracker tag was driven all the way from the villa to Florence, where it parked in the garage of a hotel Francesca knew well. “Americans stay there, usually,” she said, wringing her hands. “It could be that he’s just there to hole up and call his client.”
“Or maybe he’s meeting someone?” Charlotte suggested, raising her shoulders.
“This is not a movie, Charlotte,” her mother said, her tone harsh at first. She quickly softened it. “This could be dangerous. There’s no way to know who sent him or what he’s up to.” But Francesca’s eyes were rimmed with red, and she sat down and hung her beautiful head. “What if Jack’s alive?” she whispered to herself, switching from English to Italian and back again. “My poor baby. My poor son. How could my brother bring him into this mess?”
Charlotte wanted to go immediately to Florence, just in case the private investigator checked out of the hotel soon. But Francesca told her she wasn’t going anywhere without eating breakfast first. “Both of you, stay where you are,” she said, before she sped off to the kitchen and asked whoever was workingthere to make them breakfast. When she returned, she explained that she’d asked them for an American breakfast rather than an Italian one.
“What’s an Italian breakfast?” Nina asked.
“It’s sweet,” Charlotte said with a smile, watching as her mother moved gently, beautifully, along the edge of the veranda, looking at her flowers. “Mom knows I still don’t like a sweet breakfast.”
“You could never fully integrate,” Francesca called back. “Are you going to go say hello to your grandfather and grandmother?”
Charlotte felt a jolt of excitement. Through the years, she’d called her grandparents frequently, eager to keep her grandfather abreast of her film career. But since she’d lost so much funding lately, since things in her artistic world had taken a turn for the worse, she’d felt more or less exhausted at the prospect of calling her grandfather and telling him how terribly she’d failed.
But he was waiting for her, right next door.
“I’m sure he’d love to see Nina as well,” Francesca said. “Go, Charlotte, Nina. Invite him for breakfast. The man can’t get enough of American breakfasts. He and Jefferson used to eat an entire day’s worth of food in the morning and then go for long walks all day.”
Charlotte felt a stab of sorrow. Did that mean Jefferson had left? Had he died?
Something in her mother’s tone told her that Francesca didn’t want to talk about Jefferson, not right now. Charlotte put a pin in it and raised her eyebrows to Nina. “Let’s go see our grandfather?”
Nina nodded. Under her breath, she said, “I don’t want to take too long.”
Charlotte promised they wouldn’t.
Taking the little garden path she’d once walked daily, Charlotte led Nina to the next-door villa and let herself in the back door. Although Nina had met their grandfather numerous times during his long-ago trips to America, Nina hadn’t been to Italy since she was a little girl and didn’t remember the way.
“Grandfather?” Charlotte called in Italian. “Grandmother?” It was remarkable to see that her grandparents hadn’t redecorated at all since she’d last been here. The place felt stuck in time.
They found their grandmother asleep in a sunbeam in the living room, with a blanket across her lap and a fuzzy orange cat on the cushion over her left shoulder. Charlotte’s heart swelled at the sight of the sweet older woman, with her olive-toned skin and her intelligent face. She didn’t want to wake her. There would be time for conversation later, for wine and salad and laughter.
Knowing he was always in the same place, always burrowed in a book or writing a script, Charlotte crept down the hall to find her grandfather in his study. Nina was right behind her, unable to breathe. “The light in here is sensational,” Nina finally said, and Charlotte took a moment to notice the oranges and soft yellows and dark greens. She took a moment to appreciate the smell of the place, old spices and dried flowers. She knew this villa wouldn’t always belong to her grandparents; time would march forward. She wanted to hold on to this moment. She wanted to cling to it.
The older man at the antique desk in the corner was ninety-four years old. From knowing him, from knowing his mind and how creative he was, Charlotte knew that he was brighter and more intellectual and more open to new conversation than most men half his age. She also knew that right now, he was fully immersed in whatever it was he was creating. She didn’t want to bother him. She watched as he scratched a beautiful pen acrossa journal, then put his finger to his temple. Could he feel them watching him?
Suddenly, the floorboard beneath Charlotte’s feet creaked, and their grandfather perked up. In Italian, he said, “Is someone there?” And then he swiveled around in his chair to find them. His face was immediately transformed and filled with awe.
“Charlotte?” he whispered, standing up very slowly onto creaking knees. “Is that you?”
Charlotte blinked back tears and led Nina into the study. “It’s me, Grandpa. And Nina. You remember Nina.”
Nina looked bashful but thrilled. “Hi, Grandfather,” she said, her voice wavering. “It’s been a little while.”
Their grandfather had never thought he’d see Nina again. It was clear from his expression, one of mystery and hope. He stepped toward them and reached out both hands. “Nina,” he whispered. “My child, it is wonderful to see you.” Tears drizzled down his bearded cheeks. “Nina, Charlotte. My darlings.” His English was so much better than Charlotte had ever dreamed.
“Grandfather, I always wanted to tell you,” Nina began, her voice cracking. “I watched all of your movies. When I got older, when I could rent them from the Michigan library, I stacked up as many as I could and carried them home. I wrote in my journal about them and tried to make sense of them. I think I was too young for them. Too naive. But over the years, I’ve watched them again and again. I think I get them, now. I hope.” Nina laughed at herself.
Grandfather closed his eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, and then he said, “She regrets it, I think. What she did, breaking up your family like that. But what you have to understand is that your mother has not had it easy. It’s never been easy. But particularly in 1998, she lost everything. She couldn’t handle it.”
Charlotte knew that now was not the time for such conversations. Nina did, too.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Nina said. “I have so many questions. So many things to say. But right now, Mom wants us to go to breakfast. And after that, Charlotte and I have business in Florence. It’s why we’re here.”
Their grandfather’s eyes lit up. “It’s for a documentary, isn’t it?” he asked Charlotte.
