The Body in the Boudoir (22 page)

Tom had spent a long time with Uncle Sky looking at his collection in the library, imbibing some of his good port as well. Joining Faith upstairs, he had pronounced her beloved relative “unusual, but delightful.” Or that may have been the port.

Morning came all too soon.

“It's been heaven, Faith.” Tom was waiting on the platform with her as the train approached. If he noticed that she was standing much farther back than the other riders, he didn't comment.

“I know. Fifty-three days until the wedding. You're not the only one counting! I looked at the calendar in the kitchen this morning.”

“Too long. But I'll be down again and you'll need to come up. To choose paint colors, for one thing.”

The church was repainting the interior of the parsonage as a wedding present. It would be done while they were in Europe. Also, Faith had not yet broached with Tom her plan to bring the kitchen into the twentieth century, at her own expense. This called for her presence, tape measure in hand, too.

“I'll be there as soon as I close up here in two weeks. Probably the Tuesday after the weekend in Richmond for Josie's opening.”

“Maybe I can come to the city before then.”

She was in his arms, intent on holding on to the feeling, and the idea of seeing him soon was a happy one. “I'd love you to come, but I don't want you to tire yourself out.”

They went back and forth, and finally, since the conductor was blowing his whistle, Faith boarded, sitting by the window, waving good-bye for as long as she could see Tom. She felt terribly lonely already.

F
rancesca met Faith the following Thursday and they went across town to pick up the car. Armed with a map and instructions from her aunt Chat, who now lived in Mendham, New Jersey, Faith figured it would take about forty-five minutes to get to Verona from Manhattan. The suburb was located in Essex County and over the years had become a commuter town for New York City.

“Don't even think of going during rush hour,” Chat had said, and so they had waited until ten o'clock before heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.

Francesca was quiet, and after pointing out the New York/New Jersey state line on the tile in the tunnel under the Hudson, Faith lapsed into silence herself. Part of it was her desire to concentrate on the route she'd memorized. She didn't want to get lost. She knew only a few things about Jersey, but one of them was how easy it was to find yourself on the wrong highway, unable to get off. All she needed was to end up in the Pine Barrens, in the southern part of the state, lair of the Jersey Devil, the real one, not a member of the hockey team. There had been too many sightings of the creature since the monster first appeared in the 1700s not to take it seriously.

“How will we find this address?” Francesca asked. They had made it safely to Verona Center. Faith pulled over by a large bronze statue of a World War I doughboy in front of the town's civic center and consulted her notes. Chat had a New Jersey atlas and had given her precise directions. The house wasn't far away and they had no trouble locating it. Faith parked at the curb.

“This is it. Now what? We just knock on the door?”

Francesca nodded. “No cars in the driveway. That's good.”

Faith was about to ask her why, but the girl was already striding toward the house. It was a good-size brick ranch with a two-car garage. The windows all had awnings, and most of the blinds were drawn in addition. Somebody liked privacy. The walk was lined with yews trimmed to stiletto points. Faith hurried up the front stairs to the door. Francesca was pushing the doorbell. Chimes inside played “O Sole Mio.” This was the right house.

The door opened a crack and a very old man peered out at them.

“We're all Catholics here. Go knock on another door.”

“Are you Gus Oliver?” Francesca said, putting one foot on the doorsill.

He opened the door a little wider.

“Why? What do—” A gasp cut off what he'd been about to say. “It can't be. She's dead, or old like me!” He crossed himself and Francesca stepped in, forcing the man to take a step back. Faith was close behind.

“Go away,” he said. “Get out of my house.” He was clearly extremely upset, pale and trembling, as he waved at the door.

Francesca broke into her native tongue, and it was clear she wasn't going anywhere. Gus Oliver switched to Italian as well. At one point Francesca took a manila folder from her large bag and shook it in front of his face.

“Sit down. I've got to sit down,” he said in English and tottered out of the hall into the living room, where the family's roots were very much in evidence. Scenes of Italy hung on the walls, and the large marble-topped coffee table was covered with Murano glass candy dishes and carved Florentine alabaster figurines. The mantel above the fireplace was crowded with photos—wedding couples, graduation head shots, and babies on Santa's lap.

Faith whispered to Francesca, “He doesn't look well. I think we should go.”

“No, not yet,” she said fiercely. “I won't take long, and he is stronger than he looks. I know the type. He wants us to feel sorry and leave. I need you to be a witness.”

“A witness! For what?”

Things were taking an extremely unexpected turn.

“We speak English now. My friend does not speak Italian.”

The old man's color had returned and he seemed calmer. He nodded, his face a mask of resignation.

“Is there anyone else home? It's not your house. It's your daughter's family who lives here. Where are they?”

“At work. Everyone's at work.” He looked at an ornate phone on a highly polished marquetry table. “I should call her.”

“I don't think that would be a good idea for you,” Francesca said abruptly as she pulled an ottoman over in front of Gus's chair. She sat down.

“I'm going to tell Faith a story. It's not a nice one, so I'll make it short. At the end I have some papers for you to sign that she will witness and you will never have to see me again.”

She pointed to a chair and Faith sat down, too. Whatever was going to happen was happening.

“This Gus here knew me right away, as I thought he would. Since I was a little girl, people have said how much I look like my grandmother Luisa. As I got older, the resemblance became even closer. She is still a beautiful woman. I am proud to hear people say this.

“Luisa was just about my age in nineteen forty-four, during the war, when the Americans came to our village on their way to take Firenze back from the Germans. They used the village as a command post off and on. Everyone was glad to see them and help. One of the soldiers spoke Italian. His mother and father were from Sicily, but had gone to America where he was born. He was very handsome, although you would not think it now.” She spat this last comment out derisively.

Things were becoming clear now. Faith knew where it was going. Gus Oliver had been a married man before he was sent overseas. The work that kept him in Italy after the war ended there in 1945 had nothing to do with the army and everything to do with
amore
.

“You don't understand. I was very young. We all were. And nobody got hurt. You're here, so Luisa must have ended up okay. We didn't have any kids.”

Francesca jumped up and for a moment Faith thought she was going to hit the old man.

“Nobody got hurt! What about waiting and waiting every day for a letter from your husband! From the man you had planned to spend your whole life with! The one who disappeared one day without a word. And then the shame! Shame for the rest of her life and shame for her whole family!”

Gus lowered his head and mumbled something.

Francesca turned to Faith, pulling some papers and photographs from the envelope she was clutching.

“They were married at the
municipio,
see, here are the pictures!”

She handed them to Faith. Francesca
did
look like her grandmother, both women of rare beauty. In one photo the couple was seated on two chairs before a man who appeared to be the mayor or some sort of other official. Gus was in his uniform; Luisa held a small bouquet of roses and wore a white silk dress made from a parachute, just as Francesca had let slip weeks ago. Both the bride and groom were beaming.

Faith gave the photo to Francesca, who held it up in front of Gus.

“You can't prove that's me,” he said, suddenly coming to life. In his day, he'd been a man to be reckoned with, Faith realized.

“Oh no?” Francesca ran to the mantel and grabbed one of the wedding pictures, a formal studio shot of the bride and groom.She'd obviously noted it when she came into the room.

“If this isn't you, who is this and what is he doing on your daughter's fireplace!”

He turned his head away.

The other photos Francesca had brought were taken outdoors. People were dancing. There was food and wine, although Faith was sure it hadn't been easy to obtain. The Germans had laid waste to the vineyards and fields as they retreated north.

Francesca put the photos back in the envelope and took out some documents. “This is the certificate of their marriage,” she told Faith. “And these are what I want Gus—Augusto—Oliver to sign. I have a copy in English and a copy in Italian. You need to be the witness for both.” She handed the one in English to Faith. It was a straightforward statement saying that Augusto Oliver swore he had been married in the United States both civilly and in the church before entering into the civil union in Italy with Luisa Alberti in September 1945. It went on to further declare that his wife was alive at the time and that there had not been an annulment or any other kind of dissolution of the union. Further, neither Luisa Alberti nor anyone else had known of the existence of his wife.

“Why should I sign this? I don't sign anything. Not unless a lawyer looks at it.” He laughed unpleasantly. Faith's heart sank. There really wasn't any reason why he should sign the papers. It was all long ago, and she still wasn't sure why all this was so important to Francesca.

“So I can wait for your daughter to come home from work and tell her about what you were doing after the war? I bet they all thought you were some kind of big hero.”

Once more Faith thought Francesca would strike the man, or at least spit at him.

“I have plenty of time and so does my friend,” she continued. “I think I'll make some coffee. Faith?”

“Damn you, get me a pen. You don't just look like your grandmother, you act like her, too. Nag, nag. Time to get up and go into the fields. Six days a week and then hours of mass on Sunday. I wasn't used to the country.”

Francesca produced a pen, and he signed and dated the copies; Faith did the same as witness.

“I would like to have had two witnesses,” Francesca said. “Maybe I should wait for someone to come home after all.”

Faith knew she was teasing, twisting the knife in a bit—and she didn't blame her.

“Get out! You got what you came for, now get outta here!” He was purple with rage.

“A pleasure,” she said. “I don't want to spend even
uno secondo
more with you.”

They got into the car and as soon as she closed the door, Francesca burst into tears, sobbing, repeating something over and over in Italian. Faith caught the word “
Nonna
,” grandmother. She started the car and drove back toward the center of town. They were passing a playground and she pulled into the parking lot.

It was a bit awkward hugging the girl, but Faith did her best and handed her a packet of tissues. After a minute or so, the sobs subsided and Francesca said, “I can never thank you enough for what you have done. My whole family, when they know, will want to thank you, too. I will be going home now and you must come soon.”

“I think I understand most of what went on, but why don't you start at the beginning? I know your family thinks you're in England, and obviously you came here to find this man who did such a terrible thing to your grandmother, but why not tell them?”

Francesca mopped her tears. “I didn't want to raise my grandmother and grandfather's hopes. They could not be married—in the
municipio,
and certainly not by the priest. They thought they might be able to, because her marriage to Gus had only been a civil one, so it didn't count in the eyes of God, but the priest refused. All their children weren't, I don't know how to say it in English, legal. You understand?”

“Yes, legitimate.” Everything was crystal clear now. If Francesca could prove that Gus Oliver was a married man in the eyes of the state and the church, his marriage to Luisa would be null and void, leaving her free.

“My grandparents can get married now, you understand? What he signed will be enough. After all these years . . .”

Francesca started crying again.

Faith put her seat belt back on and patted the girl's hand. “We need something to eat and then I want to get back to the city.” She'd had enough of Jersey for a while. Still, she'd spied what looked like a good place on Bloomfield Avenue, Lakeside Deli. Breakfast had been a while ago and she was in the mood for pastrami. Actually, she was in the mood for
prosciutto crudo,
but pastrami was closer to hand.

By the time they'd finished eating, Francesca's face was one of pure joy, not a single trace of a tear, although there would be plenty of those—tears of happiness—in her future. No more secrets. No more shame. Francesca's story had brought tears to Faith's eyes as well, and she thought about the kind of love the young woman's grandparents had for each other, staying together and facing the world. They were married in the eyes of God, and now, at last, they could be married before the eyes of the world.

Faith was feeling good. The pastrami had been excellent. Hope's mystery had been solved last week, Francesca's today. She was on a roll.