“My mother taught me to open the windows in the morning to let out the bad spirits. I forget to close them.”
“Was your mother a strega?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So how did she know all that stuff?”
“Domenica Cabrelli was one of those wisewomen. She had common sense, but she acknowledged the spirit world. She also respected science. The neighbors called her before they called the doctor.” Beppe jumped up and sat on Matelda’s lap.
“I’d like to know about her.”
“My mother was born in this house; ninety-three years later she died in it. She lived in Viareggio all her life except when she was a young nurse and had to leave her family for a while.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Look. The sea is wild. This is the big storm they promised us.”
“Nonna, I want to know why my great-grandmother left the village. I’m getting married. I want my children to know about their ancestors.”
A stripe of orange light rested on the horizon, illuminating the churn of the surf as the storm took hold. The Ligurian Sea had a story too. Anina would soon find out where the sea had taken Domenica Cabrelli before it swept her away, along with her true love and their secret.
CHAPTER 4
Viareggio
1920
Domenica Cabrelli cupped her hands, turned toward the dunes, and belted out, “Sill-vee-oh!” The eleven-year-old girl had the lung capacity of a great soprano. The beach belonged to her, not a soul in sight. The sky was Tiepolo blue with tufts of flamingo clouds floating on the horizon, a sure sign that it would rain later in the day. Under the noonday sun, the sea rippled peacefully as the tide rolled to the shore. The girl rubbed her stomach. She was hungry. Domenica grew impatient and called Silvio’s name again. There was work to be done. Where was he?
The girl’s intense black eyes surveyed the ridge of the dunes like a general before battle. She folded her arms across her clean, pressed work apron, which had been mended, then patched by her mother with an overlay of odd squares of burlap from a sandbag and remnants of fabric from the slag floor of the silk mill. Most girls in the village wore a similar style. The apron had a square neckline with two wide straps over the shoulder that fastened with two buttons in the back. Utility pockets were sewn on the front, deep enough to hold a straight edge, small scissors, a coil of thread with a needle, and wide enough to accommodate an embroidery hoop and any extras. Signorina Cabrelli saved room in her pockets for seashells and small stones, which she would find a purpose for later.
Domenica was barefoot, as all Italian children were during the summer. The soles of her feet were thick from carrying pails of fresh water up and down the wooden planks of the promenade. The white sand beneath her feet was as soft as a Persian carpet. Her dark brown hair was braided neatly and twisted into a crown on top of her head, though a few curls had escaped the plaits. She brushed away the loose strands when the sea breezes caught them. The cotton slip and pantaloons she wore underneath the linen jumper were hand-me-downs from a cousin, but that was where the charity ended. Gold hoop earrings, made by her father, the jeweler’s apprentice, twinkled in her earlobes. The earrings were made of gold mesh so delicate, you had to be close enough to whisper in her ear to see them.
Silvio Birtolini appeared at the top of the hill. The black-haired boy was exactly her age but a couple inches shorter than she, as were most of the boys in school. She waved to him. “Hurry!”
Silvio slid down the dune and ran to Domenica as fast as he could, kicking up sand as he went.
“Did you get it?”
Silvio pulled a slim cylinder of paper tied with a ribbon from the back of his pants. He gave it to her, keeping his eyes on her, eager to please, hopeful for a positive reaction. Domenica untied the ribbon and unrolled the paper. Her eyes darted around the map of Viareggio proper as she consumed the information.
“Did anyone see you?” she asked without taking her gaze off the grid drawn in black ink on a field of beige.
“No.”
“Good.” She nodded. “If we are to find the treasure, no one must know we are looking for it.”
“I understand.” Silvio never knew which part of the time he spent with Domenica Cabrelli was make-believe and which part was actual fact. Was there a treasure? Who were the “no ones” exactly? Silvio had no idea.
Domenica rolled up the map and, using it to point, picked a spot on a dune at the far end of the beach. “Follow me.” She began to trudge up the long beach in the direction of Pineta di Ponente. “The fate of all things rests upon us.”