Eternal - Lisa Scottoline Page 0,54

last thing in the world she wanted, for her father was all she had left.

“Papa, if there is anything to forgive, I forgive you.”

His expression changed instantaneously. The frown in his forehead vanished, and his lips curved into a smile that she hadn’t seen in years. His eyelids fluttered, and his eyes opened and met her gaze directly, full of a love that she could feel to her very marrow.

“Papa, don’t leave me alone.”

Her father’s serene gaze met her terrified one, and the light in him faded away, until all she saw in his dark irises was her own heartbroken reflection, and she knew that she had released him, even though she couldn’t bear that he was gone.

“Papa!” Elisabetta shook him, trying to wake him up, but nothing happened. He lay with his head to the side, his neck drooping as if it were stretched. Every muscle in his face slackened, and his mouth hung open, his jaw unhinged. His left arm flopped over the side of the couch.

Elisabetta burst into anguished tears, and sobs wracked her body. She held him close and felt his soul departing his body, ascending into heaven where he belonged, there to live in a heaven of Raphael-blue.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Elisabetta

August 1938

The afternoon sun beat down, dry and oppressive, and Elisabetta wilted at her father’s graveside, while the local priest conducted the service. Verano Cemetery was almost nineteen centuries old, one of the world’s most beautiful cemeteries, a suitably artistic setting for him to be laid to rest. Next to his grave was a carved marble statue of an angel in repose, on the headstone of a certain DiGiulio family. She sensed he would have liked that.

His own headstone was small and of gray marble, as she hadn’t been able to afford more. The ornate family mausoleums were in another section, but her father was being buried among humbler graves, some of which had large curved headstones bearing enameled portraits of the deceased. In his heyday, her father would have painted far better portraits.

Her head hung, and the black dress fit her poorly, as it was one her mother had left behind. She had been hoping all morning that her mother would magically appear at the church or at the cemetery, having read the notice of her father’s death in the newspaper. But that did not happen, and Elisabetta felt silly for holding out such a vain hope.

She had cried all the tears she could cry, having regained her emotional footing since her father’s death, busying herself with sending out notices, ordering flowers, and arranging for the Mass with the priest and for the burial with the undertaker. She had used her savings to bury her father, but that hadn’t been enough, so the fund for the indigent had contributed and the undertaker had extended her a partial credit, which had been kind.

Marco stood on her right, and Sandro on her left, and she felt touched that both of them had come. Marco had taken the time off from work, somber in his black uniform, and Sandro was in his dark jacket and pants, going in late to La Sapienza. Nonna stood behind them with her son, Paolo, and his wife, Sofia, and the only other mourners were a few slovenly drinking buddies of her father’s. She couldn’t help but harbor resentment at them for encouraging his drinking, working against her efforts even after his diagnosis.

The priest finished the prayer, everyone blessed themselves, and Elisabetta realized that the time had come to say her final goodbye to her father. Tears blurred her vision, though she maintained her composure and told him how much she loved him, and always would.

“God be with you,” the priest said, walking to her as he closed his breviary, and Elisabetta thanked him, grateful that he had agreed to officiate, though they rarely went to Mass.

“Nonna, thank you for coming.” Elisabetta embraced her, moved to feel Nonna hug her fiercely in return, her grip surprisingly strong, and when Elisabetta pulled away, Nonna’s eyes were glistening.

“You have my sympathy.” Nonna wiped wetness from underneath her glasses with her handkerchief.

“And thank you, Paolo and Sofia, too.”

Paolo nodded. “Please feel free to take a few days off.”

“No, I’m fine. I can come in tomorrow.” Elisabetta needed the money, but she didn’t want to say so in front of everyone.

“Fine, then.” Nonna flattened her lips, and Elisabetta knew that she understood. After Nonna and the Servanos left, Elisabetta crossed to her father’s drinking buddies and thanked

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