three-story home with thick stone walls sprinkled with the lavender and red shades of wisteria and bougainvillea. It was the Berillis’ residence, a mansion the family members had long ago nicknamed palazzina, little palace. Swiftly, Eugenia stepped through an iron gate. A walkway surrounded by well-groomed gardens spanned the space between the gate and the house. Halfway through it, she stopped and stared at a flowerbed where three pink hydrangeas were in bloom. Her heart sank as she remembered that those hydrangeas were the last flowers Caterina had cut.
A little over two years earlier Eugenia had come to the palazzina on a Saturday morning and as she had crossed the garden she had heard a gentle, mellow voice saying, “Good morning, Aunt Eugenia. I had no idea you were coming.”
It was Caterina’s voice. She was standing next to the hydrangeas, gardening scissors in hand, her long, blonde hair shimmering in the morning light.
“Good morning, dear,” Eugenia said, taking a step towards her niece. “You still have a passion for gardening, I see.”
“I’m making a bouquet for the lunch table,” Caterina explained.
What a darling, Eugenia thought to herself. It was hard to believe Caterina would soon be eighteen. To Eugenia, the days she had held Caterina in her arms and sung her lullabies felt like yesterday. Clearly, Caterina was no longer a child, but she looked and acted like one, with her innocence, her luminous smiles and contagious laughter, her oblivion to the ugliness around her.
Eugenia said, “I’m sure your bouquet will be beautiful.” She paused. “You look particularly beautiful today. Radiant, I should say. Your eyes are greener than usual. Is there something I should know?”
“Not really,” Caterina replied.
Eugenia took some time admiring her niece’s glittering beauty. Then she asked, “Is your mother badmouthing me these days?”
She’s so innocent, Eugenia thought, so sweet. “Watch your fingers, dear. Those big scissors look scary.”
How could anyone have foreseen on that calm, ordinary day that a deadly illness would soon take Caterina away? And that two years had already gone by? A pang of loss clenched Eugenia’s stomach. Sighing, she climbed the four steps that led to the front door and knocked.
The door opened shortly, and Guglielmo, the Berillis’ butler, let Eugenia in the foyer with a bow. He was a tall man in his sixties, with dark hair turning gray at the temple, a Greek nose, and a stony expression painted on his thin, oblong face.
“I’m here to see Mister Berilli,” Eugenia said once Guglielmo had closed the door behind her.
“Mister Berilli is not well today,” Guglielmo explained in a poised, deferential voice.
She gave Guglielmo her parasol. “So I hear. Is he ill? Is he still sore from the horse accident?”
“I am not sure, Miss Berilli,” Guglielmo said. “He hasn’t spoken to any member of the staff since this morning, when he informed us he wouldn’t be going to work today.”
“Is he in bed?” she asked.
“Mister Berilli is in the reading room,” Guglielmo specified, “and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Nonsense,” Eugenia said. Briskly, she crossed the foyer and followed the main hallway to the end. She opened the reading-room door without knocking. “Giuseppe,” she exclaimed, “what is this illness of yours all about? Is it your throat? Your lungs? Or is it that silly horse accident of yours?”
Giuseppe Berilli jolted in his seat. Sunlight fell on him from the four-pane window, making his egg-bald head shine. He was short and stocky, a striking contrast to his sister’s lanky build. His outfit, a dark brown suit with matching cravat, couldn’t hide his bulging midsection.
“Come in,” he quipped.
Eugenia missed the sarcasm. “I’m already in,” she said, “can’t you see?”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Didn’t Guglielmo tell you that I want to be alone?”
“Yes, but I have something important to tell you,” Eugenia insisted. She examined him closely. “You don’t look sick at all.”
“What you think about my health is not the point. How I feel is the point, and I don’t feel well today. I’m sure that what you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid not. Tomorrow may be too late.”
Giuseppe stood up and approached a mahogany desk. “Guglielmo will accompany you to the door.” He opened his hand and hit a table bell.
“Just a minute, brother. You should be listening to me when I want to talk. You owe me, remember?”
“Let’s not do this again, Eugenia. Not today, please. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts. Guglielmo!”