me. “You are like her, Clare . . . like Blanche, too . . . such fire in your spirits yet still so good-natured . . .” He reached out to touch my cheek. “My Angelina came to my loft many times . . . I painted her . . . We made love . . . many times . . . so sweet . . . My best work, those portraits . . . I could not bear to sell them . . .”
Uh-oh, I’m losing him. I tried switching to Italian. “About the caffè, signore . . .”
“Angela indulged her, you understand?” he said in English. “Treated her like a baby doll, dressed her up, took her shopping, wherever she wanted to go . . .”
“Lucia? Your daughter? Is that who you mean?”
“If she wanted to stay home from school, she stayed—no questions. Never had to work. Just lessons—dancing, singing, whatever she desired. And then the boys started coming around.” He shook his head. “When she was young, Lucia had my Angela’s beauty, but not her heart. Her mother could not see it . . . back then, neither could I . . .”
“But now you can?”
“I looked at my daughter through my wife’s eyes. Now that Angela is gone, I see with my own eyes: Lucia is not like her mother . . .”
“You don’t think Lucia will rebuild the caffè?”
“She talks about marrying Glenn.”
The tone was disdainful. “What’s the matter with Glenn? You don’t approve?”
“What’s to approve? Lucia is a grown woman. She can make up her own mind about her life, about this . . . this boy . . .”
“A boy? Not a man?”
“You saw how she treats him?”
I nodded.
“Why do you think he puts up with it? He is still a boy. Lucia says they’re engaged. Eh. She won’t go through with it.”
“Because?”
“Because there is a man from my daughter’s past who still comes sniffing around . . . a real man, a grown one. Lucia has a special smile for this one. Glenn doesn’t know it, but she does. Love is a game to my daughter . . . she is not like her mother . . . to Lucia men are playthings . . .”
“And who is this man? The one from her past who still comes around to play with her?”
Enzo shrugged once more. “You don’t know him . . .” He looked away again, into space.
“Glenn rebuilds cars, right?” I prodded, trying to keep the man focused. “With his skills, maybe he can help Lucia rebuild the caffe.”
“Glenn Duffy is a mechanic, not a carpenter. He has no interest in running a caffè . . .” Enzo paused to cough. “I’ve heard him talk. He wants to open his own car shop in North Jersey, where he has family.”
“It takes money to start your own business,” I said. And I was willing to bet ten kilos of Kona Peaberry that a competent car mechanic would possess enough skill to rig a basic incendiary device with a timer.
“Enzo, where do you think Glenn Duffy is going to get the money to—”
“Excuse me.” The RN appeared again, a tall, slender woman of East Indian heritage. “How are you feeling?” she asked Enzo, her voice a sweet singsong.
Taking in the nurse’s dark, cat-shaped eyes and flawless dusky-skinned face, Enzo immediately perked up. “I died and went to heaven, that’s how I feel. Only this can explain the angel I see before me.”
The nurse laughed. “You’re still here on Earth, I’m glad to say, Mr. Testa.”
“You call me Enzo, okay? No more of that Mr. Testa stuff. Mr. Testa was my father.”
She arched a pretty eyebrow then turned to face me. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wrap up your visit. Mr. Testa has another family member waiting. As soon as you come out, I’ll show his sister in . . .”
“Sister?” Enzo and I blurted out at the same time.
“Yes, Mr. Testa, your sister Mrs. Rita Quadrelli.”
As the nurse turned and strode away, Enzo’s eyes widened in obvious panic. “Clare! A favor, please! I beg you.”
I already guessed.
“The widow Quadrelli is not my sister. She must have fibbed like you to get in here—”
“And you don’t want to see her?”
“When God made that woman, he left out the quiet! Five minutes with her babbling in my ear, and I’ll be pulling these tubes out to get away, even if it means certain death!”
I considered going to the nurse, but that had the potential