Unforgotten Read Online Free PDF Page A

above that. Even a vagabond swaggering up the drive can receive something special from the DiGratia Shepards.
    I carry the glass out and hand it over, then return to my place on the swing while Nonno and the stranger discuss the weather, the economy, and the political landscape. “Quillan Shepard.” Mr. Michelli snaps his fingers. “The poet?”
    Nonno tips his head. I want to ask what this man has read, to make him prove he knows my grandfather’s work. But then it would seem I am interested—which I’m not, in spite of the sideways glances I can’t resist. What business does he have with my papa?
    “Antonia also writes,” Nonno says, and I frown because now Mr. Michelli fixes me once again in his sight. “And she’s an excellent cook.”
    “You sound like you’re auctioning me off.” But that is his way, always deflecting attention from himself—unlike Mr. Michelli, who seems to soak it up like parched ground.
    Both Nonno and the stranger laugh, and I have to admit he has a pleasant laugh, no hoot or guffaw. He asks a few polite questions about my writing, which is hardly more than a diary I keep of poems and snippets of thoughts and tales that come into my head.
    Mr. Michelli nods. “Talent must run in the family.”
    “What talent are you pursuing with my father?” A slight shifting of his eyes kindles my suspicions.
    He says, “Business.”
    “Then why don’t you see him at the bank?”
    Nonno clicks his tongue to scold me, but Mr. Michelli holds me firmly now in his gaze, and I wonder if I imagined that earlier blink. “The entity I represent prefers anonymity.”
    I scowl. “An underworld figure?”
    “Antonia,” Nonno chides.
    “Would your father be the one to see for that?”
    I spring to my feet. “If you need to ask that, you have no business with him. Finish your drink and scram.”
    He raises his eyebrows but makes no move to either drain the glass or leave the porch. “It was your assumption, Miss Shepard, that I represent an underworld figure. Naturally I would be concerned as to why you assumed that.”
    I rub my hands on my skirt, thinking lately I’ve seen Papa with questionable people. And that he’s gone into the private world of someone I deeply distrust. But I show none of that to this stranger. “Someone who wants to have legitimate business with my father would see him at the bank.” I draw myself up as tall as I can.
    “And where would someone who wants to have illegitimate business see your father?”
    I expel a hard breath and fist my hands. “You may leave now.”
    He raises the glass and drains it, then holds it out to me. “That was fine, thank you.”
    I take it with just the feeling of subservience he intends, I am sure. “Find someone else to do your dirty work. My papa can’t be bought.”
    ————
    As Lance tapped the door with his knuckle, Rese geared herself to meet the woman whose secrets first sent him to the villa. Nonna Antonia, his grandmother. Since he didn’t have with him the box containing the things he’d found for her, he would probably not go into all of that now, but meeting her would be tense enough.
    Lance gently pushed open the door. “Nonna?”
    The woman in the chair had once been striking; Rese could see that, despite the disfigurement of the stroke. Her hands looked frail, but seemingly not arthritic, as the pale fingers were thin and soft. Her hair was pulled back into a twist that displayed the length of her nose, defined cheekbones, and a tapered jaw—features Lance shared, though age and infirmity had sharpened hers.
    Her soft blue eyes saw nothing but Lance as he moved close and kissed her, holding on moments too long, as though the feel of his grandmother’s arms made him want to crawl into her lap and stay there. Somehow it wasn’t unmanly at all. Rese held back, aware that this moment was for them alone, but as soon as he released her, the old woman turned.
    “Wh … o?”
    “Nonna, this is Rese.” Lance reached