Unforgotten Read Online Free PDF Page B

clowns, and food, food, food. Momma probably will make something on par with that for you.” Then to Lance, “You’d better get down there and help her.”
    “I’m on vacation.”
    “Then you can’t complain.”
    “Would I do that?”
    Sofie huffed. “Only every day of your life.”
    Lance jutted his chin toward Rese. “She’s not picky.”
    “That’s why she stands you, ay?” Sofie nudged him.
    “No doubt.”
    She picked up her briefcase with a sigh. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rese. Now I have to study.” She headed into a room at the back and closed the door.
    Rese glanced back to the grandmother, whose gaze was already, or still, trained on her.
    Lance said, “Nonna, we need to talk.”
    “L … ater.” She raised and dropped her hand.
    He took the hand in his. “Nonna …”
    “N … ot now.”
    He brought her fingers to his lips. “Okay. Anything I can do for you?”
    “You al … ready have.”
    ————
    Antonia quivered as the door closed behind them. Why wouldn’t Lance leave it alone? She didn’t want to answer his questions. It was enough to have Nonno Quillan buried. She had done all she could. All she could. She couldn’t change the past. Couldn’t …
    I stare at the note, stunned by his audacity.
    Dear Miss Shepard,
    I fear we have started off on the wrong foot. As your esteemed grandfather, Quillan Shepard, seems somewhat disposed toward me, I hope you will allow me the opportunity to extend my regrets for my imprudent comments. Will you see me this evening?
    Sincerely,
    Marco Michelli
    Muttering under my breath, I stalk to the escritoire and snatch a small sheet of stationery. With the fine fountain pen Nonno gave me just days ago, I write:
    Dear Mr. Michelli,
    My nonno is the least of your concerns. He is very forward thinking and accepting. It is my papa you will have to convince, and since he is no less discerning than I, your chances remain bleak.
    Most sincerely,
    Antonia DiGratia Shepard
    The young man who brought the first correspondence takes my answer, though Mr. Michelli could have picked up the telephone and received my refusal immediately. Did he think his formal and oldfashioned method would impress me?
    But the car returns a short while later, and the youth offers my own note back. I am puzzled, then annoyed to find Marco Michelli’s answer penned on the back.
    Bella Antonia,
    I am up to the task, I assure you. I will call tonight at eight.
    Your ardent admirer,
    Marco Michelli
    Ardent admirer? He pokes fun at me. I look up to offer a verbal and far less civil reply, but the youth has climbed into the car and is pulling away—no doubt as he’s been instructed. Taking the note upstairs, I fume.
    Bella Antonia. Ardent admirer . I have not overestimated his opinion of himself. Bene . I will see him at eight and balance his perspective. Papa will be home by then, and between us, we will teach Mr. Michelli some humility.
    But Papa isn’t home by eight o’clock when Marco Michelli arrives in the same olive Studebaker Dictator his messenger drove earlier. I have served Nonno the polenta he loves and seen him to his room since he is less steady as the day wears on and the old injuries in his leg pain him. Now I am alone to face Marco Michelli, and that is better still. No one will make me keep a civil tongue.
    But when he gets out of the car with a posy of violets in one hand and his mandolin in the other, I am hard-pressed to remember my ire. He approaches the porch holding out the flowers, which I bring to my nose without thinking. Sweet violets, sweeter than all the roses … The tune carries in my head and makes me smile. If he’d brought a big showy bouquet, I would have scorned it.
    He says, “The gazebo might be a swell place to sit.”
    I raise my nose from the violets. “How do you know about the gazebo?”
    “Your papa suggested it. When he gave permission for me to call.” He smiles.
    Oh, the nerve of him! But when he holds out his elbow, I take