| Romance Fiction posted September 16, 2025 | Chapters: |
...15 16 -17- 18... 
|
  |
Anna and Rosa Meet Beatrice
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
By The Sea Chap 9
by Begin Again
After Anna had gone upstairs, Rosa wiped the table and stood looking at the empty doorway. She had heard enough — snatches of the phone call, Luca's few words when he returned — to know the girl was carrying much more in her heart than a holiday.
Rosa opened the drawer in a cabinet in the hallway and rested her fingers on a bundle of old papers, then let it close again. "Basta! — enough," she murmured. "It is time."
In the morning, she wrapped two warm loaves in a clean towel, tucked two smaller rolls beside them, and handed Anna the basket. "Come, mia bella," she told her. "We take bread to the sisters. They help the poor, and sometimes they help with answers."
They walked the quiet lanes together. Shops were opening. A boy swept a stoop. The sea carried the soft sound of boats slipping across the waves. At Santa Lucia, the gates stood open.
A gray-haired nun met them at the door. Her face bore the lines of time, but was kind. "Buongiorno, Rosa."
"Buongiorno, Sister Beatrice," Rosa said, with a small smile. "We brought bread."
Beatrice's eyes shifted to Anna and stayed there. "AÂ lei?" she asked softly. Is it her?
Rosa gave a slight nod. "Si. AÂ tempo. Yes. It's time."
"Come," Beatrice said. "There is coffee."
They sat at a long wooden table in a plain room off the cloister walk. Light fell in a square on the boards. Beatrice poured from a small pot and set cups in front of them. She did not rush as she studied the American.
"Rosa has mentioned that you have traveled from America in search of information," Beatrice began, her tone gentle. "And your journey has led you to us. If we can help, we will try."
Anna kept her bag on her lap for a moment. "Sister, I think a part of my family's story began here." She eased the journal out and laid it on the table, her palm resting on the cover. After a moment, she opened to the first page.
Beatrice leaned in, her voice low. "I came after the war. The older sisters told me how it was then — three girls who were often together: your grandmother, Elizabeth, Sophia Rossi, and Rosa's mother, Caterina. Their lessons were taught here in the church. The Sisters taught English — Sister Agnes, an Irish nun, insisted on an hour of copy work, short readers, and a little dictation each afternoon. I was told Elizabeth's uncle in New Jersey mailed primers, a pocket dictionary, and blank notebooks."
She ran her fingers gently across the journal pages. "Sophia kept one copybook for herself and began writing in English — at first exercises, then her own diary. English also kept some eyes from reading what wasn't theirs."
Anna stared. "Caterina — your mother?" She turned to Rosa, heat rising in her face. "Did you know? From the day I arrived, did you know why I came?"
Rosa set her cup down carefully. "No," she said softly. "Perdonami, cara. Forgive me! I heard pieces. I noticed how you held that little book. I feared I knew, but I would not claim it. I wanted the sisters to speak first. It was not mine to tell."
"You sent me to the bookstore. Did you expect me to find the journal?"
Rosa shook her head, wringing her hands together. "I have sent many to the bookstore, hoping that the right one who searched would find it."
Anna pushed her chair back an inch and stood. She walked the few steps to the open arch, staring out across the garden. She pulled in a breath, released it slowly, then returned to the table. She bent and wrapped her arms around Rosa. "I understand. I'm not angry," she said into her shoulder. "I'm just overwhelmed."
She sat again, palm on the journal. "So that explains why she wrote in English —practice, and to keep the wrong eyes away," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone. Then to Beatrice: "If the older sisters remembered them, are there other notes? Roll lists from the schoolroom, an admissions ledger, the baptism book — anything Sister Agnes kept. Letters on file. Any place their names appear together?"
Beatrice folded her hands. "What I know of Sophia's family is from the sisters who raised her," she said. "They spoke of a man — an American, a flyer, who came once before the worst of the war, leather jacket with wings on the chest. After that, he didn't return. It was understood he was Sophia's father, though no marriage was recorded. Sophia's mother worked here for a time and died young. The sisters kept Sophia in school, and Elizabeth, her friend from the same class, stayed by her side. They were inseparable."
Anna's throat tightened. "But the younger child — she was born in 1944. Elizabeth had already left for America by then. Why didn't she come back? Why did no one tell us?"
Beatrice held her gaze. "The war closed many doors. Ships were scarce. Letters were opened or never arrived. And to write plainly about a baby tied to a soldier in the wrong uniform could harm the living," she said. "The sisters learned to keep quiet to keep children safe. This is what they taught me."
She rose. "Give me a moment." She stepped through a side door.
The door clicked softly behind Beatrice.
Rosa reached across and touched Anna's sleeve. "I am sorry," she said. "I should explain why I kept quiet." She folded her hands, choosing each word. "My mother, Caterina, told me parts of this many years ago. She made me promise two things: do not speak until the right person asks, and when she does, stand beside her."
She glanced at the journal. "When you arrived, I heard something in your voice. I saw how you held that little book. Then the phone call, and Luca said you cried. I feared I knew. But if I guessed wrong, I would wound you. And if I guessed right, it was not mine to tell before the sisters."
Rosa slid the sugar bowl closer. "If you are angry, it is fair. I will take it. But I did not keep silent to hide from you. I kept it because some stories belong first to the ones who lived them."
Anna's breath came out unsteadily.
"Breathe," Rosa said, soft but firm. "Coffee helps." She poured a little more into Anna's cup. "Whatever we find next — records, names, doors that open or do not — I will walk with you. You are not alone."
They drank, not in silence exactly, but in a small, steady quiet that let the words settle.
Beatrice returned with a small envelope, browned at the fold. "Sister Lucia, who remembered those years, kept a few notes for us before she died," she said. "I look after them now."
She slid out a narrow slip of paper and set it on the table. "A name was kept."
In neat, faded ink: Teresa Cascio — July 2, 1944
The room seemed to close in around her. Anna said the name once, under her breath. "Teresa." She reached across the table. "You didn't just give me a name — you gave me a person." Her voice shook. "My aunt. My mother's sister. Please — is there more?"
Beatrice nodded. "We keep what we can," she said. After a pause, she added, "Sister Lucia also wrote that in the first years, a man in uniform came twice to ask after the child. Later, he came in plain clothes, spoke softly, left a small carved angel, and said he was going home to Germany. We never wrote 'father' in the notes. We wrote only the man who came, but the sisters believed they knew who he was."
A bell tolled from the garden. Beatrice rose from her chair. "I must go to prayers. I hope this has helped." She left them with the slip of paper, their coffee, and the quiet.
They walked back through the garden. At the far hedge, a nun stood half-hidden, hands folded. She watched the table they had left, then turned and moved away along the path. Anna followed her with her eyes until the black of the habit was only shadow among leaves.
Outside, the lanes had warmed. Rosa did not rush. Neither did Anna. They walked home with the basket empty and their heads full of thoughts.
Lunch passed easily: bowls, bread, small talk. Rosa did not push, and Anna did not run. Only once did Rosa say, "After we clear, I will bring tea and we can talk if you like."
Evening came with its usual tasks. Plates to wipe. A pan to scrub. When the last guest went upstairs, Rosa dried her hands and sat at the kitchen table across from Anna. She set a small envelope down — paper thinned by years, the fold rubbed soft.
"My mother, Caterina, worked in the convent kitchen," Rosa said. "She knew your Elizabeth. The night before Elizabeth left for America, she put this in my mother's hands and said, 'If anyone from my family ever comes, help them. Give them this.' When my mother was dying, she gave it to me."
Rosa searched Anna's face. "I have been waiting until your heart was ready."
Anna's hands shook as she broke the seal. Inside lay a short letter, written in careful script.
If these words ever find my family, I pray they forgive my silence. But I must honor my friend's wishes. If they come searching, send them to Santa Lucia. Ask for kindness. Trust the women who tend the poor. They kept us when the world did not. Tell them I kept the wooden horse on the table so I would remember joy.
Elizabeth
Anna pressed the paper to her chest. "She knew someone might come," she whispered.
Rosa poured the tea and waited until Anna had finished drinking. "When my mother told me the story," she said, "she said Elizabeth's gaze was firm, but her hands shook. She said she would do what must be done and honor Sophia's request. She kissed my mother's cheek and walked away without looking back."
Anna folded the letter along its old line and slid it back into the envelope. "Thank you," she whispered. The words felt too small for what had just moved between them, but it was all she could manage.
Rosa reached across and squeezed her fingers. "Tomorrow," she said, "we will go again, if you want."
"Yes, I want," Anna said.
*****
Later, in her room, Anna set the journal and the envelope side by side on the quilt. She stood for a long time with her hands on the bedrail, listening to the small sounds of the house. Somewhere below, Rosa hummed a tune she almost recognized. Out in the lane, footsteps passed and faded.
Later, in her room, Anna set the journal and the envelope side by side on the quilt. She stood for a long time with her hands on the bedrail, listening to the small sounds of the house. Somewhere below, Rosa hummed a tune she almost recognized. Out in the lane, footsteps passed and faded.
Anna said the name once more into the quiet. "Teresa."
It felt like a door opening. Anna closed her eyes and whispered, "I won't stop searching."
 Recognized |
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2025. Begin Again All rights reserved.
Begin Again has granted FanStory, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
