| Romance Fiction posted September 17, 2025 | Chapters: |
...16 17 -18- 19... 
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Anna Learns a Name
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
By The Sea Chap 10
by Begin Again
Rosa heard Anna's steps overhead before sunrise — back and forth, then a long pause, then back again. She set the pot on and waited until the kitchen filled with the aroma of coffee.
When Anna came down, Rosa slid a cup toward her. "I heard you," she said softly. "Not much sleep."
"Not much," Anna admitted. She touched the folded note in her pocket. "I'm not sure what I expected to find when I decided to come to Sicily. I know I wasn't thinking clearly. And now, after finding Sophia's journal and speaking with Sister Beatrice, I can't stop searching. I owe it to myself and to my family — the women who raised me and the ones I never met." She paused and stared into space before whispering, "For Nonna Elizabeth."
She took a sip, then went on, her voice tight. "If I can bring home proof — something real — maybe it will open a door in my mother's heart. And if the sisters can tell me more about Teresa, I want to know. I need to know."
Rosa covered her hand. "Bene. Then we go together. If you want to stop at any point, we stop. You don't have to be brave."
Anna nodded. "I'm scared. And hopeful. But I'm ready."
Rosa tied her apron neatly and stood. "Pronta?"
"Si, I am ready."
Their walk to Santa Lucia was a quiet one. Their hands were empty, but they carried far too much in their heads. The sun was shining brightly. Beyond the roofs, the waves slapped the shoreline in a quiet rhythm. The morning was full of peace, yet Anna's heart raced with anticipation.
She kept touching the note in her pocket, repeating the words over and over. Rosa walked a step ahead, shoulders set, as if a steady pace could carry them the last distance.
Sister Beatrice was waiting in the cloister walk. "Come," she said, and led them to the same plain room. She had already poured the coffee.
"I brought something," Beatrice said, setting a small bundle tied with a faded blue ribbon on the table. "The sisters who came before me kept these. I am only the keeper now."
She loosened the ribbon and drew out two envelopes. The corners of the paper had frayed. Postmarks bled faintly in purple ink.
"New Jersey, 1946," Beatrice said, tapping the first. "And 1947." She looked at Anna. "From Elizabeth — your grandmother, si?"
Anna nodded as her fingers curled against her skirt. Her voice trembled. "She wrote — to the Sisters?"
"She did." Beatrice slid the first envelope closer, but did not remove the letter from it. "I'm told she did not know what became of Sophia. She did not know if the baby lived. Her letter asks only — Is there a record of an infant born in the summer of 1944 to a young woman whose name begins with S? I wish no harm. If there is life, I pray she is safe."
Anna stared at the old paper until her eyes began to blur. "And someone answered?"
"The sisters were careful, but yes, they answered," Beatrice said. "Those were hard years. Names could still hurt. The sisters wrote back — We pray with you. They did not say yes. They did not say no. They never wrote — She is here."
Anna swallowed. "So, my grandmother never knew."
"She knew only that someone might be alive," Beatrice said gently. "Enough to keep a wooden horse on her table and to write again the next year." She touched the second envelope. "We answered the same way."
Rosa murmured. "My mother said Elizabeth wrote to her, too."
Beatrice nodded. "Caterina came to the back door with those letters in her pocket. She showed the superior and was told the same: No names. No confirmations. Your mother sent replies like 'No news. We pray.' It was all she could give."
Anna let out a breath she'd been holding. Sadness and love tugged at each other in her chest. She pictured her grandmother at a kitchen table in New Jersey, Margaret at her feet, the wooden horse set where eyes could always find it.
"She didn't come back," Anna said, not accusing — only saying it aloud. "Why wouldn't she send someone to look?"
"Passage was dear," Beatrice said. "Visas took time. She had a child to raise. And to ask the wrong questions could have put a mark on a girl here." She spread her hands, small and empty. "People did not travel the way they do now. Even hope could be dangerous."
Anna nodded. The simple answers hurt more than a story would have.
Beatrice set the envelopes back with the other papers and retied the ribbon. "We kept these," she said, "so if the right person came, we would have something to give
."
From the garden came the thin sound of a bell. Beatrice stood. "I must go to prayers."
From the garden came the thin sound of a bell. Beatrice stood. "I must go to prayers."
"Grazie," Rosa said.
"Prego." Beatrice hesitated at the door. "There is one more thing. The Sister you saw in the garden — the one who keeps to the hedges — she is cautious with strangers. If you wish to speak with her, let me ask first."
"Does she know something — anything?" Anna's heart quickened.
Sister Beatrice nodded. "I believe she has a story to tell."
Anna's heart thumped once, hard. "And her name —"
Beatrice's eyes softened. "You have it." She glanced toward the garden and then added, "Let me ask. It must be her choice."
They stepped out onto the cloister. The square of sky above the courtyard was bright and clear. The orange trees left patches of shade on the path. At the far end, a figure in a white habit moved between the hedges and disappeared.
Anna fought the urge to call out her name before she followed Rosa out of the garden.
On the way home, Rosa didn't force talk. They walked past a shop rolling up its awning, past a boy balancing a crate on one shoulder, past a woman beating a rug over a balcony rail. Ordinary life continued while Anna struggled to breathe.
*****
The house ran on its usual routine — bedrooms to turn, coffee to brew, a guest asking the best hour for the beach. Anna did what was in front of her. She set plates. She cut a lemon for tea. She wiped a table until the wood showed a clean grain — anything to keep busy and not to think.
After lunch, Rosa brought a tin to the kitchen table and took off the dented lid. Inside lay a neat stack of old envelopes bound with string.
"My mother kept copies of what she could," Rosa said. "Sometimes she wrote a second letter to practice the words before she sent the first. She saved those. Sometimes Elizabeth wrote to her directly." She lifted one gently. "This one is from 1946."
Anna sank into a chair. Her breath snagged when she saw the careful, familiar script — Elizabeth's hand. Rosa unfolded the page and read a single line aloud, then stopped, as if any more would belong to someone else. "If there is no news, tell me that too," Rosa read. "Silence is worse than sorrow."
Anna pressed her fingers to her mouth, fighting against the tears as she envisioned her grandmother sitting at the kitchen table, hiding one secret and praying for another.
"My mother answered," Rosa said. "She said, There is no news I can give. We pray." She folded the page again. "She told me she cried after she wrote it. She wanted to give more."
"Thank you," Anna whispered.
Rosa set the practiced copy back into the tin and replaced the lid. "You will rest a little," she said. "Later, if Sister Beatrice has word, she will send someone to the gate."
Anna stood and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I can help with the beds."
"You can," Rosa agreed, "and then you will sit for ten minutes and do nothing at all." She patted Anna's arm. "It is allowed."
****
Later, when the day had softened and the shutters were half-drawn against the sun, the gate clicked. Luca crossed the courtyard with a folded note in hand. "From Santa Lucia," he said, offering it.
Anna took the paper. It was a single line in Beatrice's hand. "Come tomorrow after morning prayers. I will ask if she will meet you in the garden."
Anna read it twice and felt the floor tilt. Her hand gripped the railing, steadying herself. She looked up at Luca.
"Good news?" he asked.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly. "But it gives me hope."
He nodded, understanding something without asking more. "Mama says I am to remind you about water," he added, half-smiling. "And to sit or share a walk."
A smile crept across Anna's face. "She is right."
"Come," he added, tipping his head toward the lane. "Let's walk and maybe stop for granitas."
Anna slipped her arm through his and nodded. "A walk sounds wonderful, and the granitas, too."
*****
They stood at the counter on the corner, sharing two paper cups, scraping the ice with little spoons. Lemon and sugar cooled the knot in her chest.
A voice rang from the opposite side of the street, "Always together. Luca, the American claims all your time lately." Isabella smiled and waved, but did not stop.
Luca's jaw tightened, just for a second. "Ignore her," he said.
"I'm trying," Anna answered, and surprised herself with the hint of a smile. "My gain seems to be her loss."
Luca grinned and looped his arm through Anna's. "And mine as well."
*****
The sun had faded, and the moon sat high in the sky. Their walk had been longer and far more enjoyable than either had planned when they'd set off for their granitas.
Anna had opened up and shared with Luca what she'd discovered. He'd listened but never pressed her for more. Her heart felt lighter because of it. Back at the gate, he lifted the latch. "Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," she echoed, and tucked Beatrice's note into her pocket, close to the worn corner of Elizabeth's letter. The nuns had not said, 'She is here.' But they had kept the letters. They had kept the name. They had opened a door to the past for her. Just maybe, there was more.
Tomorrow, the garden.
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