an after-effect of the sleeping pill, and the shadowy remnants of the dream. She got up to make coffee, determined to throw off the oppressive feeling hanging like a cloud over her head. No dark thoughts would be allowed to enter her mind on this day, she decided. Nor would she allow her grandmother’s anger the previous day, or the damned dream, to interfere with her enthusiasm for the new project.
After a quick shower, Anna dressed, then spent the next two hours packing for her overseas trip, making sure to include the Italian designer dresses she had acquired, as well as jeans and casual wear for site inspection. As an afterthought, she threw in a pair of sturdy boots, in case the ground conditions at the proposed site called for them.
At one o’clock, she locked up the condo and dragged her luggage to the elevator. Once downstairs, she informed the concierge she’d be gone for a couple of weeks, then continued on to the underground garage, placed her bags in the trunk of her car and headed to the office to put in some work before leaving for the airport.
Several hours later, finishing the last of the paperwork on her desk, she glanced up to see Ed Gromley standing in the doorway of her office.
“All set?”
“Pretty much. Just getting ready to leave.”
He smiled at her. “I’m very proud of you. I know you’re going to do a fantastic job.”
Ed was a kind man, probably the reason she had indulged in a brief affair with him last year—one which had proven disastrous. He’d wanted more from her and she’d not been able to give it. A year later, she still felt awkward around him.
“Thanks, Ed,” she said without meeting his eyes.
When she returned her attention to him, he was staring at her with a look of regret that had become all too familiar. But all he said was, “Knock ’em dead,” before he disappeared down the hall.
At six o’clock that evening, seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair at the boarding gate at Pearson International Airport waiting for her flight to be called, she took out her cellphone to call her grandmother to say goodbye. A nurse answered, telling Anna her grandmother had already been taken to the dining room for the evening meal.
“No. No message,” she said when the woman asked. “Just remind her that I’ll see her as soon as I’m back in town.”
Twenty minutes later, Anna took her window seat on the Air Canada flight to Rome. From there, she was booked on a connecting Alitalia flight to Marco Polo airport in Venice. As the plane taxied down the runway, she replayed her grandmother’s conversation of the previous day. Why hadn’t she wanted her to make the trip? If something happened to Nonna while she was gone, she would feel terrible. The idea made her uneasy all over again.
Chapter 4
Venice, Italy
1927
Dr. Alberto Rossi adjusted his round spectacles and looked again at the slender, dark-haired woman sitting opposite his desk. Young and attractive, to be sure, but like all women, she required firm direction. When he spoke to her, his voice assumed the condescending tone he reserved for all of his female patients.
“Signora Marino, you are with child once again. Congratulations to you. However, you must keep in mind that, on the past two occasions, it is my opinion that your mental anxiety is what prevented you from carrying the child to full term. You must make a conscious effort to avoid negativity. Keep only pleasant thoughts in your mind—and I will prescribe a tonic, to be taken daily. Return to see me in a month.”
Rosaria Marino, twenty years old and married for the past two to Massimo Marino, a gondola-maker, addressed the doctor. “Dottore, it is true that I am anxious. I want nothing more than to bear my husband a child. But my mother recounted to me how she lost three children before giving birth to me. Perhaps I inherited some physical problem from her?”
Dr. Rossi looked over his spectacles and frowned at the young woman. “Are you questioning me? If so, you may leave this office and not return...signora.” He continued to stare disapprovingly at Rosaria until she lowered her eyes.
“Of, of course not, Dottore, I just thought...”
“Don’t think. Concentrate on the husband you claim to love and the child you will give birth to... If you follow my instructions.”
Rosaria nodded, her eyes still lowered. Dr. Rossi softened his tone as he sent her on her way. “Very well. I will see you next month.”
Rosaria uttered a nervous, “Thank you, Dottore,” and hurried from the office.
As she turned to leave, Rossi studied her slim legs and rounded buttocks through the drab grey outfit she wore. Probably her Sunday-best clothes. Although he found the girl extremely attractive, he mentally dismissed her. He had no use for foolish young women. If not for his wife’s acquaintance with Rosaria, he would never have taken the woman on as a patient. But Alberto Rossi, at thirty-nine and at the height of his medical career, had never denied his young bride Serafina anything over the course of their six-year marriage.
Serafina, only two years older than the patient who had just left his office, had already borne him two children, a girl, Julia, and a boy, Vittorio. And, unlike the patient who had just left, his wife possessed an astute intelligence, and used it. He hoped Serafina would bear him many more children. Julia and Vittorio were beautiful and well-behaved children—not unlike his wife.
All the young women in Venice wanted lots of children. Since Il Duce had taken power, more children brought better tax privileges. Dr. Rossi was a great fan of Mussolini. He took seriously Il Duce’s statement that he wanted peace and quiet, work and calm for Italy, and if those who chose to oppose their leader suffered at the hands of the black-shirts, what of it?
Mussolini had also taken a keen interest in the state’s education system. Alberto knew his son would not be forced to scratch and claw his way to the top, as he had. His own rise to prominence in the medical field had been anything but easy. The son of a poor gravedigger who had died following a strange mental illness when Rossi was a young boy, he had determined early on that he would devote himself to the betterment of those who struggled with mental disorders. He had worked at odd jobs since the age of eight, and read every book he could lay his hands on as a child. All through secondary school he had supported himself, living off the meager earnings of whatever night work he could find, while keeping up with his studies. After grueling years of living in poverty in the slums of the city, he’d earned his dream, a scholarship to medical school. He’d seized his only chance with both hands, and the rest was history. His tenacity and determination had paid off.
He looked around at his well-appointed office, satisfied in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
* * * *
Rosaria opened the wooden, centuries-old door of the home she shared with her husband, Massimo, and his family. After greeting her mother-in-law, she hurried upstairs to change out of her good clothes.
“I’ll be back in a minute to help with dinner,” she called over her shoulder to the woman as she headed back outside. Rosaria walked to the large workshop next door that backed onto the canal. Massimo, like his father and grandfather before him, was a squero, a gondola-maker. Her husband had been fortunate enough to grow up under the tutelage of his highly skilled father, a
