Yesterday's Stardust (40 page)

“I come up here twice a month. If we hit the right time, you could fill a book with—”

“Franky.”

They swiveled in unison. Luca looked up, eyes clear and bright. “It’s not Francie. It’s Franky.”

The goose bumps returned. Dani knelt in front of him. “You knew Franky?”

“Of course. He hated peas. Used to hide them in the cuff of his pants. Every week the old woman who did our laundry would come to the back door jabbering.
‘Piselli nell’acqua!
she’d yell. Peas in the water!”

Nicky laughed. “I can only guess how much fun two little boys had with that.”

“We played in the tunnel, hunting for bad guys. He moved.” Luca looked up at Nicky, eyes glazed. “Did they want to hurt him, too, Papa? He wrote to me. Franky Becker…”

Nicky shook his head and dropped his chin to his chest. Dani felt the weight of disappointment as if a hand pressed against her chest. Was it a bizarre coincidence, or a delusion? Had he known a different boy name Franky? What could they believe from someone who thought his grandson was his father?

Luca’s gaze clouded. “Brecker. No. What was it? And why—”

Nicky suddenly looked up.
“Brekken?”
His finger jabbed at her purse. “Diary,” he whispered. “Theo. Was it Franky
Brekken,
Nonno?”

The white head gave the slightest nod. “Franky Brekken. He sent me a postcard.”

The soft snore began even before he closed his eyes.

As they walked across the parking lot, Dani looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. “How did you remember Theo’s last name?”

He could get used to that look. “We get our mozzarella from a farmer in Stoughton named Ed Brekken. It’s an unusual name, so it stuck in my head when you read it.”

They reached the Javelin. He opened Dani’s door and helped her in as she focused on her phone.

“Where do we start?”

“Let’s use a process of elimination. Look up Frank Brekken Kenosha then Chicago, maybe Osseo.”

Dani’s thumbs beat a frenzied rhythm as she searched. “There’s one on Facebook. Nope. He’s our age. Another one in Minnesota… high school kid…wait.
Pastor
Frank Brekken? He’s a missionary…with Overseas Outreach.” A tiny gasp. She turned to him and grinned. “A missionary to
India.”

Nicky drummed the steering wheel. “How old is he?”

She tapped the keys again. It sounded like raindrops. “He has a blog.”

“That can’t be our Frank. No ninety-year-old guy has a blog.”

“This one does.” Her squeal filled the car. “Look.”

He leaned over her shoulder, inhaling a dizzying mix of spice and flowers, and looked at the picture she pointed to. An elderly man stood between a dark-skinned man in a white shirt and tie and a woman in a blue sari. Dani clicked on a tab labeled “Bio.”

“‘When I was a young boy, my adoptive parents were the overseers of an orphanage in New Delhi. I grew up speaking English and Hindi. We moved back to the States when I was seventeen. After college I wanted to start a church. God had other plans, of course. My story mirrored my parents’—my wife and I honeymooned in Bombay.’” She clicked the “Contact” button. “He lives in Maryland. I’m calling him now.”

As she dialed, his fingers wandered to the back of her neck. She’d put her hair up in a ponytail. It was ninety-three degrees, and he couldn’t blame her, but he wanted to rip out the band that held it high off her neck. Then again…he bent and kissed the spot where a fine gold chain fastened.

She pushed him away. “I can’t concentrate.”

“Ignore me. You just do your thing, and I’ll do mine.” But the moment she said “Hello,” he pulled his hand away.

“Mr.—Pastor Brekken, my name is Danielle Gallagher. I live in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I found a diary that I believe belonged to your aunt, and I’m wondering if you have a min—”

“You found it?” The man’s voice carried even before Dani put him on speaker phone. “You found Francie’s book? Lois! There’s a woman on the phone who says she found Frazzie’s diary!” A soft shout sounded in the background. “I’m sorry. That’s my wife. You have to understand…my aunt died ten years ago, and on her deathbed she told me her diary held the key to my future.” Frank laughed. “Imagine hearing that when you’re eighty years old!”

February 19, 1928

Francie stepped out of the beige crepe dress, threw it over the chair in the corner of her bedroom, and slid a simple cotton floral over her head. She went through this metamorphosis several times a week. A change of clothes brought on a change of personality. The seamstress kicked out of her high heels, put on comfortable shoes, and changed her vocabulary from pleats and darts and gussets to lasagna, rigatoni, and cannelloni.

She loved every minute of both worlds.

A spritz of perfume, a touch of rouge, and she was ready. Slipping into her coat, she ran down the stairs.

Fresh snow covered the tracks she’d made just minutes earlier. She lifted her face and stood statue-still as flakes dotted her eyelashes. Seductively delicious smells—onions, garlic, thyme, and oregano, drifted across the street, hovered on the still night air. This little corner of the world, this triangle hemming her life, was her slice of almost heaven.

A car passed, honking as it sprayed wet snow in her path. As she sloshed across the street, stepping high to keep the snow out of her shoes, a giggle pulled her gaze to the snow-filled space next to the restaurant. Luca lay on his back, arms and legs flailing. Snow angels. The vision made her laugh. And then her chest tightened. Her arms ached with an emptiness only one little boy could fill.
If only
… She lifted a prayer and walked around the corner to the side door.

Rich aromas welcomed her. Renata looked up from her cheese grater and smiled. “Does Mrs. Cardella like the gown?”

“She loves it. She wants the same pattern in blue.”

“Wonderful. You will be famous someday.”

Someday.
The word had once held so much promise. She nodded at her friend. As she walked into the back room, she marveled at the fact that Paris no longer lured her and New York had lost its fascination. She didn’t want to be famous. She wanted nothing more than a future for a little boy.
Someday.

She took a dust mop out of the closet and slipped it around the polished floor then used a white cloth to dust the light fixtures. When the room looked presentable, she opened the back door and swept snow from the back step. The simple action brought her back to a winter storm that now seemed a lifetime ago. She was fifteen, shovel in hand, doing what she could for “the business.” Though she now lived in a different world, some things had not changed all that much.

She walked back in, closed the door, and came face-to-face with Santo.

“Grazie.”
He took the broom from her and set it back in the closet. “These little extras do not go unnoticed.” He reached toward her elbow.

She stepped away. “It’s my pleasure.”

“My wife, she does not understand how important these details are.”

Putting yet more distance between them, Francie laughed. “She understands. She
disapproves.”

A large hand splayed on the top of the iron table in the center of the room. “Hard times are coming, Francine. I am doing what I have to do for my family.”

She shook her head. “I invented that line, Santo.”

He sidled closer. “You and I, we have something in common.”

“Yes we do.” She held up her hand, palm out. “We both work for the same people, and we both want what is best for our families,
don’t
we?”

He smiled. “You are a strong but beautiful woman.”

“And you are a stupid man.” She returned the smile. “You will get nowhere with me.”

“But it is the trying that I enjoy.”

“Then you’d best decide if you want your wife or your boss to shoot you.”

With a laugh and a wave, he opened the door and walked into the kitchen.

Francie picked a piece of lint off a flocked rose on the wallpaper and looked up at Renata’s crucifix next to the door. The beauty and craftsmanship of the intricate carving transfixed her. She and Renata had sat here in this room, just days earlier, reading the book of Isaiah. “‘He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.’” She said the verse out loud. It made her want, once again, to drop to her knees. Her pain was nothing compared to what He had suffered. “Thank You,” she whispered.

She lifted her apron from its hook and slipped it over her head. The door opened before she touched the handle. Santo motioned for her. “Telephone call for you.”

Her heart missed a beat. Her sister was the only one who had ever called her, and Suzette would not telephone unless something was wrong.

The black receiver dangled from its cord. She picked it up and turned her back on the bustle in the kitchen. She stared at the wooden box with the silver dial, at the black numbers beneath the finger holes, and took a deep breath. “Hello?”

“Hello, doll.”

“Tag?”

“How’s it going up there? I’ve been missing you.”

The warmth of the room became suffocating. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good. Listen, I’ve decided you need a reward for good behavior. I’m sending your sister and the kid up there. For good.”

D
ani slipped her phone into her purse and turned to Nicky. “We just talked to little Franky.”

“Yes we did. What a character, huh? ‘Don’t tell me a thing. I love surprises.’” Nicky’s impersonation was uncanny.

“He’s a real live person.”

Nicky laughed. She loved the sound of it. Tipping her head to one side, she let her eyes trace the curve of his smile.

“What?”

“When we first met, I remember thinking how ridiculously handsome you’d look if you’d only smile.” She fit her fingertip into the divot on his cheek. “I was right.”

His hand closed over hers. “I finally have a reason to smile.”

“Isn’t that a song? Or does the song say a reason to live?”

“Well, I’ve got that, too, now.”

She laughed. “Are Italian men just born with that, or did your father and grandfather give you lessons?”

“It’s in the genes, bella ragazza.” He kissed her hand. One knuckle at a time.

She stopped him at her wrist. Another second of that and she’d need a defibrillator. “We have reading to do,” she squeaked. “Hands on the wheel now. You drive. I read. You do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

With a smile that promised his compliance would be temporary, he released her hand and backed the Javelin out of the parking space.

Dani found their place in the diary but didn’t start reading. “What have we read so far that would be the key to Franky’s future?”

“It’s what’s coming up that’s the key. My great-grandmother helped her hide
things.
It has to be her take from the robbery.”

“That can’t be it. She hasn’t worked at the jewelry store for months. I’m thinking it’s some kind of a life lesson, or maybe she just wanted him to hear her story so he could understand what led her to do things she didn’t want to do.”

Her phone vibrated. She pulled it out and glanced at a text from Rena.

C
ALL ME.
N
OW
. E
MERGENCY

Pulse hammering in her ears, she leaned her elbow on the armrest, striking a casual pose as she scanned the sign for the next exit. “Would you mind stopping at the next gas station? All that coffee…”

“Sure.” Nicky put on the turn signal. “I might as well get gas.”

She nodded and tried to keep her foot from tapping like a preschooler who really did need to use the bathroom. When he stopped, she walked in and darted to the restroom, dialing Rena’s number.

A sob answered. Familiar but not Rena. “Danielle, you gotta come here. Now.”

China.
A loud thud echoed near the phone.

“Where are you?”

“Dani!”This time it was Rena. Her voice was muffled and hollow as if they had a bad connection. “We went against one of the Sisters, and now they’re after us.”

“Where are you?”

“The coal chute. You gotta come here.
Please.”
Her words convulsed into another sob.