“No! Not to set your mind at rest, not to prove you can bypass the security of a modern high rise-for no reason whatsoever are you to break into that man’s office.”
“Oh, very well.” I tried not to sound like a sulky child denied a treat.
“You promise, Victoria?” Lotty sounded ferocious.
I held up my right hand. “On my honor, I promise not to break into his office.”
III
It was six days later that the phone call came to my office. A young man, with an Italian accent so thick that his English was almost incomprehensible, called up and gaily asked if I was his “Cousin Vittoria.”
“Parliamo italiano,” I suggested, and the gaiety in his voice increased as he switched thankfully to his own language.
He was my cousin Ludovico, the great-great-grandson of our mutual Verazi ancestors, he had arrived in Chicago from Milan only last night, terribly excited at finding someone from his mother’s family, thrilled that I knew Italian, my accent was quite good, really, only a tinge of America in it, could we get together, any place, he would find me-just name the time as long as it was soon.
I couldn’t help laughing as the words tumbled out, although I had to ask him to slow down and repeat. It had been a long time since I’d spoken Italian, and it took time for my mind to adjust. Ludovico was staying at the Garibaldi, a small hotel on the fringe of the Gold Coast, and would be thrilled if I met him there for a drink at six. Oh, yes, his last name-that was Verazi, the same as our great-grandfather.
I bustled through my business with greater efficiency than usual so that I had time to run the dogs and change before meeting him. I laughed at myself for dressing with care, in a pantsuit of crushed lavender velvet which could take me dancing if the evening ended that way, but no self-mockery could suppress my excitement.