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leave.”
    “She left me her locket and her recipe book . . .”
    “It’s fine, Lucy. From the moment you were born, you and your grandmother had a much deeper bond than I ever had with my mother. I accepted it long ago,” Susan said cheerfully. Lucy knew she was lying because she, herself, had never overcome the pain of her own mother loving her daughter more. “Anyway, you’re the chef in the family.”
    “Mom, do you know anyone named Paolo LaRosa?”
    “Well, I think there’s a Paolo living over on Robin’s Egg Way . . .”
    “No, in connection to Nonna?”
    “What’s this about, Lucy?”
    “She left him her Madonna of the Orange Blossoms.”
    “That old painting?” Susan laughed. “It’ll fetch about $5 at a yard sale. What was she thinking? Not a practical bone in her body, my father always said . . . .”
    “So she never spoke of a Paolo to you?”
    “No, not that I recall. Maybe he’s some long lost Italian cousin. I have no idea.”
    “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that she’d leave the painting to him?”
    “Knowing my mother? Not so much.”
    “Nonna wanted me to go to Italy to find him and give him the painting. She left me a letter.” Lucy read the letter aloud to her mother, though she skipped the section about Susan. No need to add insult to injury.
    When she finished, Susan said, “What can I say? It’s just like my mother to pull a stunt like this. No sense, my father used to say.”
    “Do you want to come with me?”
    “To Italy? You’re not thinking of actually going are you?”
    “Nonna set all this up with Jack—got herself to his office and everything. It must have been important to her, to go to all this trouble.”
    “If it was so important to her, she could have mentioned it before she died instead of sending you off on a wild goose chase,” Susan snapped. “You want my advice? Open the other letter, Lucy. Don’t waste your time.”
    After a few seconds of silence, Lucy said, “I think I want to go to Italy.”
    “I recognize that stubborn tone. You’re just like your grandmother. Fine. If I can’t stop you, go and have fun. Send me a postcard.” Susan fell silent before she finally said, in a much gentler tone than usual, “I hope you won’t be too terribly disappointed.”
    “If you think of anything . . .”
    “Yes, Dave, I’ll be along.” Susan’s muffled voice indicated she’d put her palm over the phone. “Lucia, I must tee off now. Keep me posted.”

Lucy
    Applebury, Massachusetts
Present Day
    For several days after her meeting with Jack, Lucy considered how to tackle her grandmother’s unusual bequest. For all she knew, Paolo LaRosa was long dead. She’d done some minimal internet research the night before but quickly got stumped. Perhaps she could ask Juliet to help her there.
    All through her shift at the craft store, she’d thought of the call to adventure sitting on her kitchen table. As she unpacked a box of jigsaw puzzles emblazoned with scenes of Rome, Venice, and Tuscany, she felt her grandmother nudging her toward Italy. She and Andrew always planned to go. They’d never planned on him dropping dead at forty-one.
    If she had the money, she could hire a private investigator but all her spare pennies went to Juliet’s tuition. Andrew hadn’t left her destitute but he also hadn’t planned for forty years of widowhood. She had enough to live on, but not extravagantly. As a young military wife, she’d learned frugality. Those scrimping skills would serve her well now.
    After work, she retuned to her bland box of an apartment and decided on a tuna cheese melt for dinner. The canned tuna matched the bland beige apartment walls. She wanted to toss it but her budget wouldn’t stretch to that. She made the sandwich and sat down at her little cafe table. After a few bites of sandwich, she re-read the letter and set it down with a sigh.
    “Well, they always say to make a list, right, Frankie?” she said aloud. The cat meowed