Mary remembered the FBI memo, from the National Archives, monitoring Amadeo’s meeting with Giorno about Theresa’s death. She had assumed Amadeo was being monitored by the government, but he wasn’t. He was being watched on orders of Aaron Nyquist, who wasn’t worried about betrayal of his country, but the betrayal of his wife.

“So I broke it off, in July. Right before the Fourth, because we were having a party at the house. I couldn’t do it any longer, betray Aaron like that. I had made a vow to him, and I wanted to keep my word. Set things right between us.” Mrs. Nyquist swallowed again, as she had in court. “Then I heard that Amadeo killed himself, and foolishly, I thought I had something to do with it. That he was upset over our breakup. I never gave a thought that it was murder. I forgot all about the contract until you came to Butte.”

“It was lucky that I did, then.”

“Or it was meant to be. Do you still think things don’t happen for a reason, Mary?”

“Maybe they do,” Mary conceded. “I’m in such a good mood, I can’t disagree with anybody today. Least of all you, Helen.” She noticed Mrs. Nyquist’s grandson had come back into the lounge and stopped at the marble bar to talk with the bartender, a pretty redhead.

Mrs. Nyquist smiled sweetly. “I’m telling you all this, about Amadeo and me, because I think you understand him. You have a feel for him. He was a wonderful man.” She leaned over. “I honestly think he was my one true love, and I think he loved me back that way, too. He couldn’t do enough for me, he paid me so much attention. He even carried around a lock of my hair. Imagine!”

Mary would have said something but her throat felt kind of tight. She leaned over, unlatched her trial bag, extracted an envelope, and handed it across the table.

“What?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, puzzled. She opened the envelope and gasped. She took out the lock of hair, cupping it in her palm, and looked up, her eyes shining. “This is it! This is mine! How did you get this?”

“It was in Amadeo’s wallet. I had it in my desk drawer with my personal stuff, because I showed it to Judy and didn’t put it back in the case file. He kept it with him all the time, Helen.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Nyquist blinked the tears from her eyes and placed the lock back into the envelope with care, and Mary felt the love she felt for Amadeo. Because it was the love she had for Mike.

“To real, honest-to-goodness, no-joke love.” Mary raised her glass. Someday she’d have that love again, she just knew it. She might even serve a subpoena on a certain engineering professor.

“To love.” Mrs. Nyquist raised her glass, composing herself. “And to you, too, Mary. You’re quite a little lawyer.”

“Thank you.” Mary sipped her Diet Coke, watching Mrs. Nyquist’s grandson and the bartender, with their heads bent together over the bar. The plastic casing to the cash register was hinged open, and they were both looking inside.

Mary blinked. Her gaze traveled from the cash register to the grandson. Will Nyquist. His hair was dark, his eyes darker. She knew those eyes. She had seen them on George Clooney. Oh my God. Mary turned to Mrs. Nyquist, whose gray head turned to her, and the two women regarded each other over the table for a minute.

“Yes, it’s true,” Mrs. Nyquist said, answering a question she hadn’t been asked.

“Will is Amadeo’s grandson?” Mary felt like shouting, but Mrs. Nyquist silenced her quickly with a wave.

“Aaron knew, I couldn’t deceive him, not more than I already had. Still, he raised Amadeo’s son as his own. He was a generous man, of heart and spirit.” Mrs. Nyquist sniffed. “But I never told Will’s father. And Will doesn’t know either. That’s why I didn’t bring him to court today, in case it came out. I was afraid you would ask about me and Amadeo, but you didn’t. Thank you for that.”

“There was no need to, because you told the story so well.” Mary’s attention returned to Will, watching him. He did look so much like the way she had imagined Amadeo, now that she could see him uncovered by grease. And he fixed things – old trucks and evidently, cash registers. Will must have inherited his grandfather’s mechanical ability and his movie-star looks. Mary turned to Mrs. Nyquist. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I guess so. I guess I will.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Mary said gently, then she thought of something. “Helen, you know what? If Amadeo has a living heir, which he does in Will, then that heir is entitled to inherit Amadeo’s estate. I’m talking about the money that flowed from the original patent for the hatch.” Mary leaned forward on the cushy shell-pink chair. “You understand? The money that’s been going to Justin Saracone all these years will now go to Will.”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, uncomprehending, and Mary felt a rush of excitement.

“Helen, before today, Amadeo’s estate was worthless. You thought you were coming back here for a murder trial, but the hearing was about who gets the royalties for the hatch Amadeo invented.” Mary touched her arm. She couldn’t help it, she had to make contact with something. “The answer, thanks to you, is Will.”

“My goodness!” Mrs. Nyquist blinked. “Is it enough to pay for the U?”

“It’s enough to buy the U!” Mary burst into laughter, and Mrs. Nyquist’s hand fluttered to her mouth in shock.

“Oh, my Lord!”

Mary beamed, feeling good all the way to her very soul. And then, though she couldn’t tell if it was the champagne, the piano music, or the truth, she could have sworn that she heard a soft voice whispering.

Sì.

Fifty

“Ma, what goes in next?” Mary asked, from over the big, dented pot of brewing tomato sauce. Beads of sweat popped on her forehead. Steam melted her contact lenses. The Panasonic radio on the counter played Sunday with Sinatra, Mass cards curled behind the switch plate, and Penny scampered between everyone’s feet, chasing a tennis ball that nobody had time to throw. Mary stirred the tomato sauce, and a chicken wing, a bumpy meatball, and a piece of driftwood floated past. “Is it the garlic or the basil?”

“Garlic, Maria!” Her mother called from her seat at the kitchen table, where she was nestled like a baby bird in the pink folds of her chenille bathrobe. Mary’s father sat next to her, in his Sunday undershirt and Bermuda shorts. They didn’t try to help, because Mary had threatened litigation and now had the juice to deliver. Not only had she gotten her preliminary injunction, but Justin Saracone had been charged with conspiracy in Frank Cavuto’s murder when Chico turned state’s evidence. And in the process, Mary had become a major business getter at Rosato amp; Associates, with new cases coming in every day from three different parishes. Today South Philly, tomorrow the world.

“The basil gets too bitter if you put it in early,” her father said, and next to Mary, Judy stirred spaghetti in another big, dented pot.

“Didn’t they teach you anything in law school, girl? You embarrass the profession!”

“You know you want me,” Mary said, smiling. She grabbed a chipped china coffee cup, dumped in the chopped garlic, then stirred it up. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so happy. Her mother’s operation had been a complete success and she was cancer-free. Keisha had recovered, too, and was engaged to marry Bill. And Premenstrual Tom had turned out to be harmless, but still completely annoying, so Mary had given him the cell phone number of a certain brown-eyed reporter at the Philly News.

“Ready, here!” Judy yelled. “We have spaghetti ignition!”

“Now basil ignition!” Mary sprinkled in the cheery green strips.

“Only a minute, Mare, with the basil,” her father said, and her mother nodded in agreement, blessing the entire operation.