The Sunflower Girl

by Rosanna Chiofalo

Genres: World War II; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Set in Italy during WWII and twenty-five years later, this is a story of a mother and daughter, of love and the secrets that echo through generations.

In the fields around Tuscany in summertime, sunflowers grow in abundance—wave upon wave of gold and green standing tall against the Italian sky. But for Signora Maria Ferraro, the bright yellow blooms she once loved as a child have come to represent the most painful episode of her life. Not even her cherished daughter, Anabella, knows what happened to her during World War II, when the Germans overran her hometown of Florence and Signora Ferraro fell in love with a Resistance fighter. In the aftermath of loss and grief she found salvation through an unlikely source—cultivating roses on her farm in the Tuscan countryside. Now the blossoms symbolize everything that is both good and safe, and she nurtures them with as much care as she guards her past.

Yet to Anabella, the rose farm that once delighted her has become little more than a pretty prison. Despite her beautiful surroundings, Anabella longs for more. During one of her regular visits to Siena to sell their flowers, Anabella encounters a handsome young artist named Dante Galletti. His canvases are filled with images of a girl who looks just like Anabella—and Dante claims to have seen her in his dreams, running through a sunflower field. Through Dante, Anabella begins to see sunflowers, her cloistered existence, and the world itself through new eyes. As their relationship deepens, Anabella knows she will soon have to choose between loyalty to her mother, and the risks and rewards of living on her own terms . . .

Release date: July 31, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Pienza, Italy, 1950

Six-year-old Anabella Ferraro’s world was filled with beauty. Wherever she looked, roses in every hue surrounded her. There were the softest shade of pink roses, creamy white roses, deep red roses, orange roses that resembled the copper sunsets over Tuscany, and her favorite of all—exquisitely vivid yellow roses. She giggled as she skipped among the rows of flowers on her mother’s sprawling rose farm. Mamma always clipped a few just for Anabella, which she would hug to her chest as she carried them to the house, inhaling their sweet fragrance.

Only Anabella and Mamma lived in the house on the vast property they owned. Papà had been taken by the angels to heaven—the other paradise. Mamma had told Anabella that their beautiful home was their paradise on Earth, but there was another paradise even more stunning, where Papà now lived. A place where Anabella could eat all her favorite foods like pane con cioccolato, pasta Bolognese, zuccotto cake, nocciola gelato, and torrone. It was a place where no one was ever in pain. A place where Anabella could run anywhere she wanted to, not just on the land that encompassed their property.

There were days when Anabella would be sad, wishing Papà were here, even though Mamma continually reminded her he was with her.

“Your papà is always with you, even though you cannot see him. He is always watching over you and protecting you. Remember that, Anabella.”

But Anabella was confused. How could her father be with her and watching her if he wasn’t here with them? She wanted to be able to hear his voice rather than imagining what he sounded like. And instead of merely seeing him in the old photographs Mamma kept on her dresser, Anabella wanted to be able to kiss his cheek and play with his eyeglasses. She wanted to be able to crawl into his lap and press her head up against his chest as his heartbeat lulled her to sleep, just as she did every night with Mamma.

Mamma assured Anabella that someday, the three of them would all be reunited in this other paradise. Sometimes, Anabella stared up at the sky and talked to Papà. She usually spoke to him about her favorite roses and what she was learning from Mamma. She also spoke to the roses when she was out in the gardens alone. She thought of them as her friends who played with her when her mother was too busy or when the workers on the farm had gone home for the day. She even had names for them. Only Cioccolato knew that she spoke to the roses. But that was all right. Cioccolato wouldn’t tell anyone—for he was her chocolate Labrador retriever and her best friend, second to Mamma. Mamma didn’t seem to mind though that Cioccolato was her other best friend.

Unlike the rest of the children in her village of Pienza, Anabella didn’t attend school, even though it was just on the opposite side of the fence that hemmed in their rose farm. Mamma told her she could teach Anabella everything she needed to know. Anabella was content. After all, Mamma was her best friend in addition to her parent. And that was all she needed, as her mother always reminded her. Still, she couldn’t help but be drawn to the school yard as she was today. She put her face up against the wire diamond shapes that made up the fence and stared at the schoolchildren who were having their recess. The yard had a playground set, which is what captivated Anabella the most. The children screamed and pushed one another out of the way as they tried to reach the playground’s slide and swings. Anabella wondered what it would be like to go down the shiny slide that always caused the children to squeal in delight and to fly high up into the air on the swings. Maybe she could get closer to Papà in the sky if she went on one of those swings.

Anabella had been so absorbed in her reverie that she hadn’t noticed the boy who came over until she felt something hard hit her head. Startled, she looked up and saw the boy standing up on a small wooden box so he could reach over the fence and continue his assault of throwing pebbles and small rocks at Anabella. She covered her face as she cried out. Within seconds, her mother came running over.

“Cretino! Vai via!” Signora Ferraro insulted the boy as she yelled at him to go away.

The boy narrowed his eyes at her as if he were about to cry and then rejoined his classmates on the playground.

“Vieni, mia bella figlia. Come, my beautiful daughter. Neither that boy nor anyone else will bother you again.”

Anabella let her mother lead her away by the hand. She snuck a sideways glance toward the playground. She could see the boy who had thrown the rocks at her was chasing another boy as they laughed. Anabella was now far away in his thoughts, and she wondered why he had decided to hurt her. Did he not like the way she looked? Or maybe he didn’t like that she was staring at him and the other children?

After that day, Mamma didn’t let Anabella play outside during the time that the school had their recess.

“You can go out later around four o’clock. It won’t be too hot then, and the sun will still be out for a few hours,” Mamma had told her.

Anabella was an overly obedient child and rarely, if ever, questioned her mother’s judgment. Mamma knew best and was teaching her everything not just in their homeschool lessons, but also in the garden. Mamma also explained to Anabella what she would need to know as she grew older and became a big girl someday.

One afternoon, Signora Ferraro had an emergency in the gardens and had left Anabella alone to finish her lunch. Usually, Signora Ferraro ate lunch with Anabella and then caught up on a few chores before going out to the gardens to finish her work there. Anabella had no idea that her mother was afraid to leave her unattended during the hours when the school had their recess and when it was time for the children to go home.

Anabella was playing with Rosa, her favorite doll. She loved braiding her hair and coming up with new ways to make Rosa even more pretty than she already was. Mamma had given Anabella the doll for her sixth birthday this year. And ever since that day, they had been inseparable. An idea came to her. She had seen in one of her fairy-tale books an illustration of a princess with a beautiful wreath of roses on her head. Excited, Anabella ran outside, forgetting that her mother had forbidden her to go out until four o’clock. When she stepped outside, at first, she ignored the sounds coming from the school yard of the children laughing and screaming. She was absorbed in pulling the roses from the bushes that Mamma had planted here just for Anabella so she could enjoy them and take a few of the flowers for herself if she wanted.

She held the roses against her chest and began to walk toward her house when something shiny caught her peripheral vision. She turned toward the school yard and saw a large dollhouse. Its metal exterior gleamed in the sunlight. And the house was painted bright red, just like the roses that Mamma grew and sold the most. Red must be a lot of people’s favorite color, Anabella guessed. She gasped when she saw a little girl emerge from the door in the house. She had no idea the house was for little girls and not dolls like her Rosa. The girl held a doll. It had blond hair but did not look as beautiful as Anabella’s Rosa. Another girl giggled as she entered the house, but instead of entering it through the door that the first girl had come out of, she went around to the back of the house. Anabella could see her walking through the house as she passed the windows. Anabella went up to the fence to get a better look at the dollhouse. Maybe Mamma could buy her one for her birthday next year. But that was still a long way off.

“Ciao. Come ti chiami?”

Anabella jumped, remembering what had happened the last time someone was standing on the other side of the fence. It was one of the young women she’d seen watching over the children when they had recess.

“Anabella.” She glanced down at her sandals, noticing her toes pushing out well past the soles. She wondered when Mamma would take her into town to buy a new pair. Her heart leaped at the thought for she always enjoyed any outing they took.

“What a beautiful name! My name is Signorina Ducati. I am one of the teachers at the school.” She waited to see if Anabella would say something, but Anabella continued to look down at the ground. Signorina Ducati noticed Anabella was clutching a few roses to her chest. Something about the sight made her heart twist a little. The girl looked so forlorn—unlike her students who were full of energy and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Not that the child looked unhappy, but she sensed there was a certain unrest in her.

“Where do you go to school, Anabella?”

“Here.”

Signorina Ducati frowned for a moment before realizing what the little girl meant.

“You don’t go to school, do you? That is why you are home today?”

Anabella finally looked up. She pointed to the sprawling house that stood behind her, past the beautiful rose garden. “My school is in there. At home. Mamma teaches me.”

Signorina Ducati nodded. She strained her head to see if Anabella’s mother was anywhere in sight. She spotted her in one of the rose gardens, working alongside a few men.

“Would you like to come play with the other children, Anabella?”

Anabella glanced at the dollhouse. The girls who had been playing with it were now gone. She could explore it all on her own. She looked up at Signorina Ducati and nodded.

“We’ll have to ask your mother first. Can you tell her to come here?”

Anabella ran off. She was going to get to play in the big dollhouse—and Rosa, too! She couldn’t wait. She ran even faster. The sooner she found Mamma, the sooner she could explore all the wonderful things the school yard had. Maybe she could even go on the swings and fly high up in the air and talk to Papà.

Pienza, 1950

Signora Ferraro was tending to a cluster of yellow roses that had been infested with thrips. Hopefully she could treat them effectively and she would not lose the flowers.

“Mamma! Mamma! The teacher wants to talk to you.”

“Calmati, Anabella. What are you talking about? Is this another one of your imaginary friends?”

Anabella blushed. It was true she had made up a few friends, but she only spoke to them when she thought she was alone. Mamma must’ve heard her. She shook her head.

“Then, what are you talking about, my dear child?” Signora Ferraro regretted asking her daughter about her imaginary friends once she saw her cheeks turn as crimson as some of the roses she grew.

“The teacher from the school on the other side of our fence. She came to talk to me and asked me if I wanted to go play. Her name is Signorina Ducati.”

Signora Ferraro frowned. How dare that woman approach her daughter?

“Are you mad, Mamma?”

“No, no. That is all right. Let us go talk to Signorina Ducati.”

Anabella smiled. She ran ahead. Signora Ferraro did her best to quicken her pace. Though she was only thirty-five years old, she was often sore from all the crouching and bending she did on the rose farm. She had a few workers employed on the farm, but she loved to do as much as she could herself. Tending to the roses had saved her life many years ago, and she felt the most at peace when she was caring for them.

The teacher was waiting on the other side of the fence, watching the schoolchildren. Anabella ran up to the fence and pointed to her mother. For a moment, Signora Ferraro cringed at what she must do, but she could not falter. As Anabella’s mother, she knew what was best for Anabella.

“Buongiorno, signora,” the teacher called out to Signora Ferraro as she made her way toward the fence. The teacher smiled. She was an attractive woman, but her hand did not display an engagement or wedding ring.

“Buongiorno.” Signora Ferraro nodded her head in the teacher’s direction. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Signorina Ducati. I am the head teacher at the school.”

“Signora Ferraro.”

“Piacere, signora. I’m sorry to call you away from your work. Your garden is breathtaking.”

“Grazie.” Signora Ferraro did not offer more, for she did not want to encourage the teacher with pleasantries.

Signorina Ducati cleared her throat. “I’ve noticed Anabella on a few occasions watching the children during recess, and I asked her if she wants to play with them.”

“But she is not a student of your school, Signorina Ducati. I thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Out of her peripheral vision, Signora Ferraro saw the smile Anabella had had a moment ago quickly turn into a huge pout, and her eyes widened as if asking why. Signora Ferraro’s heart tightened, but no matter how much her daughter was hurting, she would not be swayed.

“It would be no trouble at all, Signora Ferraro, and it would do her good to be around other children her age. Anabella tells me that she doesn’t attend school and that you teach her at home.”

“Si.” Signora Ferraro couldn’t resist a curt tone for she knew what was coming.

“The school is public as you know, so it wouldn’t cost you any money to enroll Anabella. I’m sure you have your hands beyond full as it is with the farm.”

“This is none of your concern, Signorina Ducati. Please excuse me for being direct, but my daughter’s welfare is no one’s business but my own. I can assure you she is receiving as good an education with me at home—if not better—as she would be in your school.”

“Of course, Signora Ferraro. I meant no offense. Will you at least allow her to come play in the school yard?”

Signora Ferraro followed Signorina Ducati’s gaze, which fell on Anabella, who was now holding on to the fence, her face pressed up against it as she observed the children playing on the playground set.

“Grazie, Signorina Ducati, but I cannot allow my daughter to be out of my sight.”

“I, and the other teachers, would be watching her.”

“Again, thank you for your kind offer, Signorina Ducati, but we really need to return to the house. It is time for Anabella’s nap.” She pried Anabella’s hand from the fence. “Vieni, Anabella. It’s time to sleep.”

Anabella looked down at her sandals, disappointment clearly etched across her features.

“Ciao, Anabella,” Signorina Ducati called out to her, but Anabella ignored her.

“Perhaps another day, Signora Ferraro?”

The teacher was quite persistent, she would give her that. But what Signorina Ducati didn’t know was that Signora Ferraro was even more persistent, especially where her convictions and her daughter’s welfare were concerned.

“Buongiorno, Signorina Ducati,” was all she said.

Signora Ferraro held on to Anabella’s hand tightly, lest she break free from her grip. But she did not have to worry. It was rare that Anabella rebelled. She had been an exceptionally obedient child, even as a toddler. Sadness began seeping into Signora Ferraro that she was causing her daughter pain, but it was for her own good. Everything Signora Ferraro had done since she first learned she was pregnant with Anabella had been in her best interest.

“I’m not sleepy, Mamma. Can I just go play in my room?” Anabella looked up at her mother with her big brown eyes that often made Signora Ferraro lose her resolve and give in to whatever her beautiful daughter wanted.

“You have to nap first, Anabella. How will you grow up to be a big girl if you don’t rest? Ah? You can play after you sleep. I’ll play with you, too.”

Her daughter was not lonely. She had her, Cioccolato, and the workers on the farm, who had become an extended family to Anabella. True, Signora Ferraro knew they were not other children, but her daughter was content. Besides, on a few occasions she’d witnessed those children be absolutely wicked to one another, just like the day she found that boy throwing rocks at Anabella. They would be nothing more than a bad influence. She would not have her daughter corrupted by those unruly brats.

“I’m sorry, Anabella. I know you wanted to go to the school yard, but it’s not safe. Those swings go up too high, and you can fall off of them and break your legs. How would you help Mamma in the gardens if that happened? Or run with Cioccolato? You have all you need in our home—Cioccolato, Mario, Carlo, and Chiara. And of course, our beautiful roses. The other children don’t have all of this, and I feel very sorry for them.”

Anabella’s eyes roamed over toward the rose bushes that surrounded them on either side as they made their way back to their house. But what about other little people like her? Like the children in the school yard. It was true that Cioccolato, and Mario, Carlo, and Chiara—the farm workers—were also her friends, but ever since she began noticing the schoolchildren, she had wondered what it would be like to talk to them and play with them.

“I’m going to make your favorite cake today.”

“Zuccotto?” Anabella’s eyes glowed as she looked up at her mother.

“Si! You can help me after you have your nap. This way the zuccotto will be all ready after we have our supper tonight.”

Signora Ferraro had hoped to distract her daughter by mentioning her favorite dessert, which was a cake with a dome shape that was said to be in honor of the dome that sat atop Florence’s famous Duomo Cathedral, also known as the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore.

Signora Ferraro had told Anabella all about the Duomo and had promised her that, when she was older, she would take her to see it someday. But whenever Anabella would ask when they were going, Signora Ferraro would say, “You’re not big enough yet.” A fear gripped her when she thought about her former childhood home in Florence.

“I can’t wait to see the Duomo someday! Soon, I will be a big girl and can go, right, Mamma?” Anabella looked up at her mother with the widest, most innocent eyes.

Signora Ferraro nodded, happy to see that the light that was almost always present in Anabella’s eyes had returned after her earlier disappointment. Signora Ferraro stopped walking and embraced her daughter fiercely. No one could ever break their bond. Signora Ferraro was as sure of that as she was of the sun that rose every morning.

Siena, 1970

Dante was working feverishly. He needed to hurry before the sun set. He was standing to the left of the open window in his one-room apartment, and as he painted, his eyes darted back and forth to the sky outside. It was important that he get the lighting perfect.

Of course, the painting depicted Anabella. How good it felt to know the name of his muse! He had been in exceptionally good spirits since the day he saw Anabella at the piazza. Tomorrow would be a week since he saw her, but he felt as if it had been only yesterday, since he’d replayed the moment in his mind over and over. As soon as he had arrived home after seeing the mysterious woman from his dreams, he had begun a new painting of her—the same painting he was now working on. He wanted to finish it tonight. Dante was hoping Anabella would come to the piazza again tomorrow so he could show her his latest painting.

Driving home that day, he had realized he had forgotten to ask the flower vendor how often Anabella and her mother came to the piazza to sell the roses. Dante sensed it wasn’t every week since he had never seen them before. Dante wondered how he had missed them in the past. He’d been going to the piazza to sell his work for a few months. He supposed he had been preoccupied, either talking to people who were interested in buying his paintings or, when it was slow, drawing the famous Tuscan landmarks. The visitors who came to the piazza loved seeing Dante and the other artists present at work. Dante never painted in the piazza as a few other artists did. It was a waste of time since the paintings would not dry in time for customers to take them home the same day. True, sometimes customers left a deposit and arranged to pick up the completed paintings at the artist’s home, but many lost interest when they learned the painting needed days to finish drying. He also didn’t like to have an audience while he did his more serious paintings. So he drew when he was in the piazza. Drawing also brought him more money than just his finished paintings. He mainly drew a few silly landscapes, and, if someone asked him to do a portrait, he obliged. Although he was good at drawing, painting was where his true passion lay.

His pulse quickened as he added the final brush stroke to his newest sunflower girl painting.

“Finalmente!” he uttered aloud to himself as he stood back and took in his latest creation.

The painting featured a dramatic sky in all its glorious colors—pink, orange, blue—as the sun was preparing to make its descent. Beneath the sky, in the background was Siena’s Piazza del Campo, but rather than being filled with the usual flurry of people, the square was empty with the exception of Anabella, who stood in the forefront of the painting. She was stepping into the piazza, her back facing the viewer of the painting, and her head was turned so that she was looking over her shoulder. Her smile invited the observer to follow her, as did her right hand, which was raised and held one single red rose. A few of the flower’s petals had fallen to the ground, leaving a trail in the woman’s wake.

Dante was certain this was his best painting of her. How could it not be? For now she was more than just a shadowy figure from his dreams. She was real. From the blush in her cheeks to the light that flickered in her eyes and even the veins in her hand that held out the rose, there was no doubt that the woman in this painting was alive, whereas his earlier paintings had depicted her with a paler complexion and a more ethereal quality.

Satisfied with the finished product, he dipped his paintbrush into some black paint and signed his name in the lower right-hand corner of the canvas: Galletti.

Yawning, he went to wash his hands in the bathroom. It was only now that he noticed how his back ached from the long hours spent painting. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since just before noon. Wiping his hands dry, he walked over to the small icebox in his room and pulled out the bowl of minestrone that Signora Fiorucci had given him earlier in the day. He heated it up in a small pan on the stove.

As he ate his soup, his thoughts wandered to his mother, who always cooked minestrone for him when the weather turned cold. Although Signora Fiorucci’s minestrone was good, it still didn’t measure up to his mother’s. As Dante’s gift was painting, his mother’s was cooking. How he missed her cooking. Dante had shown a passion for drawing when he was as young as four years old. He loved drawing the birds and insects he saw in the yard of his grandmother’s home, where he and his mother lived. Nonna Andreanna and his mother were the only family he’d had. He’d never met his grandfather, who had died of a stroke before Dante was born. The same went for his father, who had scorned his mother when she became pregnant at nineteen with his child. Wanting nothing to do with her, he quickly left town. So Dante had his mother’s surname rather than his father’s.

Dante had worked hard in high school to ensure he would receive a scholarship or else he wouldn’t have been able to afford to go to art school in Florence—even with the money he had saved while working as a bricklayer’s assistant. His mother cleaned the homes of wealthy elderly women, but her earnings were just enough to keep food on their table and to help Nonna Andreanna pay the bills. Then tragedy struck when Dante’s mother died when he was in his final year of art school. She had been killed by a drunken motorist as she walked home from work one evening.

Instead of staying in Florence, like so many other art students did once they completed their studies, Dante had returned to Siena to be near his grandmother. But within a year of his mother’s death, Nonna Andreanna had passed away. After losing her only daughter, the grief was too much for her to bear. She ate less and less every day, even though Dante did all he could to get her to eat. She became so weak that he had no choice but to hospitalize her. Within days of arriving at the hospital, she died, leaving Dante truly alone in the world.

In the past three years since his mother had died, Dante hadn’t been able to fill the deep void he’d felt—until he’d begun dreaming about Anabella. Whenever she had visited him in his dreams or had stared back at him from one of his paintings, he’d immediately felt comforted. And then on the day he’d first seen her, when their eyes had met, he’d felt as if the hole inside of him was beginning to close. He had acknowledged to himself that it was bizarre to feel this way about someone he’d only met in his dreams, but he couldn’t ignore the strong instincts telling him this woman would be part of his destiny. Who knew? Maybe it was as his friends had said—she was merely a source of inspiration for his work. But now that he’d seen she existed in the living world, there was no doubt in his mind that he must meet her and learn more about his stunning muse.

He glanced at his watch, a gift from his mother and Nonna Andreanna when he had been accepted to art school. It was almost nine o’clock. Though it was too early for bed, he was absolutely exhausted, and, if he wanted to get to the piazza early and stay throughout the day, he needed to get a good night’s rest. Pulling his shirt and trousers off, he collapsed on his bed, causing the loose headboard to shake. He hadn’t wanted to keep his grandmother’s house after she died. The memories were too painful to relive—even if they had been mostly happy ones. And his mother’s and grandmother’s ghosts would torment him, reminding him he no longer had the family he’d loved so much. So he had sold the house, relying on the money from its sale to help tide him over until he could begin to earn a more substantial living from his paintings. He rented the one-room apartment that made up his home. Although it was small, the almost constant aroma of fresh bread baking that entered his apartment from Signora Fiorucci’s shop made the space feel more inviting and like home, reminding him of all the wonderful foods his mother and Nonna had cooked.

Soon Dante was fast asleep. He dreamt of his mother, standing in front of her stove, giving him a taste of what she was cooking. But as he was about to place his lips on the wooden spoon, the vision of his mother disappeared and was replaced with Anabella. He reached out to touch her, but she took a step back and another as he followed her. As always, he was chasing her in his dreams. He awoke with a start, and his heart raced furiously; his forehead had broken out into a sweat. He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. This woman would be the death of him if he did not meet her soon.

Unable to sleep, Dante got up and did what he always did when insomnia took hold of him. He painted.

Pienza, 1954

Anabella was running through the maze of rose bushes that sprawled across her mother’s property. Cioccolato was at her heels, barking and wagging his tail. Although she was now ten years old, she hadn’t tired yet of playing this game of chase with her dog. The late July sun was especially scorching today as the temperature soared to 100 degrees. But Anabella didn’t mind. Being outside was where she always longed to be—even on the days that it rained. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt less alone when she was engaging with the natural world all around her, whether it was running through the stunning roses on the farm, climbing the trees that formed a protective fortress around the perimeters of the nursery, or riding in her mother’s beat-up gray Fiat as Anabella stuck her head out the window to feel the breeze blowing through her hair and admire the beautiful Tuscan countryside.

As she ran, she saw in the distance Chiara carrying a huge straw basket. . .