She couldn’t shake off the idea that he had never been there for anything other than the money. He lied to her, made her believe she was someone worth caring about, and that’s what hurt most of all.

Phoebe shifted in her seat, crossed her legs toward Tyler as she looked from him to Emily and back again. “You know, Rome isn’t the only city with a Colosseum.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying, maybe you remember it wrong. Maybe they bought the necklace somewhere else. Maybe she made it all up and Gigi never even existed.”

Emily slammed her fist against the table, was aware of her back teeth biting together as she began to stand, then Tyler leant across her for the pepper, pulling her attention away.

“Who came up with the treasures to be found?” Tyler asked as he tapped the pepper pot against the table, made sure Emily was watching.

“She did.”

But then again that wasn’t quite true. At least, not for this story. Emily had been the one to draw Ophelia wearing the necklace before any words were written down. She had found it in her grandmother’s room, in an open shoebox which sat on the window ledge. She had wondered who the lady in the picture was, standing next to a young Catriona with her hair tied up in a scarf and enormous golden hoops hanging from her ears.

Her grandmother had looked over her shoulder as Emily sat in her usual seat by the back door, seen the locket she had drawn, hanging from Ophelia’s neck. Then she went to her room, came back with the real thing looped over her wrist, before bending down to fasten it behind Emily’s neck and whispering that it belonged to her now. Emily had worn it every day since.

“She ate pasta.” Emily stared down at her empty plate, but couldn’t remember taking the last bite.

“Who did?” Tyler asked.

“Ophelia,” Emily said as she went through the story in her mind. “She ate pasta made by the girl’s father.”

A man who lived by an olive grove in the mountains and crushed the fruit into oil, mixed it into flour with egg and water, said it gave the pasta an extra-special flavor.

“Giancarlo.” The man Gigi moved to Italy for, who had loved her grandmother’s best friend even more than the food he created.

“Who?”

“The ‘G’ on the dedication has to be for Giancarlo, not Gigi.” It was Giancarlo who had taught Catriona Robinson to toss pizza dough like a native. He showed her how to make it thin enough to see the sky through, to make it extra crispy. Pizza dough she used to toss high, up toward the kitchen ceiling, making Emily giggle with delight.

Burnt edges and melted cheese. Scraps left on the back doorstep for all the birds to feast on when their bellies were fit to burst. All the stories she used to tell Emily, about the people she once knew, but which Emily had never been certain were true, up until now.