Employed by Mode, a fashion magazine, Steffi Rosetti is assigned to cover the spring fashion collection in Milan, Italy, but her trip is complicated by a strange, unexpected letter from someone she has never met—her grandmother, the mother of a father she has never knew. Curious and apprehensive, Steffi heads for Italy unaware of how her life will change with two new encounters.

Prologue and Chapter One Excerpt

Prologue

Steffi Rosetti clenched the black-banded letter in her trembling hands. Tears pooled in her eyes until they escaped and rolled down her cheeks. Anger? Sorrow? Confusion?

Her senses had numbed since she opened the letter, postmarked Venice, Italy, and the message tumbled through her mind like a grocer’s can goods display falling to the floor. The clatter of words and emotions rattled all the way to her heart.

Steffi dragged her gaze, again, to the signature. Donata Rosetti. A grandmother she’d never met. The mother of her father she’d never known. Deep grief rolled over her. Grief . . . and what? Apprehension? Hope?

Steffi lowered her gaze to the graceful flourish of her penmanship, the uncertain wording, the unbelievable love that soared from the paper and wondered if she’d misunderstood, perhaps misread. Again she followed the sentences word by word.

My Dearest Steffi,

I pray you do not destroy this letter before reading it. I have asked a dear friend to search for you on, what he calls, the Internet. I have long lost your mother’s address, having no need for it . . . under the circumstances.

I am sending you love and sad news from Italy. Though I promised your dear father to keep from his business, he has gone to God, and now I do what my heart has longed to do for years. I find you.

Words cannot say what is in my heart. I ask God to bring you to visit me so I may tell you about your father and about your relatives in this beautiful country. If you find it in your heart to answer my simple letter, I will be most grateful and give to God many praise for His goodness. A visit by you to your father’s homeland is my largest dream.

I am sorry to tell you of your father’s early death, but it gives me opportunity to share with you my love and prayers for these many years. Please say you will come to Venice so I can meet you in person and hold your hand in mine.

With love from Italy,

Donata Rosetti

Tears dripped to the cream-colored stationery, smudging the ink into dark puddles, and Steffi wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She’d known so little of her father, only that he’d left her and her mother to return to Italy when Steffi was two. Sometimes when she delved deep into her memory, she thought she remembered a handsome, dark-haired man who held her in his arms so many years ago.

But reality struck her with the truth. She’d once found a photograph—one her mother hadn’t destroyed—and hid it in her treasure box. Though she loved her mother deeply, Steffi longed to know what had really happened. Why had her father abandoned her?

Please say you will come to Venice so I can meet you in person and hold your hand in mine. The words sent an unearthly prickle up Steffi’s arms. The coincidence tangled in her thoughts. Her magazine editor had assigned her to cover the Italian designers’ autumn and winter collections, and she would leave in another week for Italy. Not Venice, but Milan . . . and if she knew geography, Venice was not too far away.

And was the invitation a coincidence? Steffi knew God worked miracles. If the Lord could move mountains and turn sinners into pillars of salt, surely He could bring two people together—seeming strangers from two distant lands. But would the Lord heal Steffi’s heart?

The thought sent fear skittering through her chest. Another disappointment. Another dashed hope. The trip to Milan flashed through her mind. Certainly she could add a couple of days to her venture. She could take a train to Venice.

The question was, would she?

Chapter One

Steffi Rosetti gripped the handle of her carry-on case and headed for baggage claim. At least that’s what she hoped when she saw the word bagagli. Other passengers were heading in that direction, so she plastered on a confident expression and trudged through the busy Milan airport.

With a relieved sigh, she found baggage claim, gathered her pieces of luggage, and made her way through security and customs. Outside, she maneuvered her bags toward the long line at the taxi stand.

The smell of fuel and warm concrete filled the air as she jostled her way to the end of the line. Steffi disliked this part of travel most. Long lines at the airport, passing through customs and waiting for cabs was the worst part of travel. She’d done it before on a smaller scale, traveling for her work as feature writer for the fashion magazine, Mode.

Inching along, she bided her time, listening to the people around her talking with the speed of a race car driver, their voices riding on the air in a jumble of unique rhythms, syllables, rolled Rs, and punctuated with animated motions.

The line moved forward again. Now only one couple waited in front of her. Steffi drew in a long breath, knowing she’d be next.

"Scusi!"

She heard a male voice and turned, thinking the man was speaking to her. Instead, the impeccably dressed young man was flagging the taxi-attendant. Steffi watched the man move to the young man’s side, and they stood talking. The young man was obviously a seasoned traveler. He looked sophisticated, in brown slacks and beige wool sport coat, a brown hanky in the breast pocket. His sport shirt in earth tones lay open at the neck, giving him a jaunty look, like a man who knew fashion.

Steffi looked down at her faded jeans topped by an oversized sweat shirt and cringed. She had flown from the United States to cover a designer fashion show, and she looked like she’d won a competition at the state fair log rolling contest. She shrugged to herself. Who cared how she looked? All she needed to do was write a compelling article about the latest fashions.

Steffi noted the young man’s impatience as he huffed and paced beside the taxi attendant. His voice punctuated the air. "Vorrei un Tassi. Presto!" With a subtle motion, the young man slipped paper money into the attendant’s hand. She felt a frown settle on her face, wondering why he’d paid the man.

Before she had a chance to contemplate, the attendant hurried to her side. "Scusi, Signorita. The signor is in great need of the next taxi."

"He what?" She turned her head to flash a scowl at the young man who averted her gaze, obviously noticing her annoyed expression.

Crimping the fingertips of his right hand, he flexed his wrist. "Grazie. It is urgent, he says. You will have the next taxi. Capisce?"

Steffi stood her ground. She wasn’t born yesterday. The money had been a bribe to help the man move ahead in line, she figured. She riveted her gaze to his. "No. The next taxi is mine." She arched an eyebrow and stared at the man.

The attendant shrugged and stepped over to the young man who was now watching her with curiosity.

Steffi’s shoulders tensed, and her pulse quickened, curious to see what would happen next. As she waited, shame settled over her. Perhaps the young man had a real emergency. The attendant had said it was urgent. Where was her compassion? Where was her Christian upbringing?

When the attendant glanced her way, Steffi beckoned him over. "If the man has an emergency, I’ll be happy to share a taxi."

"Sì," he said, taking a step away.

Steffi grabbed his sleeve. "If he’s going in my direction."

As she finished her statement, a cab rolled to a stop. The attendant opened the door and she slipped in. He spoke to the driver and hurried away. In a moment, the impatient young man slid in beside her.

"Grazie," he said, giving her a nod. He leaned over the seat toward the driver. "Jolly Hotel Touring."

The driver shifted into gear, and the taxi pulled away.

Steffi gave the gentleman a puzzled look. "That’s where I’m going," she mumbled, not knowing if the man understood English.

He laughed. "You’re American."

She heard his Midwest dialect and irritation rose up her back. "Yes." She folded her hands in her lap and squirmed in the corner. She’d been duped by an American to share a cab, and she didn’t like it one bit.