“Ironic, isn’t it?” Nell mused. “The thief takes the jewelry, the stereo, and the TV, and leaves the Fabergé picture frame and the Cellini bronze. Ignorant dickhead.”

“Speaking of which. We can’t leave Lucia’s fine art here,” Nancy said. “You’re the sculptor, Vivi. Why don’t you take the bronze?”

“Yeah, a priceless Cellini satyr would look great on the dashboard of my van. Right next to the air freshener and the plastic Madonna.”

“I thought you were through with the crafts fair circuit,” Nancy said. “Didn’t you say you wanted to stay in one place these days?”

Vivi shrugged. “Theoretically. Maybe someday. I guess two studio apartments in Manhattan the size of gnats’ asses aren’t much better than a Volkswagen van for museum-quality art exposition, huh?”

“No way,” Nell said. “All I’ve got are books. Volumes of epic poetry don’t have much direct trade value for crystal meth or heroin. How about you, Nance? Isn’t your block protected by the Hells Angels?”

Nancy shrugged. “Yeah, but even so. The crack houses the next block over do not inspire confidence. So, what? A safety-deposit box?”

“We can’t put Lucia’s precious intaglio writing table in a safety-deposit box,” Vivi said. “Damn.”

The three of them dubiously regarded the table in question.

“Should we get an alarm?” Nell suggested, her voice full of doubt.

Vivi harrumphed. “Seems silly, since the house is empty.”

“I’ll go out tomorrow and buy a plastic tablecloth,” Nancy said. “Something hideous, for camouflage. I’ll take the bronze, and you take the picture frame, Nell, until we come up with a better plan.”

This attempt at brisk practicality petered out into sad silence. Vivi rolled onto her side. Nancy slid her hand into her sister’s long, silky mane.

“It feels so strange,” Vivi said quietly. “She was our foundation, wasn’t she? Now she’s gone, the world’s lost all its structure.”

Nancy tugged Nell into the embrace. “We’ll make a new structure. We’ve got each other, right? That’s what Lucia would have said.”

The group hug was a sure detonator for another sob explosion. The doorbell jangled in the middle of their sobfest, making them jump.

“I can’t handle another condolence call,” Nell whispered, mopping her face. “Check the peephole. Don’t make any sound.”

Nancy peeked out. A bored-looking young man stood there, holding a box. “Looks like a delivery guy,” she told her sisters.

“More flowers?” Vivi asked.

“No, it’s a smallish white box.” Nancy pulled the door open. “Yes?”

“Special hand delivery from Baruchin’s Fine Jewelers,” the guy said. “For Lucia D’Onofrio.”

“She died a week ago,” Nancy said. “Today was the funeral.”

The guy blinked rapidly, mouth open. This scenario was not covered by the very simple flowchart in his head. He looked helpless.

Nancy took pity on him. “I’m her daughter. I’ll sign for it.”

“Ah…ah…lemme call my boss.” He called, muttered for a moment into his cell, passed the clipboard, waited as she scrawled her name. “Uh, sorry for your loss,” he mumbled, abashed.

Nancy took the box into the house. “Baruchin’s Fine Jewelers since nineteen thirty-eight,” she read. “Anybody else want to do the honors?”

Vivi and Nell exchanged nervous glances. “Go for it,” Nell said.

Nancy pried open the seals. Inside were three small identical leather boxes. Nell flipped open each box. They leaned over. Gasped.

A rectangular gold pendant was inside each box. Each was adorned with a delicate cursive letter, each done with a different color of gemstone. The N for Nancy was done in tiny sapphires, the A for Antonella in rubies, and the V for Vivien in emeralds. Diamond brilliants clustered around the letters for contrast. Each pendant had a halo of white, lacy white gold openwork swirling above the top of the rectangle. They were exquisite. It was cruel. The three of them turned away from the table and totally lost it. For at least ten minutes.

Finally, Vivi dragged a shredded Kleenex out and blew her nose. “She was going to give them to us on her birthday,” she said.

Nancy nodded, loosening the V from its velvet nest. She reached around Vivi’s neck, fastening the clasp. She did the same for Nell, and then her own. “We’ll wear them always,” she said. “In her honor.”

Vivi fled to the kitchen, clutching her pendant in her hand.

Nell clutched hers, her wet eyes faraway. “She saved us, you know,” she said. “At least me and Vivi. Maybe not you, Nance. You were born grown up. You could have saved yourself from the cradle.”

“Ouch,” Nancy said sourly.

“It’s a compliment,” Nell said. “I respect and admire you for it.”

“Right. Stolid old Nancy,” she muttered. “Hit me over the head with a brick. I barely even blink.”

“Wrong,” Nell snapped. “Solid. Solid is different from stolid. You’re tough. Not flaky. Tough is sexy. There’s nothing sexy about flaky.”

Nancy grunted. “Yeah? Ask any of my ex-fiancés.”

“Hell, no.” Nell made an exaggerated pantomime of spitting on the ground. “Not unless you want me to slug them out for you.”

Vivi burst out of the kitchen, eyes alight. “I found it!” She waved a yellowed scrap of paper in one hand and a wine bottle in the other.

“Found what?” Nancy asked.

“The recipe! For that horrendous grape thing! Schiacciata all’ uva! We even have some grapes, with seeds! Elsie left some with the casserole. The recipe’s in Italian, but you read Italian, right, Nell?”

Nell adjusted her glasses, took the paper out of Vivi’s hand, and peered at it. “The measurements are metric, but we can find a conversion table online with Nancy’s BlackBerry,” she said.

Nancy was bemused. “I thought you hated the grape thing!”

“Oh, I do,” Vivi assured her. “But that doesn’t matter. It’s the perfect thing for Lucia’s wake. Just us three all sniveling together, a couple of bottles of port, and the gross grape focaccia.”

Nancy grabbed her and hugged her hard. “Okay,” she whispered.

None of them were good at pastry, but they put their hearts into it for Lucia’s sake. Their ragged version of sciacchiata all’uva was a far cry from Lucia’s elegant traditional Tuscan dish, but whatever. The oven timer did not go off. The smoke detector did. But the quantity of port they had drunk made them indiscriminating enough to actually eat some of it. It was as wonderfully awful as ever, especially burned.

They toasted Lucia until dawn, alternately laughing and crying at the impenetrable mysteries of life and death. The cruelty and the beauty of it. Il dolce e l’amaro, as Lucia would’ve said. The bitter and the sweet.

Nell leaned out of the passenger-side window of Vivi’s gaudily painted Volkswagen van the next morning. “Take-out dinner, eight o’clock, my place,” she reiterated forcefully. “Be there.”

“If I can,” Nancy hedged. “I’ve got a million things to take—”

“To take care of, yes. You always do, but you still have to eat,” Vivi scolded, leaning over Nell’s lap from the driver’s side.

“If you’re not there, we’ll think you don’t care,” Nell warned.

Vivi’s taillights glowed in the morning mist until they turned at the corner and were gone. The sky was heavy with bruised-looking clouds. Nancy’s head felt bruised, too. No surprise, considering the port they’d sucked down in their drunken revels. Cathartic, yeah, but this morning she felt like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

Too bad. Time to get busy and do all the normal things in her crazy schedule, plus everything that had been put off last week because of Lucia’s death and funeral. Fortunately for her, frantic activity was her favorite coping mechanism, considering her career choice—an agent manager for singer-songwriters and folk bands. Back in college, she’d wanted to be a musician herself. She’d learned, to her cost, that she didn’t have the chops for it, and decided to make the best of it, and help the musicians who did. And that she was good at. Damn good. She had just the detail-minded, dogged determination for it.