{"product_id":"remembrance-isbn-9780440173700","title":"Remembrance","description":"Her beloved Italian homeland shattered in the wake of World War II, exquisite Serena,  Principessa di San Tibaldo, has nothing left except her name, her ancestry... and  her heart which she gives completely and forever to Major Brad Fullerton. But not  even Brad's ring—or his child—can protect her from the calculating wrath of the powerful  Fullerton dynasty, and the woman who will become Serena's bitter enemy. Sweeping  from the war-torn palazzos of Rome to the glittering avenues of Manhattan and the  glamorous world of high fashion. Here is the vibrant story of one woman's triumphant  yet bittersweet journey of the heart.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Danielle Steel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Steel is one of the best!”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Few modern writers convey the pathos of family and material life with such heartfelt empathy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Steel pulls out all the emotional stops. . . . She delivers!”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What counts for the reader is the ring of authenticity.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDanielle Steel\u003c\/b\u003e has been hailed as one of the world’s most popular authors, with over 650 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include \u003ci\u003eCountry, Prodigal Son, Pegasus,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eA Perfect Life, Power Play, Winners, First Sight, Until the End of Time, The Sins of the Mother, \u003c\/i\u003eand other highly acclaimed novels. She is also the author of \u003ci\u003eHis Bright Light,\u003c\/i\u003e the story of her son Nick Traina’s life and death; \u003ci\u003eA Gift of Hope, \u003c\/i\u003ea memoir of her work with the homeless; \u003ci\u003ePure Joy, \u003c\/i\u003eabout the dogs she and her family have loved; and the children’s book \u003ci\u003ePretty Minnie in Paris.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The train rolled relentlessly into the Italian darkness, its wheels  chattering rhythmically against the rails.  There were fat peasants crowded everywhere,  and skinny children, and seedy-  looking businessmen and hordes of American GI's.   There was a sad, musty smell in the train, like a house that hasn't been cleaned  in years and years, and added to that the ripe smell of tired bodies, long unwashed,  unkempt, unloved.  Yet no one had thought to open a window.  No one would dare.   The old women would scream as though they had been assaulted, faced with a rush of  the warm night air.  That would have offended them.  Everything upset them.  Heat,  cold, fatigue, hunger.  They had reason to be disturbed.  They were tired.  They  were sick.  They had been hungry and cold and afraid for a long time.  It had been  one hell of a long war.  And now it was over.  For three months now.  It was August  1945.  And the train rolled on relentlessly as it had for two endless days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Serena  had boarded the train in Paris, and ridden, without speaking to anyone, across France  and Switzerland, and at last into Italy.  This was the last of her journey now...the  last of it...the last of it....  The wheels of the train chattered out her thoughts  as she lay huddled in a corner, her eyes closed, her face pressed against the glass.   She was tired.  God, she was tired.  Every inch of her body ached now, even her  arms, as she hugged them tightly around her, as though she were cold, which she was  not.  The heat on the train was stifling, her long blond hair felt matted against  the back of her neck, as the train began to slow, and then a few moments later it  stopped, and she sat there, without moving, wondering if she should get out and walk,  even if only for a moment.  She had been traveling now for almost nine days in all.   It had been an endless journey, and she wasn't home yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She kept thinking of home,  reminding herself of it over and over.  She had forced herself not to let out a whoop  of joy as they crossed the Alps and she knew that she was back in Italy at last.   But this was only the beginning.  In fact, she reminded herself again as she opened  her eyes slowly in the glare of lights from the station, for her the journey hadn't  even begun.  It wouldn't begin until sometime the next morning, when she reached  her destination, and then she would see, she would find out...at last....\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Serena  unraveled herself sleepily, stretching her long graceful legs under the seat in front  of her.  Across were two old women, sleeping, a very thin one and a very fat one,  with a scrawny child pressed between them, like a pathetic offering of pink meat  between two loaves of old stale bread.  Serena watched them expressionlessly.  One  could read nothing in her eyes, they looked like icy cold green pools of very fine  emeralds, incredibly beautiful, but with very little warmth.  But there was something  about the depth of the young woman's eyes.  One was drawn to them, as though one  had to look into her, had to discover what she was thinking, as though one had to  see inside her...and could not.  The doors to Serena's soul were firmly shut, and  there was nothing to see except the perfect precision of her finely carved aristocratic  face.  It had the translucence of white marble.  Yet it was not a face one would  have dared to touch.  Despite her obvious youth and beauty, there was nothing inviting  about her, nothing beckoning, nothing warm.  She had surrounded herself with an aura  of distance that carefully masked tenderness and vulnerability.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\"Scusi\" \u003c\/i\u003eShe murmured  the word softly as she tiptoed past the sleeping women and over an old man.  She  felt wretched sometimes for what she thought, but she was so tired of old people.   She had seen nothing but old people since she had arrived.  Was there no one else  left, then? Only old women and old men, and a handful of children cavorting crazily  everywhere, showing off for the GI's.  They were the only young men one saw now.   The Americans, in their drab uniforms, with their bright smiles and good teeth and  shining eyes.  Serena had seen enough of them to last a lifetime.  She didn't give  a damn whose side they were on.  They were part of it.  They wore uniforms, just  like the others. What difference did the color of the uniforms make? Black or brown  or green or...purple for that matter, or scarlet...or turquoise....  She let her  thoughts run wild in the warm night air...she watched the uniforms cascade out of  the train behind her as she stood on the platform and turned to look the other way.   Even with her back turned, she could hear them standing near her, talking to each  other, laughing at some joke, or speaking softly in the late night silence, broken  only by the scraping metal noises of the train.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Smoke?\" A hand reached out suddenly  toward Serena, crossing her field of vision in spite of the way she had turned her  back, and startled, she shook her head and hunched her shoulders, as though to protect  herself further from what had happened, from what had been.  One had a sense of something  hurt about Serena; even in all her powerful young beauty, one sensed that there was  something broken, something damaged, and perhaps forever spoiled, as though she were  carrying some terrible burden, or existing in spite of an almost intolerable pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yet there was nothing on her surface to show that.  Her eyes were clear, her face  unlined.  In spite of the ugly, wrinkled clothes she wore, she was striking.  And  yet, if one looked beyond that first glance, one could not help but see pain.  One  of the GI's had noticed it as he watched her, and now as he took a last drag on his  cigarette and dropped it on the platform, he found his eyes drawn toward her again.   Christ, she was pretty.  That white-  blond hair peeking out from under the dark  green cotton scarf she wore tied around her head, as though she were a peasant woman.   But it was unconvincing.  Serena could not pass for a peasant, no matter what she  wore.  Her carriage gave her away almost instantly, the way she moved, the way she  turned her head, like a young gazelle, bounding with grace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was something  almost too beautiful about Serena.  It almost hurt to look at her for too long a  time.  Just seeing her in the drab clothes she wore was troublesome.  One wanted  to tap her on the shoulder and ask why—why are you dressed that way and what are  you doing pressed amongst the dregs of humanity on this overcrowded train? And more  questions: Where had she come from? Where was she going? And why was there that faraway  look in her eyes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As she stood on the platform in the warm summer darkness, she  offered no answers.  She only stood there.  Very straight, very tall, very slim,  and so young, in the crumpled cotton dress.  She looked down at the deep creases  in the cheap fabric and smoothed the skirt with a long delicate hand as her mind  seemed to snag on a memory, a gesture...her mother doing the same thing...her perfectly  manicured hand smoothing the skirt of a dress...a white silk dress...at a party in  the garden of the palazzo....  Serena squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, forcing  the memory back.  She had to do that often.  But the memories still came.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One of  the GI's was watching her as she opened her eyes again and walked quickly down the  platform to reboard the train.  She looked as though she were running away from something,  and he wondered what it was, as she put a foot on the steps up to the train and swung  herself gracefully aboard again, as though she had just mounted a Thoroughbred and  was about to ride off into the night. He watched her closely for a long moment, the  tall thin frame, the elegantly squared shoulders.  She had an extraordinary grace  about her.  As though she were someone important.  And she was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\"Scusi,\" \u003c\/i\u003eshe whispered  again softly as she made her way down the aisle and back into her seat, where she  let out a soft sigh and leaned her head back again, but this time she did not close  her eyes.  There was no point.  She was bone tired, but she wasn't sleepy.  How could  she sleep now? With only a few more hours before they arrived.  Only a few more hours...a  few more hours...a few more....  The train began moving and picked up the refrain  of her thoughts again, as she gazed out into the darkness, feeling in her heart,  her soul, her very bones, that whatever happened, at least she had come home.  Even  the sound of Italian being spoken around her was a relief now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The countryside outside  the train window was so familiar, so comfortable, so much a part of her, even now,  after four years of living with the nuns in the convent in Upstate New York.  Getting  there four years before had been another endless journey.  First, making her way  across the border into the Ticino with her grandmother and Flavio, one of the few  servants they had left.  Once into the Italian part of Switzerland they had been  secretly met by two women carrying weapons, and two nuns.  It was there that she  had left her grandmother, with rivers of tears pouring down the young girl's cheeks,  holding tightly to the old lady for a last time, wanting to clutch her, to beg her  not to send her away.  She had already lost so much in Rome two years before, when—She  couldn't bear to think of it as she stood in the chill air of the Italian Alps, locked  in her grandmother's firm embrace for a last time....\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You'll go with them, Serena,  and you'll be safe there.\" The plans had been carefully laid for almost a month now.   There was America.  So terribly far away.  \"And when it is over, you'll come home.\"  When it is over...but when would it be over? As they had stood there, Serena felt  that it had already gone on for a lifetime, ten lifetimes.  At fourteen she had already  lived through two years of war and loss and fear.  Not so much her own fear as everyone  else's.  The adults had lived with constant terror of Mussolini.  The children had  tried at first to pretend that they didn't care.  But one had to care. Sooner or  later, events made you care.  Sooner or later it all grabbed you by the throat and  throttled you until you thought you would die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She remembered the feeling, still...of  watching her father dragged away by Mussolini's men...watching him try not to scream,  to look brave as he tried, helplessly, with his eyes to protect his wife.  And then  the horrible sounds of what they had done to him in the courtyard of the palazzo,  and the terrible noises he had made at last.  They hadn't killed him then though.   They had waited until the next day, and shot him along with half a dozen others  in the courtyard of the Palazzo Venezia, where Mussolini was headquartered.  Serena's  mother had been there when they shot him, begging, pleading, screaming, crying, while  the soldiers laughed.  The Principessa di San Tibaldo crawling as she begged them,  as the men in uniform taunted her, teased her.  One had grabbed her by the hair,  kissed her roughly, and then spat and threw her to the ground. And it was all over  moments later.  Serena's father had hung limply from the post where they had tied  him.  Her mother ran to him, sobbing, and held him for a last moment before, almost  as a matter of amusement, they shot her too.  And all for what? Because they were  aristocrats.  Because her father hated Mussolini.  Italy had been sick with a special  kind of poison then.  A poison based on hatred and paranoia and greed and fear.   A horror that had turned brother against brother, and sometimes husband against wife.   It had turned Serena's uncle against her father, with a kind of passion Serena couldn't  understand.  Her father thought that Mussolini was a savage, a buffoon, a fool, and  said so, but his brother had been unable to accept their differences. Sergio di San  Tibaldo had become Mussolini's lapdog at the beginning of the war.  It was Sergio  who turned Umberto in, who insisted that Umberto was dangerous and half mad, that  he was involved with the Allies when in fact he was not.  The truth was, Sergio stood  to gain a great deal if he could dispose of Umberto, and he had.  As the younger  son he had inherited almost nothing from their father, only the farm in Umbria, which  he had hated even as a boy. And he couldn't even sell that.  He had it for the use  of his lifetime, and then he was obliged to leave it to his children, or Umberto's  if he had none. As far as Sergio was concerned, his older brother had it all, the  title, the money, the looks, the palazzo that had been in the family for seven generations,  the artwork, the importance, the charm, and Graziella, of course, which had been  the final spark to ignite his hatred for his older brother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He hated her father  most for possessing Graziella, the golden fairy queen with the incredible green eyes  and spun-  gold hair.  She had been exquisite, and he had loved her since he had  been a boy. He had loved her always...always...when they all spent their summers  together in Umbria or San Remo or at Rapallo, when she was a little girl.  But she  had always loved Umberto.  Everyone had loved Umberto...everyone...especially Graziella.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sergio had knelt, sobbing, at her funeral at Santa Maria Maggiore, asking himself  why it had all happened.  Why had she married Umberto? Why had she run to him after  he was dead? No one at the funeral had fully understood the part that Sergio had  played in his brother's and sister-  in- law's deaths.  To their friends, he had  always seemed ineffectual, a weakling.  And now no one knew the truth, except Serena's  grandmother.  It was she who prodded and pried and inquired and pressured in all  the right places, she who pressed everyone she knew until she learned the truth.   Only she had been brave enough to confront him in a rage of horror and grief so  overwhelming that when it was over Sergio understood as never before the nightmare  of what he had done to his own flesh and blood.  And for what? A white marble palazzo?  A woman who had died at the feet of her husband, and had never loved anyone but him  in any case?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For what had he done it? his mother had screamed.  For the love of  Mussolini? \"That pig, Sergio? That pig? You killed my firstborn for him?\" He had  trembled in the wake of his mother's rage, and knew that he would spend the rest  of his lifetime trying to live with the truth.  He had denied everything to his mother,  denied that he betrayed Umberto, denied that he had done anything at all.  But she  had known, as had Serena.  Those brilliant green eyes of hers had bored into him  at the funeral, and he had been grateful to escape at last. Unable to fight the tides  of Mussolini, and unwilling to expose the horror of her son's fratricide to the whole  world, the elderly Principessa di San Tibaldo had taken Serena and  the oldest of  the servants and removed them from Rome. The palazzo was his now, she told him as  she stood for a last moment in the brilliantly lit black and white marble hallway.   She wished never to see him, or the house, again.  He was no longer her son, he  was a stranger, and for a last moment she had gazed at him with tears filling the  wise old eyes once more.  She shook her head slowly then and walked silently out  the door.","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304127713509,"sku":"NP9780440173700","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780440173700.jpg?v=1767735628","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/remembrance-isbn-9780440173700","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}