The book of love

I had laid eyes on a much older version of that manuscript in 1996, a few weeks after Franco and I met. A mutual friend had introduced me, the long-divorced 63-year-old, to the widower just turning 70, and we immediately became inseparable. Even though we had just met, I had known about Franco for years -- from his popular cooking show on PBS and his restaurant, Romagnoli’s Table, in Faneuil Hall. In fact, because I used to live in Italy, I would eat there often and had bought Franco’s cookbooks.

I first spied the manuscript when Franco had opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and I saw a large sheaf of papers titled “Over Here.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Oh,” said Franco with resignation, “that’s a manuscript I’ve been working on forever, about growing up in Italy during the war. It’s seen lots of publishers who’ve all said no, so I’ve given up on it.”

A few weeks later, on our first trip together to the island of Vieques, I spent languid days in a hammock reading his pages. I loved it and told him we had to get it published.

“It’s all yours,” said Franco.

I contacted his longtime literary agent, who had also given up after having received numerous letters full of high praise from publishers who then turned the book down because it wasn’t for “their market.” Thus began my foray into the mysterious world of publishing. A short time after Franco and I married, I sought out agents and editors, all of whom loved it but said it needed work, and certainly a new title. Nobody will know what “Over Here” means, they said. But for Franco it had great meaning, because the American soldiers marching into Rome were singing the old World War I song “Over There” while he said to himself, “For me, it’s ‘Over Here’ in Italy where I live.”

Months and years passed while Franco rewrote and edited. And then, suddenly, Franco became ill and was diagnosed with kidney disease. We knew that our vows -- in sickness and in health -- could mean more of the former because of our ages, but it never occurred to us that sickness would come so soon.

As time went by, Franco went on dialysis, a transplant failed, he got sicker. Meanwhile, I plodded ahead looking for a home for his book. By lucky chance, I was introduced to Joy, another agent, who loved the manuscript, accepted it, and gave it a new title. She was vigorous and unrelenting, advising further rewriting. Franco worked with her until he pronounced he had achieved the final version.

Sometime last year, we learned how to do Franco’s kidney treatment at home. We would hook him up each evening to a machine that would do the dialysis for him all night. Then in the morning, we’d unhook it and start as normal a day as we could. Before turning it off, I would write down the numbers it showed, go downstairs, and transcribe them in my faithful “kidney book.” These numbers would tell us how Franco was doing that day.

Just about that time, Joy announced she had at last found a publisher.

The day after the postman came, I woke up and Franco wasn’t there beside me. The dialysis machine stood silent in the corner perched on the table he had made for it. My pad of paper lay on the bedside table, but there were no numbers to write down. I didn’t know how to start the day without the numbers.

Downstairs, I looked over at the rolltop desk and expected to see him sitting there at his computer, tapping away with two fingers, as always. Perhaps he’s started that book about his time as a chef, or he’s typing out his latest recipe or short story, or he’s working on still another version of the memoir.

That memoir forms the bookends of our life together. Maybe, I think, if it had never been finished, he’d still be here with me.

Gwen Romagnoli lives in Watertown. Franco’s book The Bicycle Runner: A Memoir of Love, Loyalty, and the Italian Resistance comes out this month. Send comments to coupling@globe.com.

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