Now that Vincent was truly gone, the corner of her heart which had forced her to keep Marco at arm’s-length seemed to wane in its resolve.
He really is gorgeous. And the most perfect man . . .
. . . for me.
A little overwhelmed by the sudden surge of adrenaline brought on by this revelation, she quickly changed the subject. ‘Will you give me the grand tour?’
The apartment was small, as was to be expected in this quarter of Rome. For an apartment inhabited by three hardworking men who spent little time at home, Stella thought it was exceptionally neat and tidy. The kitchen area joined the lounge room, divided only by the kitchen bench which doubled as their dining table. It was filled with mismatched odds and ends of furniture, but felt homey.
‘And this is our room.’ He pushed open the door, turning on the bedside lamp. Their shadows immediately danced across the walls. Two double beds sat at opposite ends with a writing desk and chair in between. ‘Sharing with Ignazio is fine. We never see each other. He works while I sleep, and he sleeps while I work.’
‘What’s that you’re reading?’ She pointed to a large hardcover book sitting open and upside down on the desk.
Marco pounced on it. ‘It’s nothing.Niente.’
‘No, seriously. What is it? You always talk to me about what you’re reading.’
Marco exhaled in defeat and handed it to her. Heavier than it looked, Stella’s hands almost gave way under its weight. ‘L’arte rinascimentale: una storia. You’re reading about Renaissance art?’
‘Sì.’
‘Why are you reading this?’
Taking it from her, he admitted, ‘Because, I’m afraid that when you start your new job, I’m not going to have anything interesting to talk to you about. Everything will be new and exciting for you. On a grand scale. I want to know as much as possible about your world and work so I don’t lose you. I would miss our chats if we couldn’t find anything to talk about.’
Stella’s heart swelled. And that, right there, was the essence of Marco. Kind, selfless, thoughtful. Her heart caught a new rhythm she could no longer deny, and it echoed his name.
‘That’s the sweetest thing I think I’ve ever heard. Marco, we will always have things to talk about. That’s us.’
Closing the book, he placed it back down on the desk. ‘You weren’t meant to know. I feel so embarrassed.’ He stifled a laugh.
‘Please don’t be.’ She reached across and stroked the back of his arm tenderly, then sat on the nearest bed. ‘Is this yours?’
He sat beside her, smoothing the covers. ‘Sì.’
Built into the bedhead were two rows of narrow shelves, both completely filled with a series of matching tattered novels, each with a purple spine. There must have been twenty of them, all lined up perfectly. She took one from the shelf and read the author’s name:G. Vitale.Stella thumbed the pages. ‘Wait a second. These are romance books. What happened to the literary fiction and classical texts?’
‘They’re good, but these . . .’ He took one from the shelf. ‘These are special.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a romance reader.’
A loving smile suddenly formed across his face. ‘Mamma wrote these.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ Stella gushed. She traced her fingers over the name. ‘What does the G stand for?’
‘Giuditta.’
Stella suddenly stared through Marco. ‘Giuditta?’
‘Sì. In English it’s—’
‘Judith.’
‘It’s not a common name in Italy anymore. It’s old-fashioned. But it’s a very strong name. A courageous name. Like Mamma. Papà said she fought her battle to the end.Fino all’ultimo respiro. Giuditta. Our warrior.’
‘It’s a beautiful name. It’s perfect, in fact.’ Stella closed her eyes and held the book close to her chest. The reverberations of her heartbeat pulsed against its weathered cover, and in Stella’s trembling grasp, it felt as if the book itself were alive.
‘When I read them, it’s like she’s with me. In the room. In my life. Everything I know about love . . . any kind of love . . . it’s all from her.’
