Despite her melancholy, she melted for him. ‘You’re just too kind.’
Upon seeing her cheeks flush, he winked. ‘Are you . . . eating alone?’ His tone was coy.
‘I have myusualFriday lunch company arranged.’ Her brows pinched. ‘And you know that.’
‘Oh?’ Miro readjusted hisberrettowith studied nonchalance.
Rolling her eyes she allowed herself a giggle. ‘You know who’s coming for lunch. Don’t play this game.’
Miro’s cheeks warmed. ‘Could you, you know . . . put in a good word for me? With her?’
‘What makes you think it will work this time?’
‘San Valentinois coming up. No one should be alone for the most romantic day of the year.’ His eyes were hopeful. ‘That includes you, Lucia. Despite how difficult every anniversary of your parents’ passing may be for you.’
Frowning, she said, ‘I’ll try with Mariella. But I’m not promising anything. You know how she feels.’
Miro nodded. ‘Grazie. And whatever it is that has stolen your light today, Lucia . . . I hope you work it out soon.’
Lucia smiled inwardly. She offered her hand, helping to haul him up to thefondamentafrom the dinghy. They shared two cheek kisses before she whispered in his ear, ‘Graziefor always being there for me, Miro.’
‘We almost weren’t today,’ he stage-whispered, offering some levity. He cast his eyes back to Giorgio and Pietro, still fussing in the dingy. ‘Facciamo sempre tardi!’
Lucia managed a laugh as she bid them farewell. She untangled Foscari’s lead, then turned and headed in the direction of the Rialto. Though she felt a little lighter, the unknown of what lay ahead at lunch loomed over her.
Pietro watched her go, mesmerised. ‘Do you think she’s aware of the attention she gets?’ he asked his brother.
‘If she is, I don’t think she cares,’ Giorgio said, uninterested. ‘Like me.’
‘Eh!’ Miro barked at his sons, hurrying them along. Tossing them the ends of a sopping wet fishing net, he continued, ‘Why doesn’t one of you do something about it and ask her to dinner? Lucia is one of a kind.’
‘Oh, no, Papà. She may be beautiful, but . . .’ Pietro lowered his voice, speaking directly to his brother. ‘You know what they say about her.’
Giorgio sighed. ‘I still don’t care.’
‘Temptation personified. Venice’s most untouchable.L’Orfana.’ With Miro now walking in the direction of themercatoand out of earshot, Pietro continued, ‘The man who learns to tame her will become legendary.’
Giorgio rolled his eyes. ‘Ifsheever lets that happen.’
Pietro watched Lucia disappear into the crowd of market-goers, leaving a palpable trail of curiosity and desire behind her.
Turning onto the three-metre-wide Calle del Leone, just a few paces from home, Lucia drew no attention. Noting some debris and muddy water gathered at the street’s lowest point, she exhaled in frustration, causing Foscari’s little nose to immediately tilt skyward to check on her. The overnight high tide always left its calling card, taunting Lucia with its careless deposits of stagnant lagoon waste in her most precious corner of Venice. For this, she despised it.
Approaching her pale pink three-storey palazzo, Lucia removed her gloves, carefully tucking each in the respective pockets of her coat. Foscari, patiently awaiting his freedom, knew to sit still so that Lucia could release him from his leash. He gave a friendly yap in the direction of a man who was sitting on the cool grey pavers, his back against the glossy black door of Lucia’s Italian language school – La Scuola Rosa.
A manicured mop of dark brown curls gathered around Francesco’s forehead and ears, framing his striking profile. His eyes remained fixed on the book cradled in his hands. With his legs stretched out long and straight in front of him, he was the epitome of Italian style: the burgundy tapered cotton trousers cinched in at his ankles met an immaculate pair of chocolate-coloured suede loafers, paired with a crisp white linen shirt and burnt-orange merino knit. It was the perfect combination of trend and comfort.
Francesco underlined key passages in his book with the pencil that lived near-permanently behind his right ear. His eyes feverishly scanned each line, seeking out moments worth returning to. He underlined another, nodding with satisfaction as he did so. Then, spotting Foscari, he tapped the top of his thigh with his free hand, welcoming the dog to his side. Without lifting his gaze, he licked his right index finger, preparing to turn the page.
‘You’re early.’ Lucia smiled, proffering a hand to pull him from the ground. ‘No coat again today, I see.’
‘You know I’m hot-blooded.’
‘Checco, it’s four degrees. Even Foscari has his wintercappottinoon.’
Ignoring both her comment and her outstretched hand, Francesco banged his fist passionately against the cover of the now-closed book. His lesson plan notes fluttered beside him. ‘It’s even better than I predicted,’ he beamed. His warm breath birthed small clouds of condensation on the wintry breeze. ‘Thisis exactly what we’ve been talking about for years, Lucia. The tendency towards cultural inertia and the resulting stagnation of societal values.’ Standing tall he gathered his belongings, and Foscari’s long little body ran a series of circles around his feet.
‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,’ Lucia said, rummaging through her handbag. ‘I only bought it for you so that I can borrow it once you’re finished.’
