‘Olivia gave me a bowl ofzuppa. But I could still eat.’
Withdrawing the tray, he peered under the aluminium foil cover. ‘Cotolette.’
Lucia’s eyes softened. ‘Hard to believe just a few hours ago we weren’t speaking.’
‘I know . . . Will you be ok tonight? I can stay if you need me to.’
‘Grazie, but go. We’ll be fine here.’
‘Va bene. But I’m taking one of these for the road.’ He pinched a golden crumbedcotolettafrom the tray, and dropped a kiss to her forehead, missing the bandage. ‘And Ireally amsorry.’
Lucia stood by the stove where she had popped the tray ofcotolette. She cut one for Foscari and dropped the little cubes of crumbed veal into his bowl by the en suite door. His tail wagged contentedly as he devoured every last trace.
Lucia didn’t bother with a plate or fork, instead eating the cutlets cold and whole with her fingers until she felt sated.
Just as she bent down to check on Foscari’s meal-time situation, she felt something hard in her jeans pocket. Fishing it out, she saw that it was Benedetta’s business card.
Lucia sighed, remembering she hadn’t yet brought up the book deal offer with Francesco.
Tiziano had promised her €100,000ifthe ball turned a profit. She had a preapproved loan for €50,000. That left her with seventy-three days to find the remaining €30,000 she would need. Benedetta’s offer was still completely unthinkable, even if it meant securing the school. She shook her head and added the business card to the pile of paperwork on her desk. She would tell Francesco about it tomorrow.
Suddenly, Foscari turned sharply and tilted his head, cocking one silken ear in the direction of thecalle-facing window. He yapped, listened again, then yapped more fervently.
Lucia watched him bolt to his little staircase and trot to the window seat. Pressing his wet nose to the glass, his yaps morphed into barks.
‘Cosa c’è, amorino?’
Lucia pulled the sheer Burano lace from the window, and the sight of the illuminated windows directly across from hers made her stomach churn. Then, the lights went out, and Lucia’s lungs seemed to seize in her chest. She couldn’t look away.
Dropping a hand to catch Foscari’s chin, she whispered, ‘Bravo, Foscari.Bravo.’
His tail wagged and he dropped his little bottom to the seat, leaning into her warm and comforting pats.
Lucia suddenly bent forward. La Commedia’s main door had opened.
‘Ma no!’ she breathed, and moved closer to the glass. It was the sight of a leather-gloved grip catching La Commedia’s door that had caught her attention.
An intense curiosity ran through her.
‘Stay here!’ she called to Foscari.
Lucia wrenched open the tight front door and burst onto Calle del Leone.
The gelid night air caught in the back of her throat. It was so jarring that Lucia felt as if she had been disrobed and thrust onto the street as a sacrifice to the winter.
Catching her breath she looked up, but the door to La Commedia was closed once again.
What? How did I miss him? That was twenty seconds, at most!
She scurried to the door and gave the brass knocker a solid clap. But the only acknowledgement she received was the reverberating echo of her futile attempts from within.
Peering down thecalleto her right she saw no one. To her left was just dark empty space over the bridge and across the water. She let out a frustrated sigh, and it bounced off La Commedia’s crumbling façade.
She turned to look up at the third floor of her own apartment, and there, by the window, she could just make out the top of Foscari’s head bobbing up and down. His yips and yaps were muffled by the glass, but still audible to her trained ear.
What could she do?
She wanted to take hold of something. To grip and sink her fingers into something material. Something real. But inthismoment, nothing felt real at all. Everything was fleeting and conditional. Her life was suspended between potential and possibility, for better or worse.
