Though she couldn’t be certain, she sensed that today would be the day everything changed. The day sheknewwould come. The trouble was, she wasn’t ready. In the deepest corner of her heart, she knew she never would be.
Having lost everything once before, the gossamer-thin hold she had on her life was simply that. Impermanent. Fleeting. Ephemeral. And Lucia knew it could,and would, be taken away.
Just. Like.That.
due
From the corner of her eye, Lucia could sense Francesco watching her from his usual position on the cushioned bench by the bay window. His attention would flick between the view outside over the Grand Canal, the lesson plans piled up in his lap, and Lucia preparing lunch at the stove in the kitchen.
The nature of her open-plan apartment provided no corners to hide behind, and no shadows to cower in. No matter her attempts to convince him otherwise, Lucia felt that Francesco knew something was brewing.
With fingers devoid of their usual confidence and dexterity, Lucia dropped a more generous than intended pinch of saffron threads into the hot rice. She stirred again, watching as the thickening starch run-off took on the most glorious golden hue. It bled from the saffron, pooling in pockets before she moved it on once again with the wooden spoon. In went another ladleful of hot fish stock, and the pan bubbled fragrantly in reply.
Foscari made his way to the window seat overlooking Calle del Leone. He trotted up the fifteen-inch-tall dachshund-friendly staircase fashioned from outdated Italian grammar guides, and pressed his wet black nose to the glass. He gave a sweet little bark just as Lucia’s phone lit up.
Lucia flicked a few loose strands of hair from her eyes and glanced at the text preview on the screen. ‘Mariella’s here,’ she said, turning to face Francesco.
‘Vado io!’ He gestured that she should continue cooking. ‘You stir.’
Walking over to Lucia’s writing desk, positioned against the wall between her bed and the top of the staircase, he collected a small pink bucket. Inside was the spare key to the front door. A long line of sparkly cord was knotted securely to the wooden handle. He opened the window that faced Calle del Leone and waved to Mariella on the street.
She was wrapped tightly in a black knitted tunic which accentuated her short greying curls. ‘Buon venerdì!’ she called up to the open window, loud enough for all the neighbours to hear. She adjusted her purple half-moon glasses.
‘I hope you’re hungry. There’s a veritable feast waiting for you up here.’ Francesco slowly began to lower the bucket down to Mariella, one arm-length at a time.
‘I’m always hungry,’ she chortled, her round middle jiggling. She collected the key from the bucket and let herself into the building, after the necessary shoulder thrusts into the door jamb, of course.
‘Miro’s asked after you again, Mariella,’ Lucia said as she applied the final touches to the risotto. ‘You have a certain hold on him.’
Mariella grumbled. ‘I’m an old rotund widow.’ She removed her glasses and wiped them on her scarf. ‘With terrible vision. Who would want me?’
‘Besides us? Miro, evidently,’ interjected Francesco.
This time Mariella’s retort of disapproval came in the form of a belly laugh. ‘Let him pine. I don’t care in the slightest. He knows I’m not interested.’ Mariella was the first to notice that Lucia had set a fourth place at the table for lunch. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Lucia the superfluous low-lipped bowl.
‘No. Leave it. We have company today.’
Mariella and Francesco exchanged a loaded look.
‘Company?’ Francesco’s eyebrows knotted in confusion.
‘Yes.’ Lucia gave a short, frustrated sigh. ‘Edoardo Boscolo will be joining us today.’
‘And he is?’ Francesco pursed his lips.
‘The lawyer handling the settlement of Jacopo’s estate.’
Mariella suddenly seemed winded; it was as if her sails had drooped and she had come to a stop in a remote unknown harbour. ‘And . . .?’
‘Do I think he wants to talk about Jacopo’s share in the school? I hope so. But I don’t know. He simply said he had matters to discuss regarding Jacopo’s estate.’
‘Do you really want us here for this, Lucia? We can go.’ Francesco made to gather his things.
‘Ineedyou here. You are my chosen family. This concerns you as much as it concerns me.’
It was at that moment that Lucia’s phone chimed once again, and Foscari returned to the window as quickly as his stumpy legs would carry him.
Lucia checked the message. ‘It’s Edoardo. I’ll go let him in.’
