Just as she reached the top of the staircase, Mariella caught her arm and pulled her close. ‘Lucia, Jacopo was a respectful man of his word. A gentleman. He loved you like a daughter. If he said he would leave you his share of the school, then that’s what he has done. Today should be just a formality.’ She squeezed Lucia’s arm reassuringly. ‘Please, try to relax.’
Lucia forced a smile then descended the stairs. Upon reaching the second floor, she stopped. She could almost feel her heartbeat in her ears, and a clammy cold sweat bathed the back of her neck. She took a moment to breathe, shaking out her hands by her sides, but all this did was bring to her attention the way her fingers trembled with fear. Something inside of Lucia wanted to believe Mariella. But after a lifetime of disappointments and false hopes, she wouldn’t be able to rest until La Scuola Rosa was rightly in her name. Andhername alone. Just as it had always been planned.
With another deep breath she collected herself, straightened the hem of her jumper and zhoozhed the length of her long ponytail. Then she continued downstairs, plastering the most genuine look of tranquillity across her pallid face as the universe would allow.
And there through the glass was Edoardo Boscolo, standing by the door looking up at the building and taking notes on a small yellow pad. Full-figured, wearing a navy suit paired with a white shirt and dark brown patent leather shoes, Lucia almost didn’t notice his bulging attaché case at first.
What did he have in there? Contracts, perhaps? Jacopo’s will? Would Edoardo deliver the news she had craved to hear since the night of her eighteenth birthday? On that occasion, Jacopo had slipped an envelope containing a birthday card into Lucia’s hand. But it wasn’t the money he had gifted Lucia that had made it a memorable occasion; it was the promise he had made in his trademark curly cursive that had pushed her confidently from child to woman.
‘Signorina Trevisan?’ Edoardo’s tapping on the glass pane of the door snapped Lucia from her vacant-eyed reverie.
‘Ah,mi scusi!’ With fidgeting hands she unlocked the door, gave it a proper pull, and welcomed him inside. ‘Benvenutoto La Scuola Rosa,’ she said, holding the door open and ushering him inside. ‘Please, follow me all the way up. My apartment is on the third floor.’
Edoardo followed her up the stairs, his breath becoming more laboured with each step.
‘Might I be so bold as to suggest that in future, guests are seen in the lower levels of the building? It might spare a heart attack or two. You wouldn’t want that liability on your conscience, now, would you?’
Lucia was caught off guard by Edoardo’s bluntness, but figured that given the nature of the meeting, shelving that sentiment would be best. ‘I’m sorry. Signor Boscolo, meet my colleagues and dearest friends, Mariella Sartori and Francesco Pavan.’ The three nodded to one another. ‘Here, please take a seat.’
Placing his attaché case beside his chair, Edoardo removed his jacket, slung it over the chair back and promptly sat down. ‘Grazie. And thank you also for the invitation to lunch.’ He reached across and poured himself a glass of white wine, taking a loud gulp before setting it back down.
Irritated by him already, Lucia needed to reset. Looking to Francesco, who was standing behind Edoardo, didn’t help. His curl-framed face had contorted with such disgust that it forced Lucia to muffle a giggle into the back of her hand. She feigned a cough. ‘This winter has been exceptionally cold and wet,’ she said, giving Francesco a jab in the ribs as she passed him on her way to the kitchen. ‘Mariella, Francesco, please, take a seat.’
With her back turned to her company she closed her eyes and sent a private message to the heavens.Please, let it all go to plan. Today would indeed betheday.
Lucia set the heavy pot of risotto down on a cast-iron trivet in the centre of the circular table. ‘Risotto alla milanese, Venetian-style, if you’ll permit me,’ she said, turning to collect a large roasting tray from the oven. She arranged it next to the pot, and the sight of the golden-topped turbot fillets sitting on a bed of roast potatoes, hand-split olives and wilted greens, drew sighs of appreciation from her diners. It was enough to distract her, even for a moment, from what Edoardo might be about to unleash.
Mariella served everyone a generous ladleful of risotto, watching the creamy concoction pour perfectlyall’ondainto the white bowls. The risotto’s soft saffron-tinted tone brought some levity and sunshine to the otherwise nerve-racked table. Mariella dropped a small scoop into Foscari’s bowl in the kitchen, too, for good measure.
‘Buonissimo,’ Edoardo announced, after taking his first bite. ‘It’s different somehow.’
‘Brodo di pesce,’ Lucia explained, pointing to the tall pot still on the hob, half-filled with her homemade fish stock. The bones and head of the turbot had come into their own.
Edoardo dug in again, shovelling down a decidedly more generous spoonful.
Lucia’s eyes darted between Francesco and Mariella. As if sharing one singular thought between them, she drew a bolstering breath and asked the question she already knew the answer to. ‘Allora, to what do we owe the pleasure, Signor Boscolo?’
With a mouth full of risotto, he said, ‘Edoardo.Per favore.’ In went another helping, followed by more wine. ‘The death of Jacopo Molin is what brings me to you.’ This was followed by more open-mouthed chewing. ‘Mi dispiace tantissimo. A wonderful man.’
‘A father figure,’ Lucia added, gesturing for Mariella and Francesco to eat.
‘I can see why. A long-standing client of mine, too.’
‘You mentioned on the phone that you had matters of Jacopo’s estate to discuss with me.’
With the first shred of manners evident since his arrival, Edoardo took the Burano lace-trimmed ivory napkin from the table and wiped his mouth. ‘Yes, but I see we now have company.’
‘You can speak freely at this table.’ Lucia smiled politely. ‘Mariella and Francescoaremy colleagues, but also the closest thing I have to family.’
‘Va bene,’ Edoardo said, setting the napkin down. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Signorina Trevisan.’
Lucia’s jaw tightened. ‘But not as I’d like it to,’ she said. ‘Jacopo’s estate?’
‘Sì.’ Edoardo pulled his glasses from his top pocket, resting them on the end of his bulbous nose. He pulled back slightly from the table and removed a hefty stack of papers from his attaché case, tapping the edges to right the pile. ‘Lucia,’ he began. ‘When did your parents open La Scuola Rosa with Jacopo?’
‘More than three decades ago,’ Mariella supplied.
‘Sì, esatto,’ Lucia confirmed. ‘This building was always in the family, and this is where my parents settled after they married. They only needed this space,’ she gestured to the apartment. ‘So it just made sense for thescuolato take up the two lower floors.’
