I shrug. “Confident, but in a sad way. I feel… smart, but notgood, if that makes sense?” My eyes lock with Gio’s. “Truthfully, I feel so much peace here with you, that it’s hard to overanalyze anything right now.”
Gio simply nods, saying nothing, before giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek, followed by one behind my ear. Then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a square envelope with my name written on it. “I made something for you.” He hands me the envelope. “You weren’t here, so I had to busy myself with something else.”
The envelope feels light in my hands, and when I slide my finger under the flap, the pad of my finger brushes smooth silk. I pull the fabric out of the envelope and smile. Another pebble for my collection.
The deep magenta silk, a near-perfect match for my favorite color, catches my eye first. The quality of the swatch is pristine. It almost looks like liquid, like it’s moving under the lamps of the shop. My thumb skims over some threading, and when I move it to the side, I suck in a sharp breath.
“Gio,” I whisper, placing my other hand on his chest. “It looks identical to?—”
“The sketch you showed me three years ago. You were doodling on your sketchpad while you waited for me, and I asked you what you were drawing. You never told me what it was, only that you were ‘dreaming above your paygrade.’ But I saw the letters.”
The corners of my lips tilt up, and I move my thumb back and forth over the two embroidered letters. My initials: TC. Gio didn’t miss a single detail. He captured the swooping “C,” expertly interlocking the “T” with no puckering. He even remembered the curved, vine-like line underneath the letters.
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
Gio nods to his pocket notebook on the table behind him, and chuckles. “I jotted it down. I’m sure you’ve thought of updates since then. But I wanted to give you something you could hold in your hands. ThatImade. As proof that Ialwaysbelieved in you, and I will always give you space to grow.” He kisses my forehead. “When—not if—you design your first line, I’ll be the first of your many loyal supporters.”
A tear runs down my cheek. It’s all so… so…
“Hey!” I exclaim as the swatch is snatched from my hands.
He shakes his head, watching my tear drop onto my sweater. “It’ssilk, Tessa. And I hand-stitched this.”
Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “But what about the whole ‘I’ll be your first supporter’ thing, huh?”
“Water weakens fibers,” he mutters, delicately placing the fabric on the table.
Smiling, I shake my head. “I have something for you, too. You know, I researched fig trees after that first day in Brescia. I wanted to learn more about them, in case they came up in conversation with your family. One of the things I learned is that fig trees are resilient. They’re able to survive in flood and drought-prone areas. They’re also strong. Living bridges created by the tree’s complex root system can sometimes be more reliable than man-made structures.”
I quickly walk over to where I dropped my bag, and Gio follows closely behind. I carefully retrieve the frame from my bag and hug it to my chest.
“The day you finished the appliqué, Lu came into the shop as I was packing up. You were in your office. She ended up telling me that it was your nonno’s last piece.”
I never shared with him what Lu told me, and even when we got closer, he never explained the meaning behind the appliqué.
“My stomach dropped when she told me, Gio. I felt awful that I forced you into using?—”
“You didn’tforceme.”
“But I persuaded you, and I almost changed it. I mean, Ididchange it. The fan shape still changed it. And I couldn’t let it go. Even though our relationship was shaky, I knew I couldn’t let the scraps go to waste. Not when they meant so much to you. So I gathered them up and brought them to Italy. The sewing book wasn’t theonlyreason I didn’t want you looking in my suitcase. The scraps were inside.”
His eyebrows are furrowed, head tilted in question. “Cara…”
I shake my head, wanting to continue. I practiced this speech last night, trying to get it perfect for him, and I don’t want to forget anything important. “I didn’t know what to do with the scraps, not at first. But as I grew closer to your dad, I had this idea. To put them in some sort of memory box for you. And your dad proposed a wooden frame made out of the fallen branches from the fig trees in your backyard.” I hold out the frame to Gio, where the scraps are protected behind glass. “Now, you can have a piece of the trees here in your shop.”
I suck in a nervous breath, hoping he likes it.
Gio’s eyes are wide. He opens his mouth to speak, but I place a hand on his arm to stop him.
“Can I just say one more thing?”
He nods.
“Sei l'amore della mia vita, Gio.”
I know my Italian is perfect. I’ve been practicing every day:you are the love of my life, Gio.
Gio’s lips part in surprise. He goes still for a moment, like he doesn’t dare breathe over the frame. Carefully taking it out of my hands, he studies it up close. His hand moves, seemingly on reflex, across the fig branches encasing the scraps. He trails the back of his finger over the glass. Then, he sets it gently on the table next to him.
