Page 19 of The Strength Of A Woman

I notice a historic building from the eighteenth century, but there’s no clue that Callum lives here.

I wish there were.

I wish I could stop at the door and ask one of his men, maybe even Cosimo, to take me to him.

Disappointed, I turn around and walk to the busiest part of town where tourists seek the best spots for having an early dinner, a snack, or coffee and dessert.

I cast a blank stare over the crowd moving back and forth down the streets like the eternally restless waves of the sea.

Eventually, I claim a spot myself.

A two-seat table next to an old building with amazing architecture and garlands of fresh lemons adorning the sinuous arching of the windows.

A mixed scent of grilled seafood, freshly cooked tomato sauce, lemons, and the sophisticated perfume and cologne drifting from the people rolls into my nostrils.

I ask for a glass of water and a cup of watermelon granita. Unlike other types, you can eat Sicilian granita with a spoon, and I can’t wait to dig in, and cheer myself up, since everything else has failed so far.

I keep myself busy with my dessert, my sunglasses still on, my eyes occasionally scanning the people.

Frankly, I expect nothing.

I can’t imagine that through a stroke of luck I’d see this man strolling down the street.

It’s impossible. It would make no sense.

Even if he’s still here, he could be in a thousand places. Eating, fucking, staring at the sea.

My gaze dips as I ponder my fate, when a gust of hope sweeps through my heart just as a swarm of voices lifts up in the air.

I look in that direction like everybody else. There’s nothing really. Just a group of noisy locals, when something else catches my eye.

Moving with stark determination in his step, followed by three men, Callum O’Hara crosses the street.

It’s like a slow-motion movie that leaves me breathless, with my dessert spoon frozen in the air.

He’s dressed sharply.

I’ve never seen him casually dress––I don’t think so––and as I tilt my head to follow him out of my current line of view, I notice the woman–Vittoria Petri––waiting for him at a table.

She wears a white dress with a seashell print, a halter neckline, and a pencil skirt.

Her hair is gathered up into a stylish bun, and she wears sunglasses for an added dash of mystery, just like me. Although mine are more of a necessity.

She smoothly peels them off and offers him a smile, while he pulls the chair across from her and takes a seat.

I have a good view of both of them right now––two people, a man and a woman, dining at a table for two––which leaves my hopes dashed and marinated like a cold side dish.

Mechanically, I reach inside my wallet and leave cash on the table as I muse over my next move.

What am I doing now?

Should I leave? I probably should.

It’s late already, and sitting here like a potted plant won’t change my destiny in the slightest.

Should I wait a little longer?

Maybe they’ll have theirPasta con le Sarde, a classic here, and then say jokes while drinking wine.