The Other Einstein(39)

Chugging car by car into the vaulted, airy station, my suspicions proved true. An empty platform with an equally empty café greeted me. No one else seemed to be present at this early hour other than a lone ticket-taker in the barred ticket window.

But then, at the farthest end of the station, I saw a figure. Squinting through the haze of the steam-filled station, I recognized Albert’s distinctive silhouette. Grabbing my bags, I hobbled down the long aisle toward the door nearest him. When the train finally halted, I stepped down into his waiting arms. He picked me up and swung me around.

Lowering me to the ground, he whispered into my ear, “My heart is pounding. I have waited so long for this.”

Steadying my dizziness by staring into his eyes, I said, “I have as well.”

Lifting the bags off my shoulders and hoisting them upon his own, he said, “Come, my little sorceress. I have much to show you.”

We meandered through the wakening streets of Como. My hand nestled in the crook of his arm, he led me down the cobblestone streets and into the fifteenth-century duomo that loomed over the town. Treading down the black-and-white-tiled central nave, Albert guided me to two fading but intricate Flemish tapestries and to three beautiful paintings by Bernardino Luini and Gaudenzio Ferrari.

“These paintings of the Madonna and Child are exquisite.” Eyebrows raised at his expert direction, I asked, “But how did you know they were here?”

“I arrived yesterday afternoon so I could map out our day. I wanted to ensure a perfect holiday for us.” Eyes crinkling at the corners, he smiled at the success of his uncharacteristic planning. “I’ve also scouted out the best coffee in Como, which I’m sure you could use after your overnight train, Dollie.”

I squeezed his arm. “You’ve thought of everything, Johnnie.”

As we dunked our soft bread into steaming cups of coffee, Albert described our plans. We would wander the Como streets until noon, when we’d board the boat bound for Colico, a three-hour trip to the north end of the lake. But we would hop off midway through the journey at the small fisherman’s port of Cadenabbia, where we’d visit the Villa Carlotta, famous for its fourteen acres of gardens.

He made no mention of where we would be spending the night, and I did not ask. I was both excited and scared about what the evening might bring. Its promise hovered between us like an anticipated but unfamiliar dessert.

After a morning spent staring at the luxurious goods displayed in the Como shop windows—the affluent people of Milan had begun flooding Lake Como’s shores—we boarded the boat. The waves lapping its side seemed impossibly azure in the sparkling sunlight, and soon, it became so warm I removed my coat. With Albert’s arm around me and the sun’s rays on my face as we watched the ancient shoreline castles of Lake Como pass by, I almost felt like purring. Never before had we been so carefree or so able to display our feelings.

The gardens of Villa Carlotta did not disappoint. After crossing what seemed like endless marble staircases and walkways, we arrived at a kaleidoscopic landscape of verdant green, riotous red and pink, and shocks of yellow. Over five hundred species of shrubs and one hundred and fifty varieties of azaleas and rhododendrons alone competed for our attention. Even the plentiful sculptures by Antonio Canova could not compare with nature’s full bloom.

I leaned close to one of the fuchsia flowers, wanting to breathe deeply of its scent, when a guard rushed to my side. “Non toccare!” he warned me. No touching.

Stepping back, I said to Albert, “They are all the more beautiful because we cannot pluck a single flower.”

With a wry smile, he said, “That’s how I’ve felt about you all these years. My unplucked flower.”

I laughed. One of us had finally broached the unspoken topic.

“I hope you still feel that way after this holiday,” I teased and then strolled off to examine a particularly bright red azalea.

I’d been somewhat saucy with Albert for years, but still, I surprised myself with the remark. Where had I learned to be so coquettish?

The patter of his footsteps increased behind me, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist. “I can hardly wait until tonight,” he breathed into my ear.

My cheeks flushed, and a warmth spread over me. “Me too,” I whispered back and leaned into his arms.

Colico was not our final destination. We escaped the dreary, seaside town at the end of the boat route by hopping on a train for a short ride to Chiavenna. Although the sky was darkening and I couldn’t observe the village in detail, Albert described it to me as a quaint, ancient place, tucked into a beautiful valley at the foot of the Alps. He had visited once before, years ago, he said, and wanted to return with his love in hand.

His love.

Hungry and weary, we ambled out of the train station and into a small inn two blocks away that had a sturdy if a bit plain edifice. Albert pushed open the heavy oak door and introduced himself to the innkeeper, a haggard, older woman seated at a desk in the foyer. “My wife and I would like a room for tonight if one is available?” Albert asked.

I almost giggled at the sound of “my wife,” but when I thought of the duties that came along with the role, I quieted. Nerves set in.

The innkeeper glared at him. Not the welcome I’d anticipated. “Where are you from?”

“Switzerland.”

“You don’t look Swiss. And you don’t sound it,” she croaked to him.