The Venice Sketchbook(53)

“It was for the last time,” I said. “I really have to go.”

I could feel tears welling at the back of my eyes, and I was going to get away before a tell-tale tear trickled down my cheek. I staggered blindly out into the sunlight. The heat from the pavement rose up, along with the watery smell of the canal, tinged with the not-too-pleasant odour of rotting vegetation. I crossed the piazza in front of the accademia, over the little humpbacked bridge, and plunged into the deep shade of the narrow calle beyond. Why was he doing this to me? Didn’t he care at all for my feelings? Then it struck me that he, too, was hurting. Tied to a woman he couldn’t love and who clearly didn’t love him. What could be worse? And then I realized there was one thing worse: to be in love with a man I could never have. To be left with nobody.





CHAPTER 20


Caroline, Venice, October 10, 2001

Caroline found she was holding her breath as she took a tentative step into the big silent room. As if on cue, the sun came out between billowing black clouds, sending a shaft of sunlight on to the water of the Giudecca Canal and the lagoon beyond. Caroline gave a small gasp of happiness. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered.

“Signora,” the man began, stepping up. “Or is it signorina?”

“It’s signora,” she replied, feeling uneasy about his hand touching her but not knowing how to shake him off without seeming rude. She turned to face him. “I am in the middle of a divorce. My husband moved to New York.” She felt stupid as soon as she had said it, as if she had wanted to let him know that she was available. Ridiculous.

“Signora,” he went on, “I am afraid that this document is a fraud. Somebody pulled the wool over your aunt’s eyes. Isn’t that the English expression?” He went to take it from her. “Now, if you will permit, I will take this to the Da Rossi lawyer, and he can verify if it is authentic or not.”

Caroline held on to the piece of paper. “You must think me very naive,” she said. “Do you think I’d let you take away the only proof that this apartment belongs to me? Something inconvenient would happen to it. It would fly out of a window, into a canal. ‘Oh dear. What a shame. So sorry.’”

“Oh no, I assure you . . . ,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Do not worry, signor. I will take it personally to your city hall. I am sure they can check it against their records of the time to see if it is still valid, and also check whether my aunt later sold her lease.”

She put the document back into her purse and started to walk around the room, pulling a dust cover off the item of furniture in the window. It proved to be a handsome inlaid lemonwood desk. “Oh.” She ran her hands over it. That Aunt Lettie had ever owned something as lovely . . . She opened a drawer and found it full of sheets of paper.

She took the top sheet out, gasped and looked up with a small, triumphant smile.

“Well,” she said, holding it up to the man, “I think this proves that my aunt once owned this flat, don’t you?” It was a drawing of the scene outside the window, and it was signed JB . “There you are. Juliet Browning. My great-aunt. She was an artist. I have some of her artwork with me, and I can tell you that this was done by her.”

“Juliet Browning?” He was still frowning. “An artist? Why would the Da Rossi family ever lease this place to a foreign artist? I don’t think they were ever great patrons of the arts.”

“Is there any older family member who might know?” she asked.

“Look,” he said, glancing at his watch, “it is lunchtime. I should get something to eat. I have a busy afternoon ahead.”

“That’s all right,” she replied. “I will take my document to the city hall and find the right department to verify its authenticity.”

“To what?” His English had been remarkably good so far, but this stumped him.

“Whether it still belongs to my aunt and therefore to me.”

“Ah,” he said. “Would you not care to join me for lunch?”

This threw her off guard. “What would your employer say about taking a lady to lunch when you should be working?” she asked.

This made him smile, completely changing his face. He was younger than she had thought, and the smile had a sort of cocky confidence. “Ah, well, you see, I am Luca Da Rossi. I have just taken over the running of this company from my father.”

“Congratulations,” she said.

“I am not so sure about that. I fear I have inherited a big headache.” He paused. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“Caroline,” she said. “Caroline Grant.”

“So, Caroline Grant, you will come to have lunch with me?”

She hesitated and wanted to say, “Are you trying to soften me up?” but instead she nodded graciously. There was no sense in having the owner of the building as an enemy. “Thank you,” she said. “I was beginning to feel hungry.”

Caroline locked the door behind her as they came down the stairs. She was already feeling possessive about the lovely space above. Now she could see why Aunt Lettie loved it here. They went down the three flights of stairs in silence and came out into blustery rain. Luca Da Rossi opened the umbrella he had retrieved from beside the front door.

“Come under,” he said. “I know a little place around the corner. Not far.”