The Venice Sketchbook(54)

Feeling awkward, Caroline allowed him to hold the umbrella over her. She was conscious of his shoulder touching hers. The wind was driving the rain so forcefully that the umbrella didn’t protect them very well. They were both damp and windswept by the time he steered them into a small trattoria. Once inside, he helped her off with her mac and hung up his own overcoat. Having been in the fashion industry, she noticed the label. Armani. Very expensive. Apparently Luca was well known and was shown to the table in the window by a large, florid man with a moustache. A quick exchange happened in something that didn’t even sound like Italian, then the man disappeared and came back with a bottle of white wine.

“Oh, I don’t think I should drink at lunchtime,” Caroline protested.

“But everybody drinks at lunchtime. Why else would there be a riposo ?” He laughed. “The patron tells me that he has good fritto misto today. You like?”

“I’ve never tried it. But I’m happy to.”

“And venison. This is the season for good venison from the hills.”

“You eat a large lunch,” she said as a waitress put a jar of breadsticks, a basket of rolls, a dish of olives and a bottle of olive oil in front of them.

“It is usually our big meal,” he said. “More healthy. We sleep well because we do not have indigestion.” He paused, then added, “And because we have a clear conscience.” His eyes gave a flicker of amusement, almost flirtation.

Caroline took a sip of the wine—rich and fruity and warming—and broke a piece off one of the breadsticks, acutely aware that she was sitting opposite a strange man who would no doubt try to get his hands on the apartment that appeared to belong to her.

She took a deep breath before saying, “Signor Da Rossi, is there somebody in your family who might know anything about my aunt and how she came to lease this place?”

Luca frowned. “My father is too young. He was not born in 1939. My grandfather was killed in the war, and my great-grandfather died in 1960 something. My grandmother is still alive . . .”

“She might know.”

He nodded, cautiously. “She is not always—how do you say?—clear in the head now. She is an old woman. Almost ninety. But we could try. I suggest that you attempt to prove that your piece of paper is not a fake and is still valid first, so that we don’t bother her unnecessarily.”

“Very well,” she said. “I should first check at your city hall, is that right?”

He shrugged. “Really, our lawyer could do this quite efficiently.”

“I’d prefer to hear it for myself,” she replied, her eyes holding his. She was surprised to find his were dark blue, not brown as she had expected. “Where do I find the town hall or the city offices?”

“Ca’ Loredan is the town hall,” he said. “A former palazzo on the Grand Canal, close to Rialto. But you may find that ancient records like yours are kept somewhere else. Venetians do not like to do anything efficiently. There are no big beautiful city halls as you might find in America. Things are dotted around the city.”

“You know America?” she asked, because she had detected a slight American accent to his pronunciation.

“I spent a year at Columbia University,” he said, “studying economics. And my mother is from there.”

“Your mother is American?”

He nodded. “She is from New York. She met my father when she was a student. She came to do her junior year from Radcliffe here.”

“And your parents are still alive? Still married?”

“Quite happily, it would seem. My father has just turned sixty and has decided to step back from the day-to-day running of the company. I have a sister who lives in Australia. They like to visit her and the grandchildren. They are there right now. It seems that grandchildren are a great attraction, and so far I have not managed to produce any.” He gave a wry little grin. “You have children?”

“One son. Edward, or rather Teddy. He’s six.”

“And who looks after Teddy when you come here?”

“He’s with his father in New York.”

He must have noticed the spasm of pain on her face. “Madonna! But he is safe and well after the terrible tragedy?”

“Thank God yes, but now he’s afraid to fly, apparently. Or at least, that’s what his father says. Or his father says that’s what the psychiatrist says.”

He frowned. “An excuse to keep him?”

“It might seem that way.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And so you escape to a beautiful place so that you don’t worry too much?”

This suggestion was a little too close to the truth. She fought back the snapped answer but said primly, “I am here out of respect to my great-aunt who just died. The one whose flat I have just inherited. I have brought her ashes.”

He held up a hand. “Sorry. I did not mean to pry.”

“You’re not prying, and of course this whole thing is very raw at the moment. My husband just left me, and now he won’t return my son.” She held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be unloading my troubles on a stranger.”

He was looking at her with what seemed to be real concern. “Not at all. I understand how you feel. Grief and worry. They can eat away at a person.”