The Venice Sketchbook(55)

“Yes,” she said.

“I was married, too,” he blurted out. “She was killed one month after the wedding. In a car crash.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.” He sighed. “She had drunk too much. I should not have let her drive. Now I live with that.”

“You can’t be responsible for another person.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No.”

His gaze held hers, and for a moment Caroline was conscious of the connection between them. It almost felt that this handsome stranger was reading her thoughts. Embarrassed, she looked down and toyed with her napkin, glad when the man with the moustache appeared with a plate containing some dubious and unidentifiable bits and pieces. She could see the whiskers of a prawn head poking out of batter, and the tiny tentacles of a squid. It looked quite alarming, and Caroline took a tentative bite. The flesh of the squid was light and tender inside the crispy batter.

She looked up and nodded. “It’s good.”

“You have never tried it before?”

“I’ve tried calamari, but not like this.”

“Our seafood is the best,” he said. “And the venison, at this time of year. You wait until you try it. In Venice, we eat well—if you know where to eat.”

“Do you live in the city?” she asked.

“Me? I now have a flat on the Lido, overlooking the sea. I like it there better. More space. My family has a palazzo in the city. You know Palazzo Rossi? It is now a five-star hotel. My father gave it up years ago. Too expensive to keep up, with all the staff needed and the repairs. So now he has an apartment in one of the new buildings on the Grand Canal, and a hotel company leases the palazzo from us.” He looked up with a satisfied grin. “It’s quite profitable, apart from now, when nobody dares to travel.” A waiter whisked their plates away, and Luca refilled their glasses.

“And you, Signora Grant, where do you live? What do you do?”

“I have been living in London. My husband and I were both in the fashion industry. He designed, and I work for a women’s magazine.”

“Very nice.”

“It was. Until he went off to New York and met that woman.” She was amazed at the anger in her voice.

“Ah. So now what will you do? Continue to live in London and work at your fashion magazine?”

“I’ve just moved in with my grandmother. She’s all alone in the country now that my great-aunt has died. It’s very peaceful.”

“You need peace?”

“I think so. I need to accept what has happened.”

He looked up suddenly and leaned across the table towards her. “I think you need to fight,” he said. “The husband keeps your son. You want him back. Peace won’t help you.”

“No,” she said, “you’re right. But he holds all the cards right now: He’s become rich. He’s with a famous, powerful woman. And he claims her psychiatrist is telling him my son shouldn’t fly.”

“A famous woman?”

“Desiree—the singer?”

“Oh, her!” He gave a disparaging smirk. “I remember reading about this. He wins the fashion competition and then goes off with the singer, right?” He shook his head. “Don’t worry. It won’t last. If you want him back, he will come crawling, I promise you.”

“You think so?” she asked.

He nodded. “Of course. Fame is a great seducer, but most famous people are—how do you say?—shallow. They want to be adored, no more. That gets tiring.”

As he spoke, plates of venison were put in front of them, and they fell silent as they ate the tender meat in a rich red sauce surrounded by tiny potatoes and green beans. When the plates were cleared, cups of coffee and little almond cakes were brought.

“That was delicious, thank you,” Caroline said.

Luca reached into his wallet. “Here is my card,” he said. “Call me when you have checked with our city records. If the apartment is yours, then it’s yours. I don’t understand it, but I accept it. And I urge you to be careful, because there is renovation taking place in the building. Will you want to stay there, do you think?”

She hadn’t thought about it. It seemed like a wonderful idea. “I might.”

“So please call me, and we can arrange to visit my grandmother and see what she knows.”

The man with the moustache came to help them on with their coats. They stepped out into the blustery day. Luca took her hand. “Arrivederci , Signora Caroline. It was an interesting meeting.”

“Goodbye, Luca. Thank you for a lovely lunch.” The words came out mechanically, her British manners kicking in. She walked away feeling excited but confused. Was Luca Da Rossi a charming enemy? If he was renovating the building to turn into apartments, he’d obviously like to get back that spectacular top floor. And she was a foreigner here. She would have to tread very carefully.

She walked briskly across Dorsoduro, not really noticing the dripping water from balconies above or the brisk wind that drove her. She had an overwhelming desire to have her claim proven valid. She was not going to let some stranger acquire her aunt’s Venetian retreat. The fact that the first thing she had discovered had been a drawer full of her aunt’s sketches had confirmed that Aunt Lettie had lived in that place for some time. Now she was dying to explore the rest of it—to find out just what her aunt had been doing there. She supposed the explanation was simple: Granny had said that Aunt Lettie was given some sort of bursary to study abroad for a while. So she had gone to Venice and rented a place while she studied. Except . . . why would she need a ninety-nine-year lease for an apartment if she was studying for a few months? And where had the money come from to buy such a lease? It was, as Luca could see, prime real estate.