‘That’s why it’s hard for you to let them in?’
‘I let you in! And to be perfectly honest with you, it petrifies me.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not worried about you dying on me, Mia.’
I turn my body ever so slightly away from him. ‘But I am,’ I whisper, my eyes fighting back the tears. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. Six, twelve, eighteen months from now, when we are in so deep, I don’t want you to watch me die.’
He takes hold of my shoulders and waits until I look up at him and our eyes lock. ‘We are already so completely beyond deep.’ He takes my hands in his and moves in closer. ‘Listen to me, Mia. Nobody gets a guaranteed survival rate. Not me, not you, not anybody.’
‘Nobody,’ I repeat.
‘Come here.’ He pulls me into his arms. Leaning back against the tree so that I’m resting against him, he holds me in his arms, resting his head against mine, leaving me to contemplate things. Slowly, the truth seeps its way in. I’ve been spending all of this time focused on that one figure. Paralysed by it.
‘I don’t know what I expected. Maybe when they told me the figures, I wanted them to tell me it was all going to be okay. That there would be no chance of a recurrence. I wanted a guarantee. A guarantee to make me feel safe.’
‘They’re doctors, Mia. They don’t have crystal balls. If that’s what you were expecting, they’d never be able to tell you what you wanted to hear.’ He slips his fingers through mine.
‘How did you get to have such a beautiful mind?’ I lovingly touch his face and wrap my legs around his. Placing my lips over his, I kiss him with all the tenderness within me, and when we finally pull apart, I’m left panting.
‘Looks like you need to catch your breath, painter girl.’
‘It seems to be a side effect I’m experiencing since I met you.’
‘Not sorry.’ He laughs softly then, making me want to kiss him all over again.
‘Could we do it?’
‘Do what?’ he asks.
‘Go scuba diving sometime?’
‘Yeah, we should definitely do that someday.’ He guides me to the ground. He’s lying on top of me now and I wrap my arms around his neck, never wanting to let him go. I’m almost certain I’ve never felt so completely safe in my life.
‘Luca?’
‘Yes, bella Mia?’
‘Is this what the beginning of love looks like?’ I ask, losing myself in his eyes.
‘I’m not sure. But it’s definitely what it feels like.’
I anchor into my happy thoughts and lean into the feeling of blossoming love, where numbers mean nothing and life is every shade of absolutely wonderful.
THIRTEEN
A week later, the art exhibition for Clara is finally ready to be revealed. The boys each have three paintings to display, which I’ve helped them mount in cardboard frames on the entrance wall.
‘Your mum will be so proud,’ I say, stepping back to admire their work. I asked the boys to recall three of their fondest memories for their paintings. Massimo painted a Formula One scene, a beach scene and a Christmas scene, while Alessandro portrayed himself riding a bike, being tickled by his dad, and another cuddling a baby girl. I’m pleased that Clara has been depicted with a smile on her face in this one, but I’m nervous about her reaction to Alessandro’s drawing.
She arrives home just before seven. The boys have covered the display with a black cloth and are standing beside it with excited smiles on their faces.
‘What’s this?’ asks Clara, setting down her briefcase. She places her keys on the table and stands back to admire her sons’ work.
‘This is our art exhibition called Things That Make Us Happy,’ says Alessandro.
‘One, two, three!’ says Massimo, as they both pull down the cloth, revealing their frames.
A smile spreads across Clara’s face; she appears genuinely relaxed and engaged. She steps towards the first painting and says, ‘Massimo, I bet this is yours. You’ve always loved Ferraris.’ He nods enthusiastically, drinking in his mother’s praise. ‘And this one was done by Alessandro, because you’re the one in the family who loves tickles,’ she says, tickling him under the arms. She comments on the rest of the paintings and then pauses when she reaches the last one with Alessandro cuddling his late sister.
‘Come here,’ she says, kneeling down, pulling the twins closer to her. She rests her head on Alessandro’s generous head of curls and then plants a kiss on each of their cheeks. She’s visibly moved and I can’t help feeling joyous about it, understanding the way that art has the potential to heal and connect one to emotion.
After what feels like a long time, Clara stands up and asks me almost nervously, ‘Mia, would you like to stay for dinner?’
I find myself reacting with an unintentional look of surprise. Usually our greetings and salutations are cool and brief. ‘Only if you don’t have other plans,’ she adds.
‘No, not at all. I’d love to,’ I reply, unable to hide my smile.
Clara prepares dinner while I help set the table. She doesn’t mention the artwork until the boys are in bed, when she invites me to stay for a cup of tea.
‘Mia, what you’ve done with the boys, it’s helping immensely. And not just in the way you might think.’
‘Oh?’
‘Let me explain.’ She reaches for the teapot and holds the lid with one hand while pouring the steaming hot liquid into two cups. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘The boys adore you. You’ve only been with us a few short weeks, but I’m already seeing a change in their behaviour. They seem much happier.’
‘I’m pretty fond of them, too,’ I reply.
‘They miss their father. Things haven’t really been the same since a tragedy that occurred in our family earlier this year. Bert started working a lot more then, as a means of escaping from the real problem.’
I nod. ‘Clara, I should tell you something—’
Clara shakes her head. ‘It’s all right. I know you found Isabella’s box. The boys told me. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to tell you about her.’
My body instantly tenses up. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you I found it. It was completely accidental …’
‘I know, Mia. It’s fine,’ she says, resting her hand on mine. ‘I was just saying that Bert didn’t cope very well with it all. Things between us have changed and we have some work to do.’ She sighs. She pats her eyes dry with a handkerchief that she pulls from the pocket of her pants. ‘Let me show you something.’
She leaves the room and returns a minute or so later with the pink-and-white-striped box, which she places on the table between us—Isabella’s box. Her hands glide over the surface as though she’s wiping away invisible traces of dust from it, and a dull ache inside me starts to amplify. She lifts off the lid and pulls the baby clothes from the box. ‘Isabella was with us for nearly two years and has been gone for six months. I brought her home from the hospital in this outfit,’ she says, smiling as she inhales. She lays it on the table in front of me and I want to touch it, to feel the softness of it, but I know that if I do I’ll break down. I sit there, frozen, staring at it, thinking about how Clara’s daughter has been taken from her.
‘I still can’t believe she’s gone, that I’ll never hear the sound of her laughing again. She loved to laugh. She made us all laugh.’ Clara closes her eyes and holds the outfit close to her, as if she’s praying, or remembering. Whatever she’s doing has thrown me, and I can barely keep myself composed.
‘Was she sick?’ I ask, gulping down my emotions.
‘She had a congenital heart defect. We hoped that the surgeries might have corrected things, but we lost her after the third operation.’
Hearing Clara talk about Isabella like this is making me so uncomfortable that I’m fighting the intense desire to walk away, because seeing her grieving like this is almost too much for me to handle.
‘I’m sorry to hear
about everything you’ve been through. Losing a daughter …’ My voice cracks. ‘Must have been the hardest thing to …’
Clara looks at me through bloodshot eyes, her face twisting into a grimace. She blows her nose and reaches over, her fingers closing over my hands. She’s shaking. I look at Isabella’s box sitting between us and feel the staccato breath rise in my chest as I inhale.
‘I’m sure that if Isabella was old enough, she would have told you that she’d want to see you happy. She wouldn’t have wanted you to stop living because of her.’
She raises a hand to her mouth and takes a deep breath.
‘Mia, those pictures showed me how much the boys need me, the best version of me, the mother they remember, not some hazy memory of a mother that once was. And for that, I’m extremely grateful.’
‘You’re going to be fine,’ I say, almost breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Yes, I am.’ She smiles, and this time, she looks me straight in the eyes, and it does appear effortless.
She pours me another cup of tea and places the items back in Isabella’s box. ‘You know what, Mia, I think I’ll take the day off tomorrow. It’s about time we did something together as a family. How would you like to join me and the boys for a visit to the Uffizi?’
‘I’d really love that.’
She lifts her cup of tea with a smile, clinks it on mine. ‘To new beginnings.’
The first thing I do when I come home to the villa is call my mum.
‘Mia! Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine. I just wanted to … hear your voice. I wanted to make sure you and Dad are okay.’
‘We’re fine, honey. We miss you, but we’re okay. He’s taking me to play golf today. And you won’t believe this, but I enrolled in cake-decorating classes.’
‘That’s great, Mum. You’ve been wanting to do that forever. But golf?’
‘I’m doing the golf to appease your dad. I’m sure he’ll be so impressed with my swing he’ll be sure not to ask me to go again.’ She laughs. A relaxed laugh, a genuine laugh, a laugh that’s free from burden. I miss her laugh.
‘Anyway, enough about us. Tell me about things. Your new job—are they treating you well?’
‘I love it here.’ I pause. ‘I, uh … I met someone …’
Now it’s Mum’s turn to pause. ‘You mean a … boy?’
‘More like a man, Mum. His name is Luca.’ I’m sure she can hear me smiling through the phone.
‘You’re happy,’ she says, the relief in her voice evident. ‘I’m happy, too, darling. I wish you were here, but I’m happy, too.’
I hesitate to speak, acutely aware of the silence between us as I ponder the thing on my mind that’s tying my stomach into knots.
‘Mia? Are you still there?’
‘I’m here … Clara, the lady I work for … she lost a child. Her daughter wasn’t even two years old. She seems so sad and broken … it made me think of you.’
‘Oh, Mia.’
‘There’s something I need to ask you.’
‘Yes.’
‘If I got sick again and if things didn’t go right and you and Dad were forced to … you know … live without me. Would you be okay?’
‘Oh my God, Mia … don’t tell me … Are you feeling unwell again?’ she says, raising her voice in panic.
‘No, not at all. It’s nothing like that. I just need to know, that’s all.’ My voice is flat.
Mum sighs. ‘I would never be okay without you. I’m your mother. You can piece together a broken vase, but you’ll always be able to feel the cracks. The thing is, sweetheart, sometimes when we break, we learn to be okay with it because we have no other choice. Luckily for us, things worked out. So we all get to move on now, okay? That’s what your dad and I are doing, and now it’s your turn to do that, too.’
‘Okay,’ I whisper, hoping that I can.
‘Now … tell me all about Luca.’
The following morning Clara and the boys meet me outside the Uffizi. It’s early, but there’s already a crowd of tourists snaking around the building in a significant queue. Tour guides carrying colourful umbrellas herd their groups into the line.
‘Perhaps I can do something about this,’ says Clara. She leaves the line and makes a phone call. A few moments later she’s gesturing to us with enthusiasm, motioning us over to leave the queue and join her. We follow her to a security guard, who lets us straight through.
She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Perks of the job,’ she says, smiling as we enter the gallery.
In this seemingly never-ending corridor of grey-and-white marble squares, my neck grows sore from trying to absorb the detail in the decorative motifs and almost caricature-like figures of men, artists, musicians and animals frescoed on the ceiling. They’re so timeless I can almost smell the wet plaster. Shoulders brush against me as groups head straight for the numbered halls, oblivious to what is looking down on us from above.
‘They’re grotesques, which is an unfortunate name for the style, because they really are exquisite. The name has nothing to do with the depiction, but instead refers to the ancient Roman grottos in which they were rediscovered. If memory serves me right, these were created by a group of painters under the guidance of Alessandro Allori,’ says Clara.
‘How do you know all of this?’ I ask, drawing my eyes away from the ceiling.
‘Art school,’ she replies. ‘So much more interesting than an MBA,’ she adds wryly. ‘You’d love it.’
I don’t have a chance to reply because Massimo interrupts, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Where are the egg paintings, Mamma?’
I fall behind Clara and the twins as they forge ahead to the Botticelli Room, while the echo of each careful step through the eastern corridor lulls me to a time where apprentice artists toiled in the workshops of their masters before transforming into some of the most celebrated artists I admire today. As I step into the room dedicated to my favourite painter, I can almost hear the cracking of eggs, see the orange yolks being squeezed from their sacs to be blended with pigments ground from stones like lapis lazuli, cinnabar and malachite. Directly ahead of me is Botticelli’s Allegory of Spring, where Clara is introducing the twins to Venus. Their voices become muted as I turn to my left to face a painting I’ve thought about often, one that sits at the very heart of the period of rebirth and rediscovery, the darling of the Renaissance: The Birth of Venus.
I draw a deep breath as my eyes hover over the dreamlike figures at the focal point of the painting, especially the ancient goddess of love herself. From sea foam she is brought to life, drifting to the shore by the breath of the wind gods whose bodies are intertwined closely, floating in the air. Even Venus herself appears almost weightless as she’s about to step off the shell that has carried her to the shore. Standing there naked contrapposto, sensuous curves on display, tendrils of blonde hair illuminated with strokes of gold flowing around her body, she looks totally at peace. A nymph wearing a floral embroidered dress awaits her arrival on the shore, ready to drape her in a billowing cloth, also embroidered with flowers. It’s almost as if Botticelli himself is whispering to me to take notice of what he’s done here: the way his pink roses are fluttering towards Venus, so elegantly placed yet powerful enough to take my breath away. I take a step closer to the painting. Although I can’t possibly understand everything he’s telling me, I’m reminded of the most important things Botticelli has brought to this painting: a coming together of the driving forces of life—love and beauty, physical, divine and emotional.
‘What do you see, Mia?’ asks Clara.
‘Everything is so beautiful I just want to leap into that world.’
‘I think that’s what he wanted you to feel,’ she replies. ‘Isn’t that one of the reasons you paint?’
My eyes flick back to Venus and a smile spreads across my lips. Maybe Botticelli and I speak the same language after all.
Clara leaves me to explore the rest of the gallery at my own leisure. I meet up with h
er and the twins for lunch at a nearby restaurant, and I’m almost giddy from exploring hall after hall, painting after painting. Clara rests her shopping bags beside our table, all containing new clothes, shoes and swimming gear for the twins. She tells me that Ferragosto, or Assumption Day, a national public holiday, is coming up in little over a month and this traditionally marks the beginning of the Italian holiday period, when flocks of families leave their home towns for the beach to escape the unbearable heat, some of them taking the entire month off.
‘I’ve organised a family holiday to Spain, a way for us all to reconnect. We’ll be meeting Bert and as it happens, he’s going to be requesting a transfer back to Florence soon. We’re hoping he’ll be back by Christmas.’
‘That sounds promising,’ I reply. It’s nice seeing Clara like this; since our chat last night, she seems far more relaxed than usual. She invites me to go with them, but I tell her I prefer to stay here in Florence. Thankfully, she doesn’t need me to explain why.
‘It’s pretty serious between you and Luca, then?’
‘I guess so,’ I say, as I smile into my plate of handmade ravioli.
‘I noticed that you haven’t stopped smiling since we entered the Uffizi,’ she says. ‘Stella tells me you’ve been doing a lot of painting lately. I really would love to see your work.’
I almost choke as my water goes down the wrong way.
‘Is there something wrong, Mia?’
‘No, not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m just a bit nervous about sharing it, that’s all. You deal with some really high-profile artists, and I just don’t think my work would compare.’
‘I’m not asking to see your work so I can compare it. I’m asking to see your work because I love art and I’m interested in you and what you do,’ she says.
I set down my knife and fork to meet Clara’s eyes. I glance over to the boys, who are playing beside the table with some toy cars. ‘Clara, this is probably a good time for me to share something with you. Given you’ve been very honest with me, I feel like I should be truthful with you … about my past, that is.’
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