‘Yes,’ I say, slipping off my coat and throwing it on the sofa.
‘Rosetta called. He’s going to be leaving soon,’ she says. ‘In the next day or so.’
‘I know.’
‘I need to talk to you about our trip. I’ve been thinking that this isn’t a good time to leave you here on your own. Paolo and I have spoken about it, and even though he’s okay with closing the officina for the month, I think we should postpone it until things get a bit easier for you and Luca.’
I’m horrified at the idea. ‘Stella, there is no way you are cancelling this trip on my account. Paolo’s never been to New York and you haven’t seen your family in over a year. I can’t ask you both to give up the money you’ve already invested in this. You’ve been looking forward to it for months.’
‘I can’t leave you here alone.’
‘I’ll have Clara and Silvio.’
‘You would tell me if you needed me, right?’
I take Stella’s hand in mine. ‘Go and enjoy your holiday.’
Stella nods and points her finger at me. ‘Okay, but I’m assigning helpers to check on you.’
‘I don’t need that. But if it makes you feel better—’
‘Yes, it does. Mia, I want to tell you something important.’
‘What is it?’
‘I told Luca this same thing that afternoon before the accident.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Promise me you won’t give up fighting for him.’
My shoulders straighten, and I look her squarely in the eyes. ‘I don’t intend to.’
Her green eyes sparkle. ‘That’s exactly what he said.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Knocking on the Balduccis’ front door again after such a long time away brings a sense of comfort to me, a soothing reminder of what once was.
Clara smiles warmly. ‘It’s nice to see you looking better, Mia.’
I shift uncomfortably; the twins, as usual, are quick to distract me.
‘I know this is a difficult time for you. With Stella away, you’re welcome to stay here with us in our spare room, if you’d like. Or I can even arrange for the cottage to be fixed up for you if you’d prefer more privacy.’
‘Thank you, Clara, but it won’t be necessary.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll be checking up on you at home,’ she says. ‘I promised Stella I would, and I’m sure your mother would appreciate me doing that, too.’
‘I’ve been chatting with my mum every day. I’ve been missing my parents more than usual,’ I admit.
Clara squeezes my hand. ‘A little more patience. Things will get easier,’ she says.
‘We have some new games to show you,’ says Alessandro, wrapping his hands around my leg.
‘That’s great! I can’t wait to play them with you. I’ve really missed you guys!’
The boys drag me to their bedroom, where they show me their new toys and photographs of their trip to Spain. I’m almost envious of how these five-year-olds are so present in their happy, carefree lives. The boys provide just the kind of distraction I need, because it has taken all the strength I can muster to stay away from the hospital and give Luca the space he needs. Despite the distractions in my daily life, it’s been hard not remembering Luca in the words, feelings and colours around me. He’s everywhere. With me, yet not with me.
‘Mia! Earth to Mia!’ calls Alessandro.
‘We’ve been waiting for hours for you to come and find us! Don’t you know the rules of hide-and-seek?’ exclaims Massimo.
‘Hours?’
‘Hundreds of hours!’ says Alessandro.
‘Okay, you two monsters, let’s try again. I’m counting to twenty. Go!’
Luca texts me at lunchtime just before Clara is due to return home. He says he’s being transferred to Orvieto at four o’clock but tells me not to come to the hospital. I try calling his phone. He doesn’t answer.
As soon as Clara steps foot in the door, I blurt, ‘It’s Luca. He’s being transferred to Orvieto. I need to see him before he leaves. I’ll be back before you need to go to work again,’ I say, frantically slipping on my jacket.
‘Let me give you a lift,’ she says.
‘I’ll take the bus. It’ll be fine. It’s going to be fine.’
When I arrive, the door to Luca’s room is open, and I can hear the chatter of nurses from inside. I knock before entering and they both look up at me with looks of surprise.
‘Can we help you, dear? Are you looking for someone?’
My eyes scan the empty bed. Luca’s bed.
‘Oh my God! What happened? Where is he?’
The nurses appear shocked. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone,’ says one of them.
My heart starts racing. ‘That’s impossible. He was awake. He was fine. What happened?’
‘You missed him. He was transferred early this morning.’
I inhale sharply. ‘What? He texted me at midday,’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
How could he do this to me?
‘Are these his?’ asks the nurse, handing me the pile of magazines he’s left behind. They haven’t been touched.
‘Yes,’ I reply, accepting them from her.
I try calling Luca’s phone. Like earlier, it rings out.
I text him.
Why?
His reply comes seconds later.
Because I love you. I’m giving you the gift of letting you go.
Arriving home to the empty villa, I force myself to set the table for dinner, even though nobody will be joining me. The villa is too quiet tonight. There’s no Stella bounding up the stairs, her auburn hair bouncing around her shoulders, her green eyes lighting up as she recounts some amusing story of just another day in Italy. No Paolo calling her repeatedly, teasing her about how terrible she is for leaving her phone on silent. No surprise visits from Luca accompanied by the sound of the wheels of his scooter turning over the pebble driveway, signalling his arrival. I suddenly feel more alone than ever before. There is nobody to text, nobody to call. Clara is at home tending to the boys, Silvio is managing the business at the bar, cracking jokes and pulling shots of espresso, and my parents are in bed sleeping on the other side of the world.
I’m about to tear open a packet of pasta when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Silvio, with a tray of lasagna in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
‘Ciao, bella Mia. I know it’s kind of late, but I thought I’d bring this around. My mother sends her love,’ he says, extending the pan out to me with a smile. ‘She made me bring home four trays for you. I have the rest in a freezer at home.’
‘Thank her for me. But honestly, there’s no need.’
‘You’re family to us, Mia.’
‘Do you want to come in?’
‘Sure.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No.’
‘Feel like lasagna?’
‘Sounds good.’
We eat together, and Silvio tells me he’s going to see Luca on the weekend. I stop eating, unable to take another bite, my appetite crushed. ‘Do you want to come with me?’ he asks.
‘I would love to, but I can’t. I’m giving him some space.’
‘Has he contacted you at all?’
‘No.’
‘Damn it, that testa dura. I can’t believe how stubborn he is. I’ll have a word to him. Let’s see if I can knock some sense into him.’
Silvio tells me to stop by the bar during my break tomorrow. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t need looking after.’
‘I’m just trying to keep a promise to a friend.’
‘Stella?’
‘No, Mia. Luca’s been messaging me every day to make sure you’re okay. And he made me promise to come tonight. I guess he knew you’d be feeling upset, shall we say?’
The sudden rush of air into my lungs makes me gasp. I want to pick up and leave for Orvieto, but I tell myself another month apart—if it comes to that—is nothing compared to
a lifetime together.
‘How is he doing?’
‘Physically, he’s doing well. Considering the trauma he experienced, I’d say remarkably well. Thankfully, the swelling on his brain that the doctors were worried about is now resolved. The main concern is his spinal cord and internal injuries, which need time to heal. He’s been sleeping a lot.’
Silvio, sensing my pain, adds, ‘I’ll tell him you’re thinking of him.’
‘No need,’ I say, feeling despondent. ‘He already knows.’
Silvio helps me wash up before saying goodbye, and I head straight into the studio. I sit, back against the wall, legs crossed, window open, in a quiet meditation. Praying, praying, praying. For us. For a solution. For some way to make this work. I eventually fall asleep on the studio floor. I wake up at some point during the night. I’m not sure if I’m fully awake, or still half asleep, but I hear a voice, soft and reassuring. I can’t work out whether it’s a man’s or a woman’s. Maybe it’s not even a voice at all—just a feeling. Whatever it is, it’s strong and clear, telling me that I must keep painting and never give up. I glance around the room. Nobody’s there. I walk downstairs, snuggle up against the pillows in my bed, and whisper, ‘Whoever you are, I hope you’re right.’
The next morning, from the comfort of my outdoor swing, I notice Signor Fiorelli meandering up the path to the villa. At his age, the steps are far from effortless. He appears so unsteady on his feet that I rush out to meet him and loop my arm through his.
‘Signor Fiorelli, what are you doing here?’ I ask, surprised. ‘I mean, I’m glad to see you. It’s just that you mentioned it might be hard for you to come here.’
‘I have some important business to discuss with you, Mia. And I thought I’d take the opportunity to see that work you were wanting to show me. It’s about time I visit my old home anyway,’ he says, glancing up at the villa.
‘Well I haven’t gotten around to framing them, but I’ll show you,’ I reply.
I help Signor Fiorelli up the stairs, and he pauses to look around when he reaches the top.
‘So many memories,’ he murmurs.
I lead him to the studio and hold the door open for him.
‘I painted these pictures while Luca was in a coma. They’re a bit different from my usual paintings, as you can see.’
The fourteen pieces lying on the floor of the studio are more intricate and vivid than anything I have ever painted. I’ve managed to capture details that surprised me, with techniques I thought myself incapable of previously.
‘Goodness, Mia, these are a capo lavoro,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘A masterpiece. This is your best work to date, my dear.’
Signor Fiorelli slowly examines each piece, reading the cards associated with every painting. He reaches for his handkerchief.
‘Through art you have the power to change someone’s life.’ He gestures to the paintings. ‘As long as he is alive, you cannot live without him. That’s what your paintings are telling me.’
‘I don’t know how to convince him to come home, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Sometimes the answers to our problems lie right before our eyes.’
‘You mentioned you had some business to discuss?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘Yes, Mia. The buyer of The Love Lock wants to know if she can commission a set of paintings from you.’
My eyes widen. ‘Commission them? Who is she?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But this is what she wants,’ he says, handing me a piece of paper from his pocket.
Dear Ms Moretti,
Thank you for the beautiful piece of artwork that I had the pleasure of purchasing recently. The Love Lock will become a treasured part of my own personal art collection. I was most impressed with your style and would like to commission a triptych from you, entitled The Florentine Bridge, in which three paintings (oil on canvas) depict the story behind the love-lock tradition of the Ponte Vecchio, for which I can offer you the sum of fifteen thousand euros. If this proposal is of interest, I will be in touch with further specifications and a twenty-five per cent deposit to begin the works.
Yours sincerely,
C. Jones.
My jaw drops as the note drifts to the ground. Signor Fiorelli’s blue eyes blink at me with shared happiness.
‘Signor Fiorelli, did you read this?’
‘I didn’t need to. She told me about her intentions. Ever since she saw your first painting, she has been coming by to admire your work. She fell in love with it instantly.’
‘She’s legitimate, then?’
‘Oh, yes. And I can assure you, she looks forward to a long relationship with you.’
‘When can I meet her?’
‘Well, she’s quite conservative. She prefers to keep to herself and only likes to meet with an artist after the paintings are completed. She prefers the artist to use his or her own inspiration and not be clouded by any expectations. So what do you say, Mia? Can I tell her yes?’
‘Of course! Yes! You can tell her I’d be delighted to take this on.’
‘Benissimo.’
‘This means the world to me, Signor Fiorelli. Now I can truly call myself an artist. It’s what I’ve always wanted.’
‘You’ve always been an artist in my eyes. The recognition of your work by others is simply a by-product of your passion.’
‘Signor Fiorelli, do you believe in second chances at life?’
‘Absolutely. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I was given one. And now I know what to do with it. Through my painting, life makes sense. It’s where even the smallest things hold meaning. I know now that if I can pick up a brush and use it to create something out of nothing—even when life looks bleak, when things don’t quite fit together as I’d like them to, when my heart’s aching—it will always help me to make sense of things. And it’s because of this that I know I’ll be okay, even if Luca doesn’t come home.’
‘Spoken by a true artist,’ he says. ‘Now you have some work to do, young lady. Your buyer needs the paintings by the end of the month.’
‘So soon? Oh my goodness! I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘I can,’ he says, a warm smile spreading over his gentle face. ‘You’re a natural.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
It feels strange to be excited about my work when Luca and I are apart like this, where half my heart is beating outside of myself. It’s only been days since I last saw him, but it seems much longer than that. I desperately want to pick up the phone to tell him the news about the commissioned paintings. Having something like this happen, under such unexpected circumstances, forces me to reconsider the way I’ve been approaching my work and my life. As I take each step through Florence’s paved streets, I know exactly where I’m going. There’s an element of peace that fills me up from the inside. It feels as though the City of Art is wrapping its wings around me. Being able to paint for a living is what gives my life meaning. Being with Luca is what colours it, completes it, makes me whole again. As I embark on this new chapter in my life, I know that whatever the future brings, I’ll always consider myself Luca’s painter girl. I set up my work space, close to our Florentine Bridge, with the reassurance that I will always have a small part of myself to come back to, to comfort me when I’m feeling scared or alone, happy or sad, no matter what.
I take out the spec sheet from the anonymous buyer and start prepping my first painting. Soon I have no control of what is appearing in front of me; I’m lost in thought, reliving the emotion of what once was.
Day after day, I return to my place on the bank of the Arno River until my three paintings are done.
I’m in the studio making the final check on my third commissioned painting to ensure it’s dry, when Clara calls.
‘We’re going to Venice for a few days. We’re meeting Bert there and we leave tomorrow night. The boys are hopelessly excited about the gondolas.’ She laugh
s. ‘Now, while I’ve got you on the phone, do tell me—on your days off, what is it you’ve been working on? The boys mentioned you’ve been working on a big project.’
‘I didn’t want to say anything until after I’d finished. I was going to invite you over to take a look, actually,’ I say, glancing over at my latest paintings of Luca and me.
‘I can’t wait to see your work,’ she says, the enthusiasm in her voice apparent.
I tell her about all the painting I’ve been doing, as well as the triptych.
‘Did Signor Fiorelli mention who the buyer is?’
‘A woman named C. Jones. She wanted to be kept anonymous until after I finished the paintings.’
‘That’s not too uncommon. Sometimes meeting a buyer can make an artist nervous. I’m sure she has every faith in your abilities to create the work she’s looking for. Listen, I was hoping we could catch up for dinner this evening. Maybe we can have a proper chat then?’
‘Sure. Why don’t you come here?’
‘Sounds great. I’ll bring the wine.’
Clara arrives a little earlier than expected, just as I’m mounting the last painting of Luca and me to the studio wall.
‘Come in!’ I call out. ‘The door’s open! Make yourself at home.’
I move my equipment into the corner of the studio. I take a step back and view the wall in its entirety. I’ve used a soft palette of pastels on some of the paintings, and vibrant hues of colour on others. Each of these thirty paintings holds a significant meaning for Luca and me.
‘Mia, do you need some help in there?’ asks Clara.
‘Sorry, I got a bit carried away,’ I call.
I poke my head out of the studio door. ‘Let me get this paint washed off, and I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I say, making my way to the bathroom. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking that I’d like to enrol in art school,’ I say to her from the bathroom.
‘You should absolutely do that, Mia. Your work … oh my goodness, it’s truly breathtaking.’
I walk out of the bathroom and dry my wet hands on the back of my jeans. Clara is standing in the doorway of the studio, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes wide, as she takes in the artwork displayed on the walls.
The Florentine Bridge Page 22