Three Words for Goodbye

by Hazel Gaynor

  Clara shook her head as she stared up at the tall tower in front of the Basilica. “First the balloon ascent, and now that?”

  “I bet the view is worth it, and Violet would want you to climb it,” I said, hoping to guilt her into coming with me.

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. Suddenly, she stood up and, jaw set in determination, she headed toward the bell tower.

  I raced to catch up with her. “That was a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

  “I’m tired of being afraid,” she said, hitching up her skirt. “I want to do things, Madeleine. I don’t want to be left behind, too afraid to try.”

  But as we reached the bottom of the tower, we found the door was locked.

  “Perhaps it isn’t possible to climb it,” Clara said, a look of relief on her face.

  “Well, that’s a pity,” I replied. “Especially with you all fired up for once.”

  At that moment, the door opened and an elderly woman appeared. She looked at us both, and said something in Italian neither of us understood.

  Never one to miss an opportunity, I stepped forward.

  “Excuse me. I wonder if you can help us. We were hoping to climb the tower steps? See the view?” I pointed to the top of the tower, hoping she understood. “Go up?” I said, placing my hands into a prayer.

  “Tourists? the woman asked.

  We both nodded.

  “We will be very quick,” I added. “My sister. It is her birthday. Felicitations?”

  The woman seemed to understand, although Clara glared at me.

  “Only quick,” the woman said, as she unlocked the door. “Very quick.”

  I grabbed her hands, thanked her profusely, and turned to Clara.

  “Come on, then. You heard the woman. Very quick. Let’s get going!”

  The steps were narrow and winding, and apparently endless. Breathing heavily, we eventually emerged into the belfry and daylight, and stood a moment, hands on our hips, to catch our breath. A cool breeze tugged at my hair as I looked out over the amazing view.

  “Open your eyes, Clara! It’s glorious.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and gripping my hand tightly, she inched forward.

  I felt a familiar togetherness as she stood beside me. Clara’s was the hand I’d reached for in the dark of our bedroom during a thunderstorm, or when we ran together on the sand as young girls. I’d always sought the reassurance and approval of my big sister, and I, in turn, had patiently encouraged her to let go of the fears and doubts that threatened to hold her back.

  “Have you decided if you’ll meet Edward yet?” I asked as we admired the view.

  Clara looked at me, puzzled. “That came out of nowhere.”

  “You know me, full of questions.” I knew the best way to get a real answer was to ask a question when people weren’t prepared for it. I’d learned this early on when I’d begun to turn toward journalism.

  “I’m not sure,” Clara said cagily. “At least I have a way to contact him now that I have the letter back.”

  She still hadn’t forgiven me.

  “What would you do?” she continued.

  I paused, and glanced at her, surprised she’d asked for my opinion.

  “Oh, I’d most likely have a torrid love affair and then send him back to his wife while I settled in Venice, and spent my days sipping espresso and writing erotic romance novels.”

  Clara laughed lightly. “Seriously, Madeleine. What would you do?”

  I turned to look at her. “Seriously, I think you should stop worrying about what I would do and do what you want to do. What harm can come from meeting him? We could go together if you like, so there would be no suggestion of anything . . . inappropriate. No room for any misdemeanors.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “I never intended for anything inappropriate to happen.”

  But I recognized her little tells and didn’t believe her for a second. And so what if she was thinking inappropriate thoughts? Good for her. She wasn’t married yet. Sometimes she acted as if she was an old dowager with her best years already behind her.

  Standing at the edge of the belfry, I imagined a young Violet, standing in the same spot, gazing out over the piazza. I leaned forward, soaking up every detail to share with her when we returned. The vivid sky, people clustering in front of colorful shops, and the glistening water beyond.

  And then I saw them.

  Mussolini’s soldiers, in black uniforms, marched into the square and fanned out at several posts at each corner, guns at their sides. Their ominous presence immediately changed the happy to-and-fro of the passersby below, and I knew that everything I’d read in the newspapers was true: Europe was on the cusp of a dramatic change.

  I pulled on Clara’s hand. “Come on. I think that’s enough sightseeing for one day.”

  “But we only just got up here,” she said, having finally relaxed enough to enjoy being so high above the city.

  “We need to go. Now,” I said, voice stern.

  Alerted by the change in my tone, Clara looked at me, saw what must have been a grim expression, and quickly followed me down the stairs without a word. After thanking the woman again, we hurried back to the safety of the hotel.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, we woke to a dense Venetian fog that seemed to rise from the water. It lent an otherworldly atmosphere to the city, muffling the calls of the gondoliers and market traders as I peered out of the lattice window of the living room in our suite. The city felt mysterious, like the Venice I’d imagined, with masquerade balls and courtiers and hooded figures moving through the mist. The only problem was, I couldn’t see a damn thing.

  “There won’t be much sightseeing today,” I said as I let the lace curtain fall into place over the window.

  “Oh, I think it’s romantic,” Clara replied. “No wonder so many artists painted scenes of Venetian fogs. There’s something so alluring about it.”

  “How could they even see what they were painting?” I replied.

  Clara shook her head. “Imagination. They painted an impression of the city. That’s why it’s called Impressionism. I think it’s magical.”

  I grumbled under my breath and walked to the desk, intent on giving my article about Charles Hancock one last read. I’d already decided today was the day: send it, or shred it and come up with a new idea that wouldn’t effectively destroy my relationship with Clara. But as I reached the desk, I paused. My mail wasn’t there. Frowning, I pulled open the drawers and looked beneath the desk. I did a quick search through my journal and handbag, and even sorted through my clothing drawers. The envelope was nowhere to be seen.

  “Clara?” I tried to control the panic in my voice.

  “Mmm?” she said, distracted by the watercolor she was working on.

  “There was an envelope, here on the desk. It was addressed but wasn’t sealed. It was an article I planned to read over one last time before I mailed it. Have you seen it?”

  “Oh, yes. I mailed it with the postcards yesterday. That, and a letter to Jenny, your roommate.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed. The article was gone. Already on its way to the editor. And if he decided it was worthy of print, I’d have to come clean to Clara for sure.

  Clara looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I thought I was being helpful.”

  I blew out a breath. “It’s fine. I—”

  A knock at the door interrupted us.

  I opened the door to a bellboy, who handed me an envelope mailed from America. I recognized Violet’s handwriting immediately.

  “What is it?” Clara asked.

  “A letter. From Violet, I think.”

  I sat at the desk, opened the envelope, and unfolded a page of the lilac-scented stationery I’d come to know so well.

  “What does she say?” Clara prompted, joining me at the desk.

  I began to read the letter aloud.

  My dearest girls,

  I hope your journey so far has been as full of wonder as mine was all
those years ago, but I hope, more than anything, you’re enjoying each other’s company. Nothing would make me happier than to see my girls put their silly squabbles aside, and to become friends again. You are family, and what could matter more than that?

  Did you deliver my letter to Matthias yet? I wonder. Of course I must be prepared for the news that he died some years ago. I would be sorry not to have the chance to say what I so desperately want to, or for you not to meet him, but fate will decide what should and should not be.

  I miss you, girls! I must admit, it seems as though the farther away from me you travel, the more I ache for you both to return. I find myself lacking the energy to go outside, to eat, to read. The doctor says it is a natural development of my disease, but I think I am just an old woman, eager to see her granddaughters.

  Don’t fret, or even think about turning back (remember the inscription on the pocket watch, Clara), but know that I am looking forward to seeing you on your return.

  All my love to you both,

  Violet

  X

  My mood careened like a bicycle with a popped tire. Violet had been unwell for months, but she’d never stopped going outside. Her precious gardens, the sand and sea, called to her in any season, the way my writing called to me. There was nothing she hated more than playing the invalid. I pictured her flitting among the roses and peonies, or walking the beach in search of sea glass. Things she couldn’t do now, and perhaps never would again.

  I folded the letter and returned it to the envelope.

  I could scarcely imagine a world without Violet in it.

  Clara

  We were both deeply affected by Violet’s letter.

  A somber mood enveloped us as we quietly dressed and prepared to return to Morelli’s gallery. We felt a renewed sense of urgency to deliver Violet’s last two letters and return home as soon as possible. Her words had also forced me to confront my current indecision. Violet was facing up to her life’s joys and regrets, preparing to say her goodbyes, while I dithered and dallied over whether to contact Edward at his hotel. Her letter, and its reminder that life is, in the end, always too short, gave me the courage to send him a short note, informing him of the address of our hotel and suggesting he send word of when and where he would like to meet. I left the note with the concierge, hesitating for just a moment before I let go of the envelope.

  “You are sure you want it to be delivered?” the concierge asked, dark brows raised.

  I laughed nervously, realizing he could see my hesitation. “I’m sure. And as quickly as possible. Grazie.”

  Hoping to have more luck in meeting Matthias, we retraced the path under the bridge and down a winding alley. We walked in silence, my thoughts filled with images of home and of Violet, patiently waiting for our return.

  This time when we entered the gallery, Lucia was behind the counter, sorting through a stack of art books and paperwork. She stood up when she saw us and smiled.

  “Buongiorno! You came back already!”

  “We did. Is he here?” My tone was a little brusque, steered by my sense of urgency.

  Lucia looked surprised at the directness of my question. As did Madeleine.

  “Yes, he is here,” Lucia replied. “You are in luck! He returned late last night.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” I smiled at Madeleine. “He’s here!”

  “So I heard,” Madeleine replied, returning my smile.

  “But I’m afraid he’s still sleeping,” Lucia added.

  “Oh.” My hands fell to my sides as I turned to Madeleine again. “Maybe we should leave Violet’s letter. We shouldn’t disturb him.”

  “You shouldn’t disturb who?” An elderly man appeared from a back room. “And what’s this about a letter?”

  Matthias Morelli stared at us, a look of bemusement on his face. His white hair sat in a ring around his balding head, and his shoulders were hunched, but his eyes were passionate and fierce. He was short and a little stout, but striking, even in his later years.

  “Hello, sir,” Madeleine began. “We’re very pleased to meet you. My name is Madeleine, and this is my sister, Clara. We are visiting from America, on behalf of our grandmother.”

  He looked at us intently, his eyes flickering from Madeleine to me and back again. “Well I never,” he said as he studied us both. “You can leave us, Lucia,” he continued. “I will speak to these young women.”

  Lucia eyed us curiously then headed into the back room, her dark hair swinging in a ponytail behind her.

  “Mr. Morelli—” I began.

  “Matthias,” he interrupted, his features softening into a smile. “What is it I can do for you, ladies?”

  Madeleine glanced at me and I knew she had the same thought: How would we even begin to explain who we were and why we’d come to find him?

  “This may all come as a shock, but do you remember a woman named Violet? Violet Lawson?” Madeleine asked.

  He smiled at the name. “Violet Lawson. Of course. How could I ever forget her?”

  Encouraged to discover that he remembered Violet, I continued the explanation. “We are Violet’s granddaughters. She wanted us to deliver a letter to you on her behalf.” I presented Violet’s letter. “Unfortunately, she isn’t well enough to make the journey herself.”

  Intrigue stamped Matthias’s face as he looked at us again, picked up the envelope, and ran his fingertips over his name, written in Violet’s elegant handwriting. “Violet Lawson,” he whispered. “After all this time.”

  We stood in silence, giving him a moment to process his memories

  “Violet Lawson,” he repeated. “I’m so sorry to hear she isn’t well.” He shook his head.

  “I’m glad you remember her,” I said. “We were worried you might not.”

  He glanced up at this, his eyes wistful. “I adored Violet from the moment I saw her. She was so vibrant and beautiful with her dark hair and the most beautiful eyes I ever saw. Light blue, almost gray, like the Adriatic on a stormy day. She loved life more than anyone I’d ever met. She was a glorious reckless summer in a lifetime of quiet winters.” He looked at us both, a sense of longing in his eyes. “Violet was a treasure, but she wasn’t mine to keep.”

  I stared at Madeleine, my eyes wide. Like me, she was struck by this vibrant man whose feelings for our grandmother were clear, but I felt as if we were intruding and was uncomfortable to see him become emotional.

  “We don’t wish to impose,” I said quietly. “We just wanted to deliver the letter. We should go.”

  “No. Please, stay. I would like to talk to you both.” He turned the shop sign to Chiuso and locked the door before directing us to a back room. “Come with me,” he said. “I should explain everything fully.”

  Whatever I’d expected from Matthias Morelli wasn’t what we’d found. The frail old man I’d imagined, dozing in a chair beside the fire, was actually a sprightly fellow, suntanned and animated. He led us past easels and frames and dozens of exquisite watercolors of the canals, oil paintings of the piazzas, and canvases painted in the style of pointillism.

  We followed him down a narrow flight of uneven stone steps where we all ducked to avoid bumping our heads on a low beam. Entering a small room at the bottom of the steps, Matthias pushed aside piles of books and paper and pulled two chairs forward.

  “Come. Sit,” he insisted. “If you can find room!”

  We did as we were instructed.

  “So, you are the girls!” he said, unable to take his eyes from us. “And you,” he said, turning his attention to me. “You are her mirror.”

  “Violet?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Just the same. Bellissima!”

  “And you,” he added, turning his attention to Madeleine. “You are a passionate soul. I can see it.” He placed a hand to his heart. “Like me.”

  Madeleine smiled. “It’s true, sir.”

  “Now, tell me about Violet,” he said.

  “She wanted to tell you something important,
” I explained, “so she wrote it all in a letter. She insisted we deliver it to you in person.”

  “She also wanted us to follow in her footsteps,” Madeleine added. “To see Paris and Venice, just as she and her sister, Margaret, did many years ago.”

  Matthias leaned forward at the mention of our aunt Margaret. “And she is well?” he asked, his eyes darting from one of us to the other. “Margaret?”

  “We’re not entirely sure,” I explained. “Violet has written a letter to her, too. We’re heading to Austria next to visit her.”

  He nodded, as if he understood, and tucked Violet’s letter into his shirt pocket. “For later,” he said. “In private.”

  “Of course,” Madeleine replied, although I could tell she was itching to know what Violet had said.

  In truth, so was I.

  Lucia returned with coffee for the three of us.

  “Aha! And now we can all relax and get to know each other properly,” Matthias said. “Nothing better than a fresh pot of coffee for making new friends. Apart, perhaps, from a glass of grappa at the end of the evening!”

  “How did you know Violet?” I asked as I dipped a hard cantuccini biscuit into the rich coffee to soften it.

  Matthias hesitated before letting out a long sigh. “It all seems so very long ago, and yet the memories are right here.” He tapped his head. “And here,” he added, indicating his heart. “I first saw Violet in the Piazza San Marco. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” He explained how he’d felt compelled to paint her as she sat alone at a café. “She wore a dress the color of Chianti. Everything else seemed to fade to gray around her. I couldn’t resist.” I nodded, recognizing that artist’s urge, the desire to capture a perfect moment on the page. “She looked so alone, so vulnerable, and beautiful,” he continued. “Of course I had the confidence of a much younger man then. When I’d finished the piece, I walked right up to her table, showed her the likeness, and asked if I might buy her another espresso. She was surprised, and more than a little delighted. We went dancing together that night and, well . . . You know what it’s like to be young and in love.”

  A smile danced across his lips. I could almost see that younger man in his eyes.