by Jane Peart
“Yes. I haven’t seen all I want to in Rome.”
He walked with her back to the small hotel where she was staying. At the entrance he said, “Will you be staying here again when you come back to Rome?”
“Yes, that’s my plan.”
His expression became hopeful. “I can give you the prints then, or at least leave them for you.”
“Thank you. That would be nice. My grandmother would be pleased to see them.”
They said good-bye somewhat awkwardly, as if they wanted to say more to each other but couldn’t find the right words.
Bryanne rose early to catch the first train to Venice. The compartment was already nearly full when she got in, and she squeezed into one corner. Most of the passengers were speaking Italian and eating something—oranges, bread, cheese. They rattled along through the countryside, a colorful landscape in shades of ocher, olive green, golden yellow. It was stuffy and hot, and she wished someone would open a window. She had begun to feel lightheaded and a little queasy by the time the train screeched to a stop.
She gathered her belongings and stepped out onto the platform. She took a long breath, glad to be out of the confines of the crowded compartment. All around was the clamor and noise of the large train station. People swarmed about and Italian voices reverberated in her ears. Beyond was the quay, where the gondoliers were shouting, vying for customers. Should she take a gondola by herself to the hotel? It seemed almost heretical to do so. Gondolas were meant for lovers.
Then she saw some travelers moving in that direction, waving their hands and calling, “Gondola! Gondola!” She decided to follow suit. She moved to the edge of the water and raised her arm to signal a gondolier.
One detached his gondola from the group and steered it toward her. It was a long, graceful boat, the prow pointed. Under a fringed canopy were cushioned velvet seats. It was the romantic vision of her dreams. “Si, Signorina,” the handsome, dark-skinned gondolier said from where he stood on the plank in the stern. With his large oars he brought his boat close so she could get in easily. His attire was very picturesque. A man attuned to tourists, Bryanne thought, amused. His costume was just as in pictures she’d seen—a red-and-white striped shirt, black jacket, and a straw hat banded in red ribbons around the crown.
She handed him the paper on which she had written the name of the pension that had been recommended to her. “Do you know this place?”
“Si, Signorina,” the gondolier said, nodding and flashing a white smile that revealed one gleaming gold tooth. He leaned forward and took her two bags, then extended his hand to help her get in. The boat had a fragile feel, yet as they maneuvered through the heavy traffic of the canal, it glided with a kind of gentle, undulating sway. The water rippled along the side. The gondoliers spoke and called to each other as their boats drifted along.
They passed under bridges, in and out of sunlight and shadow. On either side of the canal rose tall, balconied houses, some painted yellow, some terra-cotta, their windows decorated with scrolled ironwork. In the background the dome of a church could be seen.
They passed under a great arched bridge of stone. Rialto Bridge? she wondered. Bryanne had seen its photograph in an illustrated book she had studied before leaving England.
Finally the gondola came to a smooth stop in front of steps leading up to a grilled gate. The gondolier announced, “Ecco la Pension Benevista, Signorina.”
He lifted out her bags then turned to assist her up and out. He held out his grubby palm.
“Como?” she asked, taking several lire out of her purse. “Enough?”
“Si, Signorina.”
From his broad smile, Bryanne guessed that it was probably too much. She hadn’t yet mastered Italian money. But it had been a delightful ride. Bryanne felt a surge of excited happiness. She felt she was going to love Venice best of all. It was a place where something special was bound to happen.
After washing up and changing into a fresh blouse, she went out to explore. The streets were edged with shops and galleries, and people milled all around, pushing up to booths—loaded with vegetables, fruit, cheeses—that lined the way toward a curved bridge. The enticing smell of fresh, warm bread came from a bakery, and Bryanne stopped to admire the display of delicious-looking pastries. Gift shops and jewelry stores glittered with wonderful things to buy—elaborately dressed dolls, figurines, varieties of gold jewelry.
She wandered slowly along the line of shops, dazzled by the displays. Then, tired from walking from gallery to gallery, she stopped at a small sidewalk cafe and ordered an espresso. As she waited, she studied her brochure, unaware that moving toward her through the crowd was a tall, tawny-haired Englishman.
“Miss Montrose!” a voice with a decidedly British accent said.
Bryanne looked up. “Steven!” she gasped.
“We’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” he said, laughing.
“You didn’t say you were coming to Venice,” she accused, trying to regain some composure and at the same time conceal her absolute delight at seeing him. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Not again.
Bryanne’s suspicion was immediately confirmed. “I didn’t know I was,” he said. “What I mean is, it somehow seemed the right thing to do. Suddenly Venice was the only place in Italy I wanted to be. I must have missed your train.” His smile widened. “I brought you your pictures. They turned out really well.” He took out an envelope and handed it to her.
Bryanne could not resist smiling. “You came all this way to bring me the snapshots?”
Steven reddened a little under his tan. “Well, anyway, here we are. So!”
Bryanne opened the package of prints and looked through them. They brought back that lovely, unexpected meeting at the Borghese Gardens. “You’re a very good photographer, Steven.”
“It’s a hobby. But I do enjoy it.” He paused. “Now that we’re both here, would you like—that is, if you haven’t other plans, would you have dinner with me this evening? I know a great little restaurant. I think you’d enjoy it. The food is”—he grinned—“Italian!”
Bryanne hesitated only a split second before accepting. Putting aside all Grandmother Garnet’s precautions, she said, “Thanks, I’d love to.” After all, Steven Colby wasn’t one of those dark, devious persons she’d been warned against trusting. He was the epitome of a well-bred young Englishman.
The restaurant was empty when they entered. Maybe it was too early for more-sophisticated travelers and Italians. The place was not fancy at all. It was not the kind that Grandmother Garnet would have insisted they dine in. There were small tables, ladder-back chairs, whitewashed walls, and a wooden floor. The small table to which they were shown had a crisp, red-checked tablecloth, gleaming silverware, and thin-stemmed wine glasses that sparkled.
Before they ordered, a waiter brought a basket of bread with brown, twisted crust, and a platter of assorted canapés. A delicious soup followed, then plates heaped with pasta, heavily sprinkled with grated Parmesan cheese, and scalloped veal.
Gradually the room began to fill with couples, families, parties of four or more. Tables were pushed together to accommodate large groups. The noise level began to rise, with voices lifted in friendly conversation, laughter, and warm, good-natured camaraderie. A pair of strolling musicians—one man with an accordion, the other with a tenor voice that Bryanne felt was every bit as thrilling as the legendary Caruso’s—began to sing. Each song was greeted by appreciative applause.
“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Bryanne whispered to Steven. “He could sing in an opera.”
“All Italians are potential opera singers,” Steven agreed. “In Verdi’s time they used to learn his lyrics by heart within a few days of the opening performance, and everyone from the baker to the blacksmith sang the arias.”
Later Bryanne would remember everything about that evening. She and Steven seemed to have so much to talk about. She found herself telling him about herself—her childhood, her life in Mayfiel
d, her sculpting. It seemed so easy, unlike any other time she had spent with anyone. Odd, because in Mayfield terms Steven was practically a stranger. Yet she was talking to him as though she had known him all her life. The Montroses and Camerons were all so talkative, so articulate. There was always so much being said that was interesting, informative, or fun that Bryanne had usually been a spectator, not a contributor. However, Steven seemed to think that everything she had to say was amusing or interesting.
For his part, Steven seemed just as eager to tell her about himself. He had an older brother who was studying law. His parents lived in a village just south of London, where his father was a country doctor, his mother an avid gardener. “I think you’d like them, and I know they’d love you,” he said.
He had gone up to Oxford, he told her, not really sure what he wanted to do, whether to go into medicine and eventually practice with his father or become a lawyer. “That’s actually why I decided to take this year off—to think about my options. I’m going on to Sicily, meeting up with some fellows I know from my college. Things don’t look all that good for the future for any of us—I don’t like to be gloomy, but really all you need to do is read the papers to realize that the fuse is short on whatever is going to happen, with Germany on the move.” He stopped, then asked her, “How much longer will you stay in Italy?”
“I have another ten days. Not long enough.” She sighed. “I wish there were some way to keep all this fresh. Of course, I have my sketches—”
“And I have my snapshots,” Steven said quickly. “I plan to take lots more. I’ll be glad to have a second set of prints made and share them.”
“Thank you. But there is so much we look at yet don’t really see,” Bryanne said. “I read something Helen Keller wrote, and I always try to remember it when I take something beautiful for granted.”
“What was that?”
“She had such a deep appreciation for everything, even though she had lost her sight and hearing as a very young child. She said something like, T who am blind can give one hint to those who see. Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. Hear the music of voices, the song of birds, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf tomorrow. Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again.'”
“So true. We should all take more heed of the joy of the moment.”
They lost track of time, but Bryanne suspected it was very late as they walked back to her pension. Both suddenly fell quiet, aware that the enjoyable evening had come to an end.
At length Steven asked, “And when do you go back to America?”
“First I’ll go to my grandmother’s home in Kentburne to spend some time with her. I haven’t made definite plans or reservations for my trip back to Virginia.”
“Then I’ll have a chance to see you again,” Steven said with obvious relief. His voice became soft, his tone serious. “I don’t want to lose you, Bryanne.”
Her heart began to beat rapidly. She felt her cheeks get warm. Steven went on. “I’m leaving early in the morning, but I can’t leave without telling you—” He halted, hesitated a split second, then leaned down and tipped her chin upward, looked at her for a long moment, and finally kissed her gently. “Arrivederci, Bryanne. Till we meet again, in England.”
Why was it that the Italian language was so much more romantic? she thought dreamily when Steven had gone and she was in the pension bedroom, brushing her hair. Arrivederci sounded so much better than good-bye—so much less final.
Had Steven meant it when he said they would meet again in England?
She had written down her grandmother’s name and phone number and the name of the village in which Grandmother Garnet lived. Would he call? Had what happened meant as much to Steven as it had to her? Or was this just a brief interlude gilded with the romantic aura of Italy?
chapter
9
BRYANNE HAD BEEN back at Birchfields a week. Her grandmother was eager to hear all the details of her Italian travels. Bryanne tried to comply, but she could not bring herself to tell Garnet the most important thing that had happened to her—that she had fallen in love.
She had hoped Steven might write a note or even call. But he hadn’t, and Bryanne began to feel a little let down. Maybe she had assumed too much, expected too much. Maybe they had merely been two travelers thrown together in a foreign land. She shouldn’t count on anything so ephemeral, she told herself. She ought to know better. Still, she couldn’t help wondering, hoping, fool that she was.
At the end of the summer, Bryanne’s stay with her grandmother was unexpectedly lengthened. Her father was supposed to meet her at Birchfields so they could go back to the States together. However, Jeff Montrose proved himself as unpredictable as ever. His London gallery wanted to exhibit his new Scottish paintings, so he remained there to work out the details. When word came that he had decided to take an extended trip to the Orient, neither Garnet nor Bryanne was too surprised. He had become increasingly interested in Japanese painting and wanted to view it firsthand.
Although Garnet was vocal about Jeff’s lack of consideration for anyone else, she was secretly delighted that she would have her granddaughter’s company longer. Bryanne, who was harboring the hope that she might still hear from Steven Colby, was agreeable.
The summer lingered into early fall, and Bryanne began to have some doubts as to whether she’d ever see Steven again. He had talked of going on to Greece and maybe even to Egypt. He had told her he had no real itinerary. Sensibly, Bryanne reminded herself that he had no reason to hurry back to England. Except, her heart teased, to see her again before she went back to America.
One afternoon Bryanne went into the village to mail some letters. Deep in thought, she walked along the winding country road. She and Jill had talked at length on the phone. Over and over Bryanne had asked her, “Do you think it was something like a shipboard romance? Is it just one of those things that happen in a strange place, a romantic environment? Is it too good to be true? Will I ever see him again?” Her own heart had doubts. Maybe he’d already forgotten about her. Someone as attractive as Steven Colby surely had an English girlfriend, perhaps someone he’d known since childhood or someone he’d met at college.
Suddenly Bryanne raised her head for some reason and, looking ahead down the road, saw a tall man approaching. His hands were in the pocket of his jacket and his head was down, so she could not see his face. But his walk had a strange familiarity. Thick, sun-streaked hair fell over his forehead, and he shook it back in a way she recognized. She stopped short. Could it be? Could it really be? It was Steven Colby!
Without thinking, Bryanne began to run, calling his name. He lifted his head and a smile broke across his face. There was now no mistaking who he was. “Steven!” she called again, waving as she ran. She stopped about two feet from him. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“It wasn’t easy. I had a great mix-up—boats, trains, you name it! It would take too long to tell you. I was afraid that I might have missed you, that you’d gone.” He halted. His smile widened. “It’s so good to see you. I’m glad you haven’t left.”
“No, I’m still here,” she declared and laughed.
Then they both began to speak at once. Explanations were exchanged, all sounding muddled. At length he told her he’d just returned from Italy a few days ago and had gone first to his parents’ home in nearby Burnley-Stoneham. “I told them about you and that I had to find you. I only had the name of the town, Kentburne, but I knew that it probably wasn’t too large a place and that I could probably find you—even if I had to knock on every door in town.”
“That doesn’t matter now, does it? Because it all worked out.”
“Because it was meant to be. Just like we kept running into each other in Italy.”
Bryanne felt her face get warm. “I was
just walking up to the village, to the post office.” She put her arm through his. “Come along. You’ll have to meet my grandmother. Birchfields isn’t far. It’s a lovely place—there are tennis courts and a lake dammed up to make a pool at the end of the property.”
Suddenly Steven stopped walking. Looking rather anxious, he asked, “Will it be all right? Your grandmother won’t mind having a stranger just pop in?”
“Grandmother loves to have company, likes to surround herself with young people. She’s marvelous. I think you’ll enjoy her, and she you. She’s over ninety but seems much younger, and is very alert, quite vivacious.”
Bryanne pocketed the letters she was going to mail and took Steven back to Birchfields, continuing to reassure him that Garnet would be happy to have him as a guest.
Garnet was wary at first about this whirlwind romance that had begun on foreign soil under quite unusual circumstances, but she was soon impressed by Steven. His tender attitude toward Bryanne, his attention and genuine caring, brought tears to her eyes. Garnet was perceptive enough to see that the young man had come on a mission and would be restless until he accomplished it.
Bryanne’s shining eyes revealed her excitement. Garnet’s heart melted. The child was obviously in love. Garnet said a prayer that maybe Steven Colby was the man who would make Bryanne forget her heartbreak, stop her from seeking a father who would always remain elusive, and give her the happiness she deserved. Garnet liked Steven. He was a young man who seemed to appreciate Bryanne. During dinner, observing him closely, engaging him in conversation, seeing his impeccable manners, Garnet was satisfied that he was a well-bred, intelligent, thoughtful man, worthy to court her granddaughter. She was convinced that Steven was a man in whom she could safely place her granddaughter’s life and happiness.
Wisely, after dinner Garnet excused herself for her afternoon nap and left the two of them alone. Steven and Bryanne went out into the garden. Now, in early fall, it was still in rampant bloom. A new moon added a lustrous glow, touching flowers and foliage with a silvery sheen. Near the lily pond they sat down on the stone bench. For a minute they were quiet, listening to the evening sounds, the gentle lapping of the water.
