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Stolen Beginnings

Page 72

by Susan Lewis


  Sylvestra’s thin hand was on her cheek, smoothing away the tears. ‘I have said all I wanted to,’ she whispered, ‘and I think you understand, so now I will wish you a good night, my child, and may God go with you.’

  The following afternoon Marian was sipping a capuccino and absently watching the tourists as they milled about her. She was thinking about the last time she had sat outside this café, with Bronwen – they’d been waiting for Sergio Rambaldi. Maybe it hadn’t been wise of her, choosing this particular place to meet Matthew in; the memories were still too disturbing; but it had been the first place to spring to mind when she had spoken to him on the phone – and it was easy to find on the south corner of the Ponte Vecchio.

  It was ten minutes later when his shadow fell over her, and as she raised her eyes, she was already steeling herself against the surge of emotion that was threatening to engulf her. But when she saw him, his dark, serious eyes, the black unruly hair, the face she had loved so much, her heart twisted so painfully that for one awful moment she thought she was going to cry.

  ‘Hello,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Hello.’ Then, as she swallowed the lump in her throat, she somehow managed to smile. ‘Thank you for coming all this way. I would have come to London, but . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, sitting down and facing her across the table.

  For a while she couldn’t bring herself to look at him again, but just the sense of his presence was making it hard to stave off the longing to touch him. She still had no idea what he was going to say, what had been going through his mind all these months, but after she had talked to Madeleine the night before, then lain awake until the sun started to rise, she had finally come to understand what she must do. It would be the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, but in her heart she knew she must do it.

  ‘How’s Madeleine?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite well, considering. But I’m not sure we should have let her come with us yesterday. She says she’s all right, but she collapsed straight after . . . It was horrible for her.’

  ‘How did Paul take it?’

  She gave a dry laugh. ‘Difficult to say. He screamed when he saw her. I’ve never heard a man scream like that.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Oh Matthew, if you could have seen his face when he saw her, he looked so disgusted, so nauseated, I don’t know how she stood it. It would have been bad enough for anyone, but you know how Madeleine felt about her looks. He’s being flown to London some time next week, I believe, but I don’t really want anyone to tell us anything about him now. I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, but I wish he was dead.’

  Matthew looked up as the waiter asked him what he would like, but he shook his head. ‘Shall we walk?’ he said, turning back to Marian.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Matthew paid the waiter for her capuccino, then arm in arm they strolled onto the Ponte Vecchio. For once it was clear of street traders, and the shops were closed for the siesta.

  ‘Poor Maddy,’ Marian sighed, ‘she keeps remembering little signs, things that he did or said. It’s horrible for her.’

  ‘Thank God for Enrico, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed.’

  ‘Have things developed between them?’

  Marian laughed. ‘If anything’s going to develop anywhere, it’ll be with his brother, Arsenio.’

  ‘You mean the one who . . .?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. He came home a few weeks before Madeleine did. He goes to her room at night, she tells me, and they talk. I don’t know if they ever mention the bottega and what happened to them there, that’s between the two of them. All that matters is that they’re helping one another to recover.

  Matthew smiled. ‘I’m glad, but I have to say that before all this happened I thought Enrico was beginning to fall for her.’

  ‘You have to remember that it’s barely six months since his wife died. I’m not sure how he’s feeling now, he hides his grief well, but I can see it in his eyes sometimes – I know when he’s thinking about her.’

  Matthew guided her through to one of the arches, and they leaned on the wall, gazing down at the river. Despite the brilliant sun the air was crisp and cold, and few tourists had ventured forth, so for a while they had the alcove to themselves.

  ‘Have you read in the papers about all the arrests going on in New York?’ Matthew asked, changing the subject.

  Marian nodded. ‘It’s causing quite a sensation, I believe.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ he said, following the graceful journey of a gull as it skimmed across the water, then soared into the sky. ‘When I last spoke to Frank he told me that he and Grace don’t want the sculpture destroyed. Has either of them mentioned it to you?’

  ‘Grace did when she telephoned. She said she feels that destroying it would be like killing Olivia all over again – that she would have died for nothing. The experts who’ve been studying it have declared it a masterpiece, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. But where the hell can they exhibit something like that?’

  Marian shrugged. ‘A decision for the police, I suppose. After all, they own it now.’

  Matthew shook his head solemnly. ‘They want us to finish the film.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘Yes. And what about you? Will you be joining us again?’

  At last she turned to face him, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked into those wondrously lambent eyes. But they weren’t teasing now, they were grave and hopeful, and there was something else in them that she wasn’t quite sure she understood. She smiled. ‘No,’ she answered, shaking her head. ‘I won’t be joining you.’

  ‘I’d like you to. We all would.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  He looked at her profile as she turned back to watch the sunlight dance across the water. She had changed. He had noticed it the moment he saw her sitting outside the café. There was something about her, something he couldn’t quite fathom. And then suddenly it hit him. The shy, diffident, ugly little duckling had become a truly beautiful swan. ‘I cared, Marian,’ he said softly. ‘I cared a great deal. I want you to know that.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, then turned her head to look again into the face that a part of her would always love. She smiled. ‘I hear you’ve been skiing with your daughter.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She paused as a couple came up beside them, then, sensing that they were intruding, walked on again. ‘That was what it was all about really, wasn’t it, Matthew?’ she said. ‘Your daughter.’

  ‘At first, yes.’

  ‘You felt guilty. I was the same age, and you tried to give me the care and the love she wouldn’t let you give her.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘But it doesn’t explain New York.’

  ‘No, but things had changed by then. I . . .’ He reached up to touch her face, and his dark, searching eyes looked at her with such sorrow that she felt tears spring to her own. ‘I’m sorry, Marian,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  She put her fingers over his lips. ‘Please, don’t say that. Please don’t be sorry; I’m glad you were the first man to make love to me. I always will be.’

  He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘You’re a very special person, Marian,’ he said. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too. But I hope you and Stephanie will be happy together, Matthew.’

  ‘Oh Marian,’ he murmured, folding her into his arms, ‘and I hope that one day you’ll find the man who’s worthy of you.’ Then, lowering his mouth to hers, he kissed her more tenderly than he had ever kissed her before.

  ‘So do I,’ she said quietly, as she watched him walk away; and after he had disappeared into the crowd she turned back to look at the river. One year, just one short year, and her life had changed so completely that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend the fate that had brought her such love and such pain, such horror and such joy. And such
courage – the courage to let him go.

 

 

 


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