A Family For Keeps

by Lucy Gordon

  She returned it to him. 'Order for me, please.'

  The champagne arrived and Vincenzo poured for them all in tall, fluted glasses.

  'Thank you,' he said, raising his glass to her. 'Thank you-Julia?'

  'Julia,' she said, meeting his eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of confirming or denying her name.

  Piero was looking gleefully from one to the other. She guessed he was imagining a possible romance. She shrugged the thought away, but she supposed his mistake was understandable. Many women would find Vincenzo irresistible. It wasn't a matter of looks, because strictly speaking he wasn't handsome. His nose was a little too long and irregular for that.

  It was hard to tell the shape of his mouth because it changed constantly, smiling, grimacing, always reflecting his mood, which wasn't always amiable. There was a touch of pride there, and more than a touch of defensiveness.

  No, it wasn't features, she decided, but something else, an indescribable mixture of charm, bitter comedy and arrogance, something unmistakably Italian. It was there in his dark, slightly sunken eyes, with their gleam that was so hard to read. A woman could drive herself distracted trying to fathom that gleam, and doubtless many women had. There was a time when she herself might have been intrigued.

  But the next moment, as if to tell her to be honest with herself, she was assailed by the memory of lying beneath him on the attic floor, so that the hot, sweet sensation began to rise up in her from the pit of her stomach, threatening to overcome her completely.

  She drew a long, ragged breath against the threat, refusing to give in. She was stronger than that.

  Piero provided a kind of distraction, rejoicing in the champagne, pronouncing it excellent.

  'Only the best,' Vincenzo said.

  'Yes, it is,' she agreed, for the sake of something to say.

  Vincenzo nodded. 'I thought you'd know about that.'

  She pulled herself together, refusing to let him overcome her, even though he had no idea that he was doing so.

  'Maybe I don't know,' she parried. 'Maybe I only said "Yes" to sound knowledgeable. Anyone can do that.'

  'True. But not everyone would know about Correggio and Veronese.'

  'I was guessing.'

  'No, you weren't,' he said quietly.

  She was getting her second wind and was able to say, 'Well, it's not your concern, and who are you to lecture me about people concealing their identity?'

  'Can't you two go five minutes without bickering?' Piero asked plaintively.

  'I'm not bickering,' Vincenzo said. 'She's bickering.'

  'I'm not.'

  'You are.'

  'Stop it, the pair of you,' Piero commanded.

  As one they turned on him.

  'Why?' Julia asked. 'What's wrong with bickering? It's as good a way of communicating as any other.'

  'That's what I always say,' Vincenzo agreed at once.

  He met her eyes and she found herself reluctantly discovering that she was wrong. There was a better way of communicating. The look he was giving her was wicked, and it contained the kind of shared understanding she knew she would be wiser to avoid.

  Piero raised his glass.

  'I foresee a very interesting evening,' he said with relish.

  'Can we eat the first course before we have to fight another round?' Vincenzo asked.

  It was her first experience of Venetian cuisine, with its intriguing variety. A dish described simply as 'rice and peas' turned out also to contain onions, veal, butter and broth.

  They drank Prosecco from hand-blown pink, opalescent glasses.

  'They come from home,' Vincenzo said. 'There were some things I was damned if I was going to sell.'

  'They're beautiful,' she said, turning a glass between her fingers. 'I can understand you wanting to keep them.'

  'My father gave me the first wine I ever tasted in one of these,' he remembered. 'I was only a boy, and I felt like such a big man, sitting there with him.'

  You idolised him, she thought, remembering Piero's words. And he betrayed you.

  'Isn't it risky using them in a restaurant?' she asked.

  'These aren't for the ordinary customers. I keep them for special friends. Let's drink a toast.'

  They solemnly raised their glasses. Somewhere inside her she could feel a knot of tension begin to unravel. There were still good times to be had.

  'Are you warm enough out here?' Vincenzo asked her. 'Would you prefer a table inside?'

  'No, this is nice.'

  'We have the odd fine night, even in December. It's after Christmas that it gets really bad.'

  When the rice and peas had been cleared away she saw Vincenzo look up and meet the eye of a very pretty waitress, who returned a questioning smile, to which he responded with a wink and a nod of the head., to

  'Do you mind doing your flirting elsewhere?' Piero asked severely.

  'I'm not flirting,' Vincenzo defended himself. 'I was signalling to Celia to bring in the next course.'

  'And you had to do that with a wink?' Julia enquired humorously.

  'I'm trying to appeal to her. She's going to vanish next week, just when I'm going to need her most.'

  'But I thought you didn't need too many staff at this time of year,' Julia said.

  'It's true the summer rush is over, but in the run-up to Christmas there's a mini-rush. I shed staff in October and increase them in December. In January I shed them again, then increase them in February just before the Carnival. A lot of workers like it that way-a few weeks on, a few weeks off. But Celia's going off just when I need her on. I've begged and pleaded-'

  'You've winked and smiled-' Julia supplied.

  'Right. And all to no avail.'

  'You mean that this young female is immune to your charm?' Piero asked, shocked.

  'His what?' Julia asked.

  'His charm. Chaa-aarm. You must have heard of it?'

  'Yes, but nobody told me Vincenzo was supposed to have any.'

  'Very funny, the pair of you,' Vincenzo said, eyeing them both balefully.

  Celia appeared at the table bearing a large terracotta pot, in which was an eel, cooked in bay leaves.

  'This is a speciality of Murano, the island where the glass-blowing is centred,' Vincenzo explained. 'It was once cooked over hot coals actually in the glass furnaces. I can't compete with that. I have to use modern ovens, but I think it'll taste all right.'

  When Celia had finished serving the eel he took her hand, gazing up into her eyes, pleading. His words were in Venetian but Julia got the gist of them without trouble, and even managed to decipher, 'My love, I implore you.'

  Even if it was all play-acting, she thought, it had a kind of magic that a woman would do well to beware. Celia seemed in no danger. She giggled and departed.

  'I guess I can't persuade Celia.' He sighed. 'Tonight's her last night. She's about to get married and go on her honeymoon. That's her fiance over there. Ciao, Enrico.'

  A burly man grinned at him from another table. Vincenzo grinned back in good fellowship. Julia concentrated on her food, trying not to be glad that Celia had a fiance.

  As they ate the eel, washed down with Soave, her feeling of well-being increased. She had forgotten many things about the real world: good food, fine wines, a man who had dark, intense eyes, and turned them on her, inviting her to understand their meaning.

  She was too wise to accept that invitation, but the understanding was there, whether she wanted it or not. It tingled in her senses, it ached in her heart, so long starved of the joyous emotions. It told her that she must risk just this one evening.

  After the eel came wild duck. While it was being served she turned to look out over the canal.

  'Have you ever been to Venice before?' Vincenzo asked.

  'No. I always meant to, but somehow it never happened.'

  'Not even when you were studying art? Please, Julia,' he added quickly as she looked up, 'let's not pretend about that, at least. You recognised a Correggio an
d a Veronese at the first glance, and you can't turn the clock back to before it happened. You're an artist.'

  'An art restorer,' she conceded reluctantly. 'At one time I fancied myself as a great painter, but my only talent turned out to be for imitating other people's styles.'

  'You must have studied in Italy. That's how you know the language, right?'

  'I studied in Rome and Florence,' she agreed.

  'Then I'll enjoy showing you the whole house, although it's only a ghost of itself now. I wish you could have seen it in its glory days.'

  'You've lost everything, haven't you?' she said gently.

  'Just about.' He glanced at Piero and lowered his voice. 'Do I have any secrets left?'

  'Not many.'

  'Good, then I needn't bore you with the whole story. Now let's eat. With duck we drink Amarone.'

  He filled their glasses with the red wine that had just been brought to the table. Julia sipped it with relish and looked back at the canal.

  'I should like to see Venice in summer,' she said, 'when it's bright and cheerful, not dark and menacing as it is now.' She glanced at him, smiling. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude about your city.'

  'But you're right. It's true, Venice can be menacing, especially on quiet winter nights. Its history has been one of blood as well as romance, and even today there are times when an assassin seems to lurk around each corner, and peril haunts every shadow.

  'In the summer the tourists arrive and say, "How pretty! How quaint!" but if Venice were only pretty and quaint it would soon grow dull.'

  'Pretty and quaint are two words that never occurred to me,' she said wryly. 'That's what sleeping on the stones can do for you.'

  His grin broadened into a laugh, and she realised how seldom there was real amusement in his face. It was there now, and it delighted her.

  'You have all my sympathy,' he said. 'Nowhere else are the stones as hard as ours. Venice is the loveliest city in the world, but it can also be the most cruel. And that's why I wouldn't live anywhere else. Does that sound crazy?'

  'No, I understand it. You can't study art for long without knowing that anything that's merely pretty grows tedious very soon.'

  He nodded.

  'In the same way, a woman who has only looks soon palls. Sadly, it takes a man time to understand that, and when he's found out it may be too late. The woman with the dark, dangerous heart may be already beyond his reach.'

  She gave a wry smile.

  'That's very nice talk, but aren't you deluding yourself?'

  'Am I?'

  'How many men truly want a woman with a dark, dangerous heart?'

  'The discriminating ones, perhaps.'

  'And how many men are discriminating? You don't need a dangerous heart to do the washing-up.'

  'You mean that it would be an attribute of a mistress, rather than a wife?'

  'I mean that you're spinning glittering fantasies in the air. They have no reality behind them.'

  'I didn't realise that you knew me so well.'

  The words were lightly spoken, but with a slight warning edge. In truth, she didn't know him at all.

  'I like to choose my own fantasies,' he said lightly. 'And I decide what they mean.'

  His eyes challenged her. She met the challenge and threw it back, but she could think of no words that weren't more perilous than silence.

  She glanced at Piero, afraid that she would find him regarding them with gleeful interest, but he was engaged in a mad flirtation with Celia, who was laughing at his jokes, and giving him extra food and wine. He consumed everything with gusto, especially the wine, and it was clear that he was soon headed for blissful oblivion.

  Seeing him so absorbed, she began to feel as though she were alone with Vincenzo, who didn't take his eyes from her.

  'Why won't you tell me who you are?' he asked softly. 'And why you are here. I might be able to help.'

  At one time she would have replied quickly that nobody could help her, Now she merely shook her head.

  'You'll have to tell someone, some time. Why not me?'

  'Because you get too close.'

  'People who care should get too close. Don't keep yourself shut away. Why are you smiling like that?'

  'Nothing,' she said. 'I wasn't really.'

  'There you go again, hiding. You're like someone who barely exists. I know only what you choose to tell, and, since that's almost nothing, it's like being able to see right through you. I don't know your name or what brought you here, or why you try so hard to conceal yourself in the dark.'

  'The light frightens me,' she whispered.

  'But why? You answer one question and a thousand others spring up. When will your mysteries end?'

  'They won't. Vincenzo, please, it's better if you don't seek to know them.'

  'Better for whom?'

  'For both of us, but mostly for you.'

  'Then you already know what's happening to me.'

  'Don't. Don't say it. Don't think it. Don't let it happen.'

  'Don't you want to be loved?'

  'How can I tell? What is it like?'

  'Are you saying that no man has ever loved you?'

  'Please-'

  'No man has wanted to take you in his arms and lie with you, demanded the right to claim and possess you in every way?'

  'It doesn't matter what they've wanted,' she told him. 'Who cares what men say? Only fools believe them. No, I've never been loved. I might have thought so, but we all have these little self-delusions.'

  'Until the truth breaks in at last,' he agreed. 'There's nothing you can tell me about self-delusion. But the biggest self-delusion of all is to tell ourselves that we can manage without love in future.'

  'Look at my face,' she said, drawing the hair back. 'I'm an old woman.'

  'No, you're not. There's suffering in your face, but not age. You're a young woman who's learned to feel old inside.'

  She smiled in ironic acknowledgement. 'You see too much.'

  His fingers brushed her hand, and she could feel in the light touch everything he was trying to say. 'Don't,' she warned him. 'Don't reach out to me.'

  'Suppose I want to?'

  'But I can't reach back. Can't you understand? I have nothing to give.'

  His fingers possessed hers and he didn't look at her directly as he said, 'Perhaps I don't want you to give, but to take.'

  'It makes no difference,' she said sadly. 'I no longer know how to do either. I forgot both long ago.'

  'How long?'

  She took a deep breath. 'Six years, two months and four days.'

  The stark precision of the answer startled him.

  'And what happened, six years, two months and four days ago?' he asked.

  'I packed my feelings away in an iron chest marked, "No longer required". Then I buried that chest too deep to be found again. I've even forgotten where it is.'

  'I don't believe that. You'll remember when you want to. Can't I help you do it?'

  'I don't want to remember,' she whispered. 'It hurts too much. Tell me, Vincenzo, how deep is your iron chest buried?'

  'Not as deep as I'd like. I find I can't do without those feelings, even if they hurt. Better be hurt than dead inside.'

  'Meaning I'm a coward?' she demanded swiftly.

  'I didn't say that.'

  'You implied it.'

  'Why are you trying to quarrel with me?' he asked quietly.

  'Perhaps because I really am a coward,' she admitted after a moment. 'I have so little courage left, and I need all of it.'

  'And I threaten it?'

  'Yes,' she whispered. 'Yes, you do.'

  She had said that she could not reach out, but she knew how fatally easy it would be to seek warmth from this man who seemed to have so much to give. But it would deflect her from her true purpose, and nothing must be allowed to do that.

  'You do,' she repeated.

  'Don't be afraid of me.'

  'I'm not afraid of you, but I will not let you in. Do yo
u understand?'

  'I told myself the same thing about you, but somehow you got in.'

  'I wasn't trying to,' she said quickly.

  'I know. Maybe that's how you managed it. You were there before I could put my defences in place.'

  'You're forgetting that I don't really exist,' she said.

  She tried to speak lightly, but it was hard, and he made it harder by coming back swiftly with, 'Sometimes I wish you didn't. You're trouble. I don't know how or why, but you're big trouble, and you're going to throw my life in turmoil.'

  'Just ignore me.'

  'That's a dishonest reply.' For a moment he was angry. 'You know it's too late for that.'

  'Yes,' she murmured after a moment. 'Yes, it's too late. It's much too late.'

  Hours had passed. Customers were leaving the restaurant, and lights were going off. Lost in her awareness of Vincenzo, Julia hardly realised it was happening.

  A waiter approached them to say that Vincenzo was needed for some formality. When he'd gone Julia turned back to Piero, and found him, as she'd expected, deeply, blissfully asleep.

  Vincenzo returned as the last customer was leaving, and smiled at the sight of their friend.

  'He'd better stay here tonight,' he said. 'There's a little room behind the kitchen where I sometimes sleep when I'm working late.'

  He summoned a waiter. Together they carried Piero through the kitchens into the tiny bedroom and laid him gently on the bed.

  'You'd better stay here, too,' he told Julia. 'You can have the apartment upstairs that Celia has just vacated.'

  He showed her up the narrow staircase into the tiny apartment. Celia had stripped the bed before leaving, and he helped her make it up.

  'Thank you,' she said. 'But there was no need for you to take so much trouble. I could have gone back.'

  'No,' he said at once. 'I don't want you sleeping in that huge, empty place alone. I couldn't feel easy about you.'

  'You don't have to look after me,' she said with a little smile. Then she gave a little laugh. 'Except that you do, all the time, don't you? I just hate admitting it, which isn't very nice of me.'

  Her voice fell softly on his ears and caused an ache inside him. She worked so hard to keep her gentler side hidden that when she allowed him a sudden glimpse it caught him off guard.

  He came closer, looking at her with hot, dark eyes. He remembered another time when he'd looked at her like this. Then he'd held her in his arms, kissing her, and she had known nothing about it. She knew nothing now.