When Alessandro left his aunt’s house just after nine o’clock, the rain had stopped, and the skies were actually clear for a change. He would have liked to walk home, but he wanted to work on something new for his recital, so to save time he headed to the nearest vaporetto stop. He had something specific in mind. It was a little modern for his father’s taste, but this piece wouldn’t be for his father.
His phone rang as he waited for the vaporetto. It was Pamela. “I just wanted to let you know I’m not going to be in until noon tomorrow. But don’t worry—I’ve done my share of the paperwork, and it’s sitting on your desk.”
“No problem.”
“How was dinner with your aunt?”
“Fine, but remember the girl with the chattering teeth at the airport?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, I had a drink with her in San Giacomo earlier this evening. I’m taking her out tomorrow in the boat for lunch.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. She’s got the most beautiful violet eyes, like Murano glass. Oh—here’s my vaporetto.” He said good-bye but Pamela had already hung up.
The vaporetto was quiet. In a couple of days, the city would be flooded with Carnival-goers, so he savored the peaceful ride. He stood on the deck and watched the city go by. After a lifetime, it still took his breath away, but tonight it seemed more beautiful than ever.
For the last month, he’d tried to put those violet eyes out of his mind. But tonight he realized just how miserably he’d failed. She’d been glad to see him too, the shock of pleasant surprise showing clearly in her smile. How does one account for an attraction like that? Of all the women he’d met since Katarina had died (was he finally ready to accept that now?), none had made him tongue-tied, or made his heart beat faster, or made him want to hang on to her hand forever.
Alessandro disembarked at his stop with a buonasera to the deckhand. He stood on the dock for a moment, looking up at stars that seemed especially bright, before making his way through the park to his apartment.
His elderly ground-floor neighbor was sweeping her doorstep. He wished her a good evening, and she insisted he take some of the fish she’d cooked for dinner. When he protested that he’d eaten with his aunt, she insisted he’d be hungry later. “You must find yourself a new wife to take care of you,” she told him as she presented him with the platter of fish. “You work too hard.” He’d been hearing the same speech every day since he moved in.
Once inside, he hung up his coat and, after putting the fish in the fridge and pouring himself a drink, went to the piano. But he didn’t start playing right away. Instead, he picked up the framed picture of himself and Katarina on a ski vacation in the Italian Alps, standing side by side, wearing their skis, the lodge and mountains in the background. His arm was around her, and he was smiling down at her while she smiled for the camera. She’d pushed her ski goggles up onto her head, her long blond hair cascading past her shoulders. Her smile was generous and warm, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes free from the worry he so often saw there.
“I think you’d really like Olivia, Katarina,” he said aloud as he gently put the picture down. He waited for a moment to see what emotions followed such a statement. But there was no guilt, no sense of disloyalty or anger. There was, perhaps, peace. Maybe he was finally ready to move on.
His hands hovered over the piano keys, and when he finally played the first notes, he knew he was playing better than he had in a long time.