Page 118 of Casanova LLC

Jacopo followed me all the way to the pier. He gently took my elbow. “I do not think you should leave?—”

“Well, you’re the only one.” I slipped out of his grasp and went back to my bag. Finally, I found it. In the water bottle holder, of all places. I handed him the pile of crumpled lace. “Here. I’m…” I drew a ragged breath. “…Sorry for the presentation.”

And I was. It deserved better.

He took the pile gingerly. He opened it, unfolding, smoothing. He delicately separated the two pieces. He stared at them. He didn’t say anything. “They’re placemats. For your galley table.” He remained silent. “I just thought… I don’t know. That you should have them.”

He didn’t look up from them. He fingered the borders, the fine work there. Then he sniffed abruptly and reached for me. Pulled me into his arms. He husked into my ear, “Grazie.”

My eyes filled with tears again. I choked them back. “You’re welcome. Please call the taxi.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He pulled back and his own eyes were wet. “It is one more night. In the morning, all will feel better. Don’t leave with…whatever this is.”

“Why not? He did.”

Jacopo winced. He squeezed my arm. “Okay. Okay. Wait here, I call someone.”

He walked a few feet away and brought his phone to his ear. A quick, murmured conversation later, he was back at my side. “A friend’s pensione around the corner. I will walk you.”

“How much is it?”

He waved this off. “On the palazzo, I believe is the saying.”

Considering I’d left my last remaining euros strewn across the bed upstairs, I would take his generosity.

Jacopo grabbed the handle of my suitcase, I picked up my bag, and we moved back toward the house, the hollow sound of our footsteps bouncing off the dock and water. Then he stopped, hearing something in the distance.

“What is it?”

“The Riva.”

We turned back, and in the evening haze, saw it—him—coming toward the pier.

Alessandro

I’d pulled up to the front entrance specifically to avoid Jacopo. And yet here he was, on the dock. Standing with Claire. And her luggage.

None of this was good.

I threw a hasty dock line around a cleat and jumped out of the Riva.

He bent his head to her and I heard him say, “I will give you two some time.” She didn’t look happy about that. “I am in the cavana when you are done.” He gave me a quick look—something between regret, disappointment, despair, acceptance, I couldn’t get a read. Then squeezed her shoulder—oh, now he was her defender?—and left.

She looked at one very specific spot on the dock, but there was nothing there. I kept my distance.

I waited until the front door closed to say her name. It came out as a rasp.

Because I’d driven as fast and as far as I could into the lagoon until there wasn’t a building in sight. And then screamed. Repeatedly. Torn the shit out of my voice.

The irony wasn’t lost on me: she’d changed my voice, too.

Reluctantly, she lifted her eyes to mine.

I’d seen her face in laughter, in ecstasy, in anger, in confusion. In three days, I thought I’d seen all her faces.

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