Page 68 of Casanova LLC

My stomach turned and I sat down. Put my elbows on my knees and looked at the floor.

Richard loomed above me. “Hey hey hey. There’s nothing evil here. You’re not forcing her. Besides, she signed the prenup; she knows the consequences of her actions. It’s all above board. As above board as any business transaction is. All you’re doing is leveling the playing field. She said she doesn’t want anything from me anyway. You’re just helping me hold her to her word, should I ever need to. And in exchange…I’ll change your motherfucking life.”

Everything he said was true.

It was a barter. Just another barter.

But still, I sat with it. And sat with it.

He groaned, losing patience. “Man, come on, this isn’t difficult. Just ask yourself one question: Are you a gigolo or are you an artist? If you could choose, right this moment, which would it be? Who do you want to be?” He thrust his hand forward with finality. It was my last chance to take the deal or not.

No one had ever, for lack of a better word, “outed” me like this before. Had so clearly put who I’d dreamed of being up against who I was made to be. I’d convinced myself that painting was nothing more than a nice hobby. Because when I’d made the decision to take over for Jacopo, to not let the line end with him, I’d had to stop wanting anything other than that.

I could feel Craven getting ready to withdraw his hand. “Look, I don’t know your deal, okay? I don’t know who you want to be; I’m just telling you that once I’m done with you, you’ll be able to be whoever the fuck you want to be.”

And then there was the money. I hadn’t even considered the money. My current stock of finished work would be sold at twenty times their worth and whatever I painted after that was one-hundred percent mine. I could take care of Jacopo. The palazzo. I could do what I’d always wanted to do.

Did the dubious morality of what he proposed outweigh all of that? I could easily rationalize it away. Because let’s be honest: I knew the kind of woman who would marry a man like Richard Craven.

So.

I shook his hand.

* * *

The day dawned bright and clear. After a simple breakfast in the garden, I motored Claire over to the island of Burano. I thought she’d fall in love with the lace, which had made the island famous. But beyond that, I knew she’d appreciate the colorful houses. Blue next to pink next to yellow next to orange.

I told her the history of the island on the way over, but in truth, I was not myself. I hadn’t slept at all, thanks to Jacopo, as my conscience warred with itself. Yes, I should tell her everything she didn’t know. But how much did the truth matter? Did it matter enough to not only ruin this weekend, but also her lingering love for her late husband?

But he didn’t deserve her devotion. Didn’t deserve it while he was alive, why should he have it for eternity?

But I didn’t deserve it either.

But I wanted it.

But what if I also wanted to tell her? Who I really am. The man hiding in the shadow of the fantasy. Then what? I wanted to keep talking about art and sex. But what if I also wanted to talk about dreams and desires, vulnerabilities, pain and longing? And, most frighteningly, the future?

No.

Better to leave the magic intact. Keep the magician intact.

Once again, what I wanted was the problem. The fact that I wanted anything at all was the problem.

We disembarked and I led her to a small lace shop. Everyone in this lagoon was a friend of my uncle’s, but guests were only brought to those who made quality products. This shop had been in the same family practically since lace was invented, and the current proprietor was the daughter of two of Jacopo’s best friends, Silvia and Luigi. She took her time explaining the craft to Claire, who, as with the palazzo, or the gondola workshop (or anything else she gave her attention to), had a wealth of questions. In the end, she pulled out her wallet and bought two lace placemats for two-hundred-fifty euro. She saw me watching. “It’s okay. I withdrew a grand from the company account before I left. Just in case.”

“In case what?” I teased. “In case I never picked you up at the airport?”

She grinned. But then she asked for them to be gift-wrapped.

We left the shop and I couldn’t help but ask, “A gift?”

“Don’t be jealous. They’re for Jacopo.”

“This is not a jealous why…but why?”

“For his boat.”

“That’s a lovely gesture, but if she’d known they were for Jacopo she would have given you a family discount.” I started walking back to the shop.

---