Page 70 of Casanova LLC

I was going to tell her. I was going to tell her how he was everything she ever suspected. He was an idiot, he was an asshole, he was?—

“He was a good man. He was loyal. He was supportive. I hate that he will be remembered for the last six months of his life. He gave me so much. And in return, he just wanted me to be his fantasy version of me.” She picked up her wine once again and looked at me. “Something you know something about.”

I didn’t answer. There was a world of difference between me and Claire.

“Anyway. I wanted off the shelf and Visage was my way to do it.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

She considered the question, tongue running over her teeth. “Yes. I made it a success.”

I took a moment before reiterating, “But did you get what you wanted?”

Her voice tightened. “You mean the shelf?” She stared past me. “He got sick and the shelf became irrelevant. All that mattered was love. All that’s left is love.”

What was I supposed to do with that?

* * *

On the way home, just as the sun began to dip in the late-afternoon sky, I detoured slightly and took her down the side canal that abutted our palazzo. I pulled the boat up to the opposite wall and cut the engine.

She looked all around, at the water, at yet another view of our palazzo across the canal, everywhere but at the wall directly behind her. She lifted a what’s going on brow at me.

Smiling, I inclined my head toward the pale pink wall we had pulled alongside.

She turned around and a moment later, she gasped. Her head spun back to me, eyes wide. “The wall in your painting! The color that inspired the lipstick.”

“The very one.”

Beaming, she spun back around. She scurried to the back of the boat so she could step up on the sun deck and get close to it. I watched the delight on her face as she lifted her left hand to the wall and…pressed. A moment of connection. Of honoring.

My mind photographed it. Which shocked me. I hadn’t had that impulse in…years. My creative flame sparking. She leaned back and looked up, taking in the whole building. “It’s peeling a bit.”

I nodded sadly. “It’s been vacant for years, like many Venetian properties. The city is all tourists now; locals have been pushed out.” The old houses that hadn’t modernized, hadn’t been turned into apartments or hotels, were prohibitively expensive to maintain and who had money like that anymore? Ours was hardly a replicable business model.

She looked more closely at the wall. “I actually like it. I like the color underneath. The contrast. It’s more authentic. More real.” She took out her phone and held it up. “Do you mind?”

“What?”

“If I take a picture? Just of the wall. I’ll keep you out of it.”

It took me a moment to realize she was referencing a part of the NDA that prohibited photos. “Of course.”

As she photographed it, I thought: Take a photo of us, Claire. With my arms around you. Sitting on my lap on the bench of the Riva. Kissing. I wanted proof that we had existed. That this was real. I wanted to see us together in a moment that would last forever.

Jacopo would laugh in my face.

When she was done, I started the engine, and we went home.

Claire insisted on stopping by the sailboat on the way into the palazzo, her gift in hand, but luckily Jacopo wasn’t there. So we walked into the androne and stopped at the stairs.

“So.” She cleared her throat. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Loaded question. What are my options?”

“Well.” I slowly moved toward her. “We could go out for dinner.”

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