Page 45 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Eventually, though, grief tires of being my companion, and without its company, I slowly stitch myself back together. If I can’t die, I have to create a semblance of a life.
I make my way to the Kingdom of Sicily in the far south, whereI change my name to Lucciano. There, I apprentice myself to a cobbler in a small shoe store in Palermo. The owner, Gianni, tends the front of the shop, whereas I spend my days in the dimly lit backroom workshop. I have no need to speak to others. Human connection brings only heartache, and I prefer the stoicism of leather and nails.
One sunny July morning, however, Gianni receives an invitation for his niece’s wedding in the Duchy of Milan. I suggest closing the store while he’s away.
“Nonsense,” Gianni says. “It is not so difficult to tend to the customers. You know ladies’ shoes better than most women know their own feet. I shall return in a fortnight. I expect my shop to still be standing when I do.”
Which is how I come to be in the front of the store when Isabella Caruso strolls in on the tenth of July.
“I wish thee a fair morning,” I say without looking up from the counter. I’m working the final touches on a pair of slippers, sewing gold beads onto the red leather, and I don’t want to stop my progress.
A delicate laugh fills the small showroom. “Is it still morning in your world, sir? For as I see it, the sun has traveled well past noon.”
At the sound of her voice, I drop the shoe to the ground.
“Juliet?” I whisper.
It’s been nearly two decades, but she is just as I remember. Light brown hair, green eyes that flash with wit, and perfect, rose-tinted lips. Is it possible that she, too, survived as I did? That she didn’t die in the crypt?
The memory of the honeyed wine from the Capulets’ ball skims my lips. Today is exactly nineteen years from the night we met as Cupid and Psyche.
I emerge from behind the register and take a tentative step toward her.
“I beg your pardon?” she says. “Who’s Juliet?”
“You are,” I say, voice barely audible.
She laughs again. “I am quite sure I’m Isabella Caruso. I have been my entire life.”
But I can’t stop staring. I cross the shop in two long strides,take her hands, and kneel at her feet. “I know not if you are an angel who has come to finally take me away, or if you are my true love, come to rescue me from my suffering. But regardless, you are the most heavenly vision I’ve ever laid eyes upon, and I beseech you to accept the gift of my love, in this moment and forevermore.”
Isabella blushes. “My good sir…I am quite lost for words.”
“Say nothing but yes. If you’ll be mine, I swear to make you happy for all time.”
The door behind us chimes. “What is the meaning of this?” A matronly woman—Isabella’s chaperone—charges in.
Before the chaperone can tear us apart, Isabella leans in and whispers into my ear. “Yes. On impulse and on intuition, yes.”
Then, louder, she says, “The slippers sound perfect. I shall expect you to deliver them to me on Sunday. My companion shall give directions to my residence.”
With that, Isabella walks out of the shop. And she takes my scarred but hopeful heart with her.
Two weeks later, we lie naked together in a bed on the island of Pantelleria. We are drunk on moscato and our elopement, and even though we’ve just woken from a brief nap, I kiss Isabella’s thighs where the skin is soft and pale, untouched by the summer sun and known only to me. Although she drowsily bats me away, it’s halfhearted, because we’re newlyweds, and there is no such thing as enough of each other.
We make love with the fervor of explorers mapping new lands, and when we finish, we do it again only an hour later. Eventually, though, we are spent, and I wrap my arms around Isabella; she rests her head on my chest.
I haven’t told her that she was Juliet—I don’t understand how this wonder has come to be—but she is unquestionably the very same girl I loved almost two decades ago in Verona. Everything about her is the same, from the rise and fall of her voice to the scent of lavender on her skin, from the velvet of her touch to the way she kisses me urgently, as if we are going to be caught at any moment. The only difference is that Isabella has no clue that she’d ever been a Capulet.
But now that Isabella is my wife, it’s time to tell her what I believe.
“My beloved,” I say.
“Hmm?” Isabella murmurs.
“Do you believe in miracles?”
“I am Catholic. Of course I believe in miracles.” She smiles and kisses me.
