Page 29 of Bound by Their Christmas Baby

Warming up was also a priority. The street she was in was lined w

ith shops. A few were closed but the third she passed was open and she pushed inside, realising when she entered that it had a collection of gifts. Nothing gaudy or touristic though; the items assembled were all of the highest quality.

‘Ciao, signorina!’ the shopkeeper called from behind a counter. Abby looked in his direction with a small smile. He was in his fifties, pleasingly rotund and short, with a thick white beard that fell to the second button of the grey shirt he wore. Red suspenders held his trousers in place. He was the picture of an Italian Father Christmas.

He said something in Italian and Abby shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I only speak English.’ Something she’d have to remedy if she was going to make a go of life here.

‘American?’

‘Sì.’

‘Welcome.’ His English was heavily accented, his smile bright. ‘’Ave a look around. If I can help, you say, okay?’

She nodded. ‘Okay.’

The shop was a marvel. She looked at statues first, tiny enough to fit in the palm of her hand, carved out of marble, all the details and intricacies perfect despite their miniature size. There were different coloured candles and Christmas ornaments made of wood, the like of which she’d always associated with Germany. Nativity scenes mostly, set at the base of elaborate shapes that, when candles were lit, would spin a fan at the top, causing the arrangement to move. Music boxes were also in evidence.

‘It’s all so beautiful,’ she said to herself.

‘Eh?’

‘Bella,’ Abby supplied, waving her hand towards the shelves. Her eyes fell on something in the corner and she moved towards it with a greedy hunger for everything this quaint little shop could offer.

The shelf was laden with Christmas decorations, but unlike anything she’d ever seen. They were spherical in shape, made of blown glass so fine that it was almost like a wisp of cloud. Each had been etched with a festive scene, some of the nativity, others with Santa and his elves, and inside each there was a bell, so tiny that when Abby lifted one ornament it made the most beautiful little noise, almost like a sigh.

‘Oh…’ She turned to the man, wishing she could convey to him how perfect they were.

But he understood. ‘Aspetti,’ he said, then his brow beetled. ‘Wait. Wait.’

He disappeared behind a thick velvet curtain and when he returned it was with a younger woman at his side. She wore an apron and had her dark hair pinned up into a loose bun. She brought with her the faint hint of gingerbread and a kind smile.

‘My daughter,’ the man said, his pride obvious. Abby’s heart lurched. When was the last time her father had looked at her with anything like pride? Affection? Never.

‘Ciao,’ the woman said. ‘You are American?’ She spoke English more comfortably.

‘Yes.’ Abby nodded.

‘You like the decorations?’

Abby nodded. ‘They’re…exquisite.’

The man said something and the daughter translated Abby’s summation. He smiled. ‘Sì, certamente.’

He seemed gratified by Abby’s appreciation.

‘They’re unique to this area,’ the woman said. ‘When our village formed, some craftsmen from Murano were amongst the first townspeople. They brought their skills with them, and these became the specialty. Each… How you say it? Father to son to father to son?’

‘Generation?’ Abby supplied after a moment.

‘Yes! Each generation has learned from their father. There are only three people left in the village who make them, and they make only fifty each per year—to keep them special.’

Abby doubted she’d ever seen anything more beautiful.

‘They are said to bring luck and wishes,’ the woman continued. ‘But I don’t know if this is true. I think they are just pretty.’

Abby nodded her agreement. She could see them on a big green tree, with fine fairy lights twinkling amongst them, making them sparkle with tiny reflections. Though Abby hadn’t celebrated Christmas with any degree of enthusiasm since her mother had died, she now felt a jolt of enthusiasm at the prospect. Why shouldn’t she decorate a tree this year? It was, after all, Raf’s first Christmas and that meant something, didn’t it? ‘How much are they?’

‘Quanta costa?’ the woman asked her father.

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