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He’s still nervous. However, a steely determination has taken over and won the day. Nothing is about to keep him from his objective.

We walk across the bridge, and Slade knocks on the door. “Here we go.” We wait like statues for someone to answer. His hand clasps mine as though I’m the only thing holding him upright.

Finally, an older woman with a wrinkled face answers the door. Her eyes stare at Slade with a fierce glare.

“Buongiorno,” Slade says, sounding like the real Italian man he is.

It meansgood day.Lauren told Slade to use this term becauseciao(pronounced chow) which meanshello(and goodbye) is considered casual and informal, and it could be perceived as rude when you don’t know someone well.

Of course, this causes the old woman to spout off in Italian, and we have no idea what she’s saying.

Slade holds up one hand. “Scusate.” That meanssorry. “No Italian. English?”

“Americano?” the lady asks, the door slowly closing.

“Yes. I’m looking for Matteo De Luca…” Slade manages.

“No. No, no, no.” The door slams in our face.

We’re both silent, staring at the closed door for at least a full minute.

Slade’s chest heaves up and down, as his head lowers. “Do you have any great ideas? I’m fresh out.”

“We’re not giving up. C’mon, we’ll think of something.” I grab Slade’s arm and walk him across the bridge.

There’s a small bench facing the family home. I guide him there and help him sit. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.

“That was anticlimactic,” he mumbles. “Guess what? I don’t have a plan B.”

I massage his back as we listen to the water lap against the side of the canal. “We’ll go back to the hotel and do some research. We’ll find him.”

“I knew this was risky, that the odds were against us, but I didn’t expect it to end so abruptly. One door slam and it’s over. Just like that.”

“Maybe we got turned around. We’re probably at the wrong house,” I offer.

“Maybe you’re right.” Slade’s discouragement is palpable. “I’m not ready to throw in the towel. I mean, one setback and I’m toast. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. This is important to you. Emotions are high.” I notice movement in one of the upstairs windows, a drape parting, then falling back into place. Then it happens a second time. “Slade?”

“Hmmm?”

“We’re being watched.”

“By the mean lady?” he asks.

“I’m not sure.”

Suddenly the front door is thrown open, wide and welcoming. This time a young lady with dark hair and dark eyes just like Slade’s beckons to us. “I’m sorry. Are you Americans?” she says in highly accented, but practically perfect English. “Do you need help?”

Slade sits up tall, then gets to his feet with renewed energy. “A second chance. Don’t let me blow it.” He grabs my hand and we walk across the bridge again.

The older “mean” lady stands in the background, looking disgruntled. Inside is a large enchanting courtyard. A curving staircase leads upstairs.

“Sorry about Ginevra, our housekeeper. She’s wary of strangers. She keeps us safe, yes? But I want to meet the Americans at our door.” The young lady has an easy, friendly smile.

I swear, we both breathe out heavy sighs of relief.

While we’re both dumbstruck, she says, “How can I help? You looked so sad on the bench. Are you lost? This is a private home.”

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