He returned to the living room to find that both its occupants had obeyed him. Toni’s head was still on Ruth’s knee, and she was stroking it, regarding the dog with a smile of fond indulgence.
‘Your room’s ready,’ he said. ‘Try to get plenty of sleep. I won’t let anything disturb you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and slipped away.
As soon as he was alone Pietro poured himself a large brandy. He had never needed one so much.
He felt stunned.
At first he’d thought this might be one of Gino’s discarded girlfriends who hadn’t given up hope. It happened often, but there were reasons why it couldn’t be the answer this time.
As Pietro brooded on those reasons he grew more and more troubled.
Just over a year ago Gino had fallen in love with an English girl, a tourist in Venice. Pietro had been away at the time and when he returned she’d gone back to England, so he’d never met her.
For once Gino had seemed genuinely smitten, to the point of marriage. Pietro’s wedding gift was going to be a grand reception in the palazzo.
‘But I want to meet this paragon,’ he told his young friend. ‘She must be really special to persuade you to settle down.’
‘Yes, she really is special,’ Gino enthused. ‘You’ll love her.’
‘I hope not,’ Pietro teased. ‘I’m a respectable married man.’
‘And you don’t want Lisetta throwing pots and pans at you.’
‘She never would,’ Pietro said quietly. ‘She thinks of nothing but pleasing me.’
‘So I should hope. And imagine how pleased you’re going to be when she gives birth to that son. When is it due now?’
‘One month.’
‘We’ll have the wedding just after that.’
It was arranged that Gino would go to England for the firm, and bring his fiancee back with him for a pre- wedding visit. His work in England had been expected to last two weeks, but he was home in five days, mysteriously pale and quiet, which was so unlike Gino as to be alarming. In response to Pietro’s concerned questions he would only say that the marriage was off. He and his lover would never meet again.
As far as Pietro could tell Gino never called her, and if his cell phone rang he jumped. But it was never her.
‘Did you quarrel?’ Pietro asked cautiously. ‘Did she catch you flirting?’
‘Not at all. She just changed her mind.’
‘That’s right, she dumped me, and asked me to leave her alone.’
Before Pietro could explore further, his wife went into premature labour, and died giving birth to a son, who also died. In the aftermath of that tragedy all thoughts of Gino’s problems were driven from his mind.
When he was able to function again he saw that his friend hadn’t recovered his spirits. Pietro’s kind heart prompted him to send Gino away on a number of trips, seeking out new destinations for the firm.
Now and then Gino returned to Venice, seeming more cheerful. But always his first question was whether there had been any news from England, and Pietro realised that this young woman had callously broken his heart.
Her name had been Ruth Denver.
‘But it can’t be her,’ he growled to himself. ‘She doesn’t look anything like her. I’ve seen her picture-’
In a cupboard he found a book full of photographs and went through them until he found the one he wanted. It showed Gino just over a year ago, handsome, laughing, his arm around a young girl. She too was laughing, her face full of joy as she gazed at him. Peering closer, Pietro managed to recognise her as Ruth Denver. But only just.
This was a big, buxom girl, generously made, with a broad, confident smile. Her hair was thick and long, flowing over her shoulders, somehow hinting at an equally expansive nature.
The ethereal creature who had invaded his home tonight was a ghost of her former self. Her hair was short, almost boyish, her smile had died, her eyes were sad and cautious. Small wonder he hadn’t recognised her at first.
What had happened to change her from one person into the other?
When she was exhausted the impressions swirled about her head and ran together. She was asleep, yet not asleep, her dreams haunted by a man who came out of nowhere, seized her and took her to safety. In the darkness and rain she couldn’t make out his face. Only his strength and determination were real.
Then the rain vanished and she was lying on a sofa while he pressed a brandy on her, forceful yet gentle, both together. She didn’t know who he was yet every detail was mysteriously clear. She could see his face now, handsome but for a tautness about the mouth, giving him a withered look that shouldn’t have been there for several years.
When he rose and moved about the room there was grace in his movements, except that he seemed always ready against an attack. Or perhaps the attack would come from him, for she sensed something below the surface that might explode at any moment, all the more dangerous for the quietness of his voice.
Then the impressions shifted, whirled away into the darkness, replaced by another time, another place. Now she was smiling as she was swept back to the time of happiness.
There was Gino, gazing at her, giving her the fond smile she adored, reaching for her hand across the restaurant table, caressing her fingers with his lips.
‘They’re staring at us,’ she whispered, looking around at the other diners.
‘So let them,’ he said merrily. ‘Oh you English, you’re so cold.’
‘Me? Cold?’
‘No, never,
‘Say it in Venetian,’ she begged. ‘You know I love that.’
How could there be such joy in the world? Her handsome Gino had come to England to take her back to Venice where his family were waiting to welcome her. Soon they would be married, living together in that lovely city.
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘Oh, Gino, we’re going to be so happy.’
But without warning the darkness came down, obscuring first his face, then everything. Suddenly the world was full of pain. He was gone.
There were flickers-more pictures, but they came from much earlier. There was Gino as he’d been on the day they met in Venice, winning her heart with his cheeky humour and glowing admiration. She’d been struggling with the language, and he’d come to her aid. Somehow they had ended up spending the evening together, and he’d made her talk about herself.
‘You know so many languages,’ he’d said, ‘French, German, Spanish, but no Italian. That’s very bad. You should learn Italian without delay.’
‘But do I really need another language?’ she’d asked, not because she really objected, but to provoke an answer.
There had been a special significance in his look as he’d said, ‘Well, I’m glad you couldn’t speak it today, or we wouldn’t have met. But now I really think you should learn.’
After that he had set himself to teach her his language, and done it very thoroughly.
More pictures-the airport where he’d seen her off, almost in tears from the strength of his feelings. Then the call to say he was coming to England, the ecstatic meeting, and that last evening together-
‘You’re a dream of perfection, and I love you madly-
There was his face as he said it, but it was fading, fading-
She screamed again and again, stretching out her arms in a frantic attempt to hold on to him.
‘Come back,’ she cried. ‘Come back. Don’t leave me.’
But then she touched him. She couldn’t see him but she could feel that he’d turned back to her, was taking her in his arms, drawing her against his body.
