As they strolled, other couples nodded or called “Ciao” upon passing. Streetside shops blazed with light behind glass, wares on display in the window. The pace of life in Venice ebbed and flowed with the canal waters, tranquil and slowed. Peaceful. History—the heartbreak, the triumphs—radiated from the very cobblestones and dripped from the stucco veneer of the ancient buildings.
People had lived and died in this city for centuries before Matthew’s Northern European ancestors had jumped the pond to America. Life would continue on after Matthew was long gone. It was the here and now that counted.
He squeezed Evangeline’s hand, and she glanced over at him through those soft brown eyes that he liked waking up to every morning. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a way to stop dragging this thing out and do something crazy, like put a stake in the ground and hash out a plan to make it work long term.
Except he’d been searching for a way to move on after Amber’s death, never realizing a step in that process might include falling in love with someone new.
It felt disloyal to Amber to think something like that.
This thing couldn’t last. Not because he and Evangeline wouldn’t work in real life. That was true, but surface level. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he could do it again, give his whole being to someone else. Love someone else. Have a household, a baby, a life with someone else.
He’d created the temporary nature of his relationship with Evangeline to make her more comfortable with staying, but it was really an excuse. He’d latched onto it to avoid the truth—he wasn’t ready to move on.
They found the restaurant easily. The maître d’ showed them to their table, and Matthew ordered a bottle of Chianti, which the efficient staff brought immediately.
“Well. Here we are.” Evangeline raised her glass and they clinked rims. “Our first date.”
In a manner of speaking. Seemed strange to be on a first date with a woman he’d made squirm under his tongue as he knelt before her in the shower that morning. “Guess we did things out of order.”
“That’s okay. I’m not big on tradition.”
“Like marriage?” Why in the world had he picked that rock to kick? He already knew her stance on commitment.
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, doesn’t seem like it works out for many people, does it?”
It had for his parents and grandparents. Seemed to work tremendously well for Lucas and Cia, what little of their relationship he’d been around to witness.
His own marriage had been perfect. With Amber, he’d done things in the exact right order. They’d gone to the opera for their first date. Amber had worn gloves and left them in his car. On purpose, he knew, so she’d have an excuse to call him. Which she had done, two days later.
After three dates, he kissed her and three months to the day, he surprised her with a suite at the Fairmont, where they’d made love for the first time, in a nice evening full of potential. That’s when he’d known he would propose, but he held off until they’d been together over a year, then, for Christmas, he’d given Amber a white-gold Tiffany engagement ring that had belonged to his grandmother. Everything safely unfolded according to plan.
For all the good it had done him.
Voices from the front of the restaurant interrupted his musing. Evangeline’s face froze as a couple of sharply dressed teenage boys argued with the maître d’, pointing at her.
“Sorry, they followed us in here,” she said. “They noticed me on the street, but I figured they’d move on.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“Because it’s invasive. Or it will be.” She pasted on a smile as the waiter came up behind her to whisper in her ear. She nodded, and the teenagers rushed over to babble incoherently in a mixture of Italian and English, shoving pieces of paper at Evangeline for her to sign. One of the boys handed her a Sharpie and brazenly lifted his shirt. She scrawled “EVA” in flowery script across his pectoral muscle.
Really? Matthew looked away as something black and sharp flared deep inside. These kids had no sense of decorum whatsoever.
And he absolutely did not want to admit the pain in his stomach had to do with Evangeline’s palm on the guy’s chest. Jealousy. As if she belonged to Matthew and he had a right to expect he’d be the only man she touched.
Evangeline was a good sport through it all. She posed with the boys for at least a dozen pictures, hastily snapped on their phones by the beleaguered waiter. When she was “on,” her otherworldliness intensified, sharpening her beauty but making her seem almost untouchable.