The American Lady(60)

“We have to talk, cara mia.”

“I hope you aren’t jealous,” Marie said, feigning anger. “Can I help it if Flavio kept on calling me bella? Or if Mateo insisted on taking hold of my hand so that I could understand his wound glass technique?” She smiled. In fact she liked it when Franco was jealous. It made her feel . . . desired. But of course she would never let him know that.

He looked at her. “I have to go back to Genoa next week.”

Marie felt as though she’d been punched in the belly.

“What is it? Why don’t you say anything?”

New York without Franco? She couldn’t imagine it.

“A week, so soon . . . My ship doesn’t leave until the end of September,” she murmured.

He leaned across the table toward her.

“Marie, I beg you, come with me! I’ve never felt this way about any woman. Meeting like this, in this huge city, it can only have been fate! We belong together, you and I. I can’t live without you!”

“Do you think I feel any different?” Marie cried out. “But this is all so sudden. I don’t know what to say.”

She looked into his eyes to see whether he understood.

“I could leave New York without thinking twice—the city’s beginning to get to me anyway; I feel I can hardly relax. And Ruth certainly wouldn’t care if I took an earlier ship, ever since I upset her little family idyll. But that isn’t the only thing I have to consider. You and I . . . we haven’t ever talked about . . . about the future. My family expects me to come home—there must be a mountain of work waiting for me. I have to prepare this year’s catalog, I have work to do at the lamp, there are the rods as well . . . I can’t just up and leave!”

Even though I want to, she added silently. She clung to Franco’s arm. He took her hands between his.

“You wouldn’t have to. There’s still time to organize it all. You could send your family a telegram, for instance. And then write a longer letter later, explaining everything. Of course they’ll be surprised by the news at first, but that would be true even if you had weeks to plan and prepare.”

Marie gnawed at her lip. Franco was right.

“And as for your art . . . you can work in Genoa as well. I’ll have a whole studio fitted out for you in the palazzo, and you can send your designs to Germany from there just as you do at the moment. Italy and Germany—they’re hardly far apart! It’s just a stone’s throw. I’ll work in the vineyards, and you’ll have the days to yourself, but the nights will be ours to share! You’ll love Italy, I swear! Just this afternoon you said that winter can be terrible back in your country.”

Had she really said that? When Franco looked at her like that, Marie couldn’t be sure of anything.

“Just imagine, cara mia: you look out the window and the sea gleams in every shade of blue, the houses are shining white in the sun . . .” He swept his hand around to underline his words.

“I can just imagine how a view like that would give me all sorts of ideas for Christmas decorations,” Marie replied with a touch of mockery. She found it flattering that Franco had already thought of all this, but it riled her as well. It seemed that as far as he was concerned, everything was settled. She heaved a deep sigh. Why couldn’t things stay as they were?

“Oh, Franco! It all sounds so lovely! But all the same your plans worry me a little. You don’t even know whether your parents want me in their house. What if they don’t like me? And then your idea of putting in a studio—that sort of building work costs money. There are so many unknown factors—”

“I know they’ll like you!” Franco interrupted her. “And Mother will be glad if we find a use for one of the rooms, believe me! As for my Father—he’ll love you! Marie, mia cara, there’s only one decision you can make . . .”

He spoke so passionately that a few of the other customers turned to look at them. But Franco only had eyes for Marie.

Marie shuddered. At times like these she felt she wasn’t ready for Franco’s love.

“But my return voyage is already booked and paid for . . .”

Franco smiled triumphantly.

“If that’s all it is . . . you can give the ticket away! We’ll travel first class! I’ll see that you’re treated like a princess. And not just during the crossing. As soon as we arrive in Genoa, I’ll buy you the finest tools to be had. And the most beautiful glass, the colored rods, everything you need . . .”

“I haven’t said yes yet,” Marie said, struggling to be stern with him. But she knew even as she tried that she couldn’t be. Franco’s offer was so tempting; it was as though he had spread out a picnic of all the finest delicacies in front of her. All she had to do was reach out and take one.