The Mermaid Garden(152)
“He feared for your lives?”
“Yes, he said he couldn’t protect us if we stayed in Italy.”
“Protect you from whom?”
“From Beppe.”
He looked at her askance and rubbed his chin. “It doesn’t add up, Floriana.”
“You mean, there was no danger?”
“I’m not saying that at all.” He seemed to dismiss the one piece of the puzzle that wasn’t fitting. “Go on.”
“Father Ascanio said that the only way to protect us was to give the child up. He sent me into hiding in England, and I don’t know where he sent our son …” Her voice cracked. “I was hoping you might know.”
Dante gazed back at her helplessly. “I didn’t even know we had a son.” Then his face hardened, and he lost his focus among the statues in the garden. “However, I think I know someone who does.”
“Father Ascanio? I wrote, but he never wrote back.”
“Father Ascanio died years ago.”
“Then who?”
“You never spoke to anyone else before you went to England?”
“Only the Mother Superior.”
“No one else?” She shook her head. “Of course you didn’t. It’s beginning to make sense. After all these years, it’s beginning to add up. Leave it with me.”
“Who?” she persisted.
He took her hand. “Leave it with me, Floriana. You have to trust me.”
Her shoulders dropped. “I do.”
Suddenly, she remembered Rafa. “Oh goodness, Rafa might be back at any minute.”
“Rafa?”
“He’s an Argentine artist who’s come for the summer to teach painting to our guests. My husband wasn’t happy for me to come on my own. I told him to drive into Herba for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll ask Lavanti to look after him when he comes back. Don’t worry.” Dante called the butler and instructed him to show Rafa into the drawing room. Then, as Lavanti left the terrace, Dante’s gaze fell fondly on Marina again. “When you spoke to my secretary and told her that you had information about Floriana, I realized that although I thought I gave up looking for you long ago, in my heart I had never stopped,” he said. “But I had to cut you out of my consciousness eventually.”
“Did you marry?”
“Forgive me.”
She frowned at him. “What is there to forgive?”
“I married Costanza.”
Rafa parked the car and wandered around the town. The air was thick and damp, the evening light turning the old Etruscan walls orange. Pigeons flocked on the cobbles, bony mongrels scavenged in packs, women gossiped on their doorsteps while children played. He reached the Piazza Laconda, where locals sat at tables under umbrellas, drinking Prosecco. He felt the allure of the church and walked inside. Incense still lingered from Mass, and a gaggle of old widows remained in their chairs, chatting quietly. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped slowly over the flagstones, remembering Clementine and their first visit to the house that God forgot. He felt the pain of longing in his heart.
A young couple stood in front of the table of candles, holding hands. He envied their happiness. The man smiled at him and handed him a taper. Rafa took it and thanked him. The couple walked away, leaving him alone in front of the table of dancing flames. He thought of his deceased father, who must have lit candles here as he was now going to do. Then, as he lowered the burning taper onto the wick, he thought of his purpose and asked God to give him the courage to go through with it.
Marina felt as if a cold hand had squeezed all the air out of her lungs. For a while she couldn’t speak. She stared at him in disbelief.
Dante was quick to explain. “Oh, Floriana, it’s not like it sounds. I never set out to marry your friend. It just happened by default because, I suppose, in a way I was always trying to find my way back to you. I couldn’t leave the past alone. Costanza was my only link to you.” He raised his eyes and gazed at her sadly. “Every time I looked at her, I thought of you, Floriana—until it dawned on me that she was a dead end, leading nowhere.”
“Costanza,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”
“We made each other utterly miserable.”
“Where is she now?”
“We divorced after fifteen years of marriage.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reached out and touched his hand. He squeezed it and smiled sadly.
“Fifteen wasted years, Floriana. Years I should have spent with you.”
“I have learned that nothing is a waste, Dante. Do you have children?”
“Three daughters, who bring me trouble and joy in equal measure.” The fondness he felt for his daughters restored the color to his cheeks. “But mostly joy,” he added.