The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  He was wearing the same black vest as before, but had on a navy button-up shirt now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a gray wool cap that somehow made his eyes seem darker. As he stepped inside, William palmed the cap off and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello.” She stood, weightless.

  “Thanks for letting me come by.”

  “Of course. Want to turn that around while we’re in back?” She gestured to the door.

  He looked to see the sign hanging in the window and flipped it over. CLOSED. “Hey, I didn’t mean for you to close up. I can come back—”

  “No, no, it’s absolutely fine. It’s a slow day. The portrait’s all set up, I can show you…” She stepped out from behind the desk and started toward the workroom, beckoning him to follow. She’d worn a skirt instead of jeans for once, and her favorite pair of black mary jane pumps. The heels made a cold clicking on the wood floor. Halfway down the hall, she paused to look back. He wasn’t behind her. Retracing her steps, she caught sight of Odin’s hind paws, peeking out from behind a bookcase. A few more paces and the whole scene came into view: Odin, shamelessly sprawled on his back, legs splayed in all four directions. William crouching down over the cat, silver ring flashing as his hand moved back and forth across Odin’s belly. Both of them framed in a beam of late-day sun.

  “Friendly creature you’ve got here.” He looked up and smiled, a dimple digging into his left cheek. She noticed he’d shaved.

  “That’s Odin. He’s completely spoiled.” Rose glared at the cat, who purred louder, shooting her a smug upside-down grin. His one green eye nodded shut. “Do you have any pets?”

  William gave the cat a final scratch, then stood with a sigh. “No, but we’ve thought about a puppy.” We.

  “Oh. That’s nice.” What else could she say? At their feet, Odin gave a disgruntled mew, then feigned distraction by rolling over and licking at a paw. “Well, let’s take a look?”

  “Sure.”

  This time he followed close behind, waiting politely as she slid the old-fashioned key into the lock. The bolt shot back with a smooth metallic clang, like the cocking of a gun. Rose swung open the door.

  “So, this is your studio…” He strode past her, boyishly fascinated.

  Trying to keep the pride from her voice, she began to explain the fundamentals of her tools as he paced the long central table, looking at the pages laid out on backing sheets. Her brushes, blades, and fibers—

  “Oh! Chopin!” he interrupted, pointing a finger upward, as if the music came from the ceiling. The song had just changed.

  “Opus nine, number two.” Rose smiled, stepping to turn the speakers up.

  “Impressive.” He grinned back. “Okay, so, what’s the exact process of the restoration—how do you do it?” He bent to peer at Giovanni’s writing, hands clasped behind him like he was at a museum exhibition.

  “Well, first I do an initial cleanup of any dirt or residue. I’ll need to remove a bit of wax here, for example, where he wrote by candlelight.” She pointed to a drop of yellowed tallow. He reached out a fingertip to touch it.

  “Some of the pages are very fragile. That’s why I’ve set them on backing sheets while I work. If I’m doing a full restoration, I’ll repair the tears with a special fiber and match the ink to make the faded words more legible. With a palimpsest I have to be careful not to disrupt the undertext…” She trailed off—he’d caught sight of the portrait. A second later and he was hovering over it, palms resting on either edge of the drafting table. As she neared to stand next to him, he shifted to one side, shoving his hands in his vest pockets.

  “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” Rose whispered, as if the woman could hear. He nodded, then glanced at the lamps mounted to the table.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Rising onto her toes, she flicked each switch. The gleam drew the details of the image into sudden focus. For a long minute they stood side by side in silence, staring at the sketch. From the page, the woman gazed back at them with her intelligent eyes, her half smile. Erstwhile sunlight fractured in her irises, in the facets of the pendant dangling at her chest.

  “And this is just done with ink and chalk. Imagine what his paintings must have been like.” William shook his head. “Look at the way he handled that gemstone—that’s not easy, to get those reflections.”

  “Sapphire would be my guess.” Rose clasped her elbows in her palms.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’d guess the stone is a sapphire. It was a common gem to give women during the Renaissance—it represented wisdom and fidelity. Shows up in a lot of portraits.”

  “Wisdom and fidelity…” William repeated the words. Rose noticed his hand moving in his vest pocket, like he was flipping a coin. “I wonder who she was.” He directed his question at the drawing.

  “It’s hard to say, really. She could have been anyone…a model, his lover. His muse. Maybe all three?” In her peripheral vision, she caught him turn to look at her. “It’s nice not knowing, in a way. It frees up the imagination. Lets you see her without the assumptions you’d make if you knew who she was.”

  “I like that. No assumptions.”

  Standing so close, she couldn’t help but think that he was exactly tall enough for her to rest her cheek on his chest, if she just leaned forward slightly…The back of her neck suddenly went warm.

  Rose turned to the center of the room.

  “The book is definitely a treatise on art. Here—look.” She gestured at the charts where Giovanni had outlined the proportions of human anatomy. William gave a last lingering glance at the portrait, then trailed after her, moving to stand on the opposite side of the table.

  “It almost looks like a reference book.” He bent, scanning the writing. “Oh! That’s interesting—I see the word chiara repeated in the undertext. That’s ‘light,’ right? Chiaroscuro?”

  “Yes, exactly. In the top layer there are lots of art terms that I recognize: ‘shadow,’ ‘proportion,’ ‘composition’…Also, I wanted to let you know I reached out to a few experts, and one of them said he’d seen a reference to Lomazzo in a piece by Raffaello Borghini.” At his blank expression, she clarified: “Borghini was kind of like an early art critic. He wrote a document, all about religious paintings. It’s pretty historically significant. Anyway, my friend said he’d seen a version with the name Lomazzo in the author’s notes. If that’s referring to your Lomazzo, to this treatise, then you might want to think about publishing when we’re done. It could be very important, especially to art historians.”

  William rubbed the back of his head. “Well, that’s great, but— I’ll be honest, it isn’t really the academic stuff that matters to me. I mean, sure, I’ll share it if you think people will want to read it, but…” He leaned his hips forward as he looked down at the pages, his belt buckle clacking against the steel of the table. “I’m just mostly amazed to find out that my ancestor was an artist too, you know? What are the odds…”

  “Well, some people think creativity can be inherited. Is your family artistic?”

  “No, not at all. My father’s a preacher. My mom—” He scratched a forearm, thinking. His nails were wide and flat. “Well, my mom’s a fantastic quilter, actually. That was sort of an ‘approved’ art form for women in her generation. I’m from the South.” He scrunched his face up at her as if that both explained everything and offered some form of apology.

  “And your grandparents?”

  “My father’s father was a tailor, so I guess that’s creative. He was an Italian immigrant. I really don’t know much about my mother’s side except that they were Italian too.” As he spoke, he walked around the perimeter of the table, scanning the diagrams, until he ended up next to her.

  “Well, quilting and tailoring sound pretty artistic to me.”
Rose tried to imagine William’s grandfather sketching suit designs.

  “How about you? Were your family all, um…into books?” He grinned at how the question sounded.

  She shot a smile back at him. “I should know a lot more about my family tree than I do, unfortunately. I think some of them were Quakers originally; we’ve been on the East Coast awhile. But my dad was a professor of classics at the university, so—yes, he was into books. Very much so. He passed a few months ago.” Why did she tell him that?

  “Oh God, I’m sorry.” He grasped his chin in his hand, like a ball in a mitt. “Is your mom still around?”

  “No, she died of cancer when I was a teenager. Official orphan.” Rose gave a stiff shrug of her shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

  “It’s okay. Happens to us all eventually, right?” Her skin felt stretched and hot; she pressed the heels of both palms to her cheeks, then linked her fingers behind her neck.

  “It does.” He reached out to touch her back.

  His hand was so broad it covered the full expanse of her shoulder blade, the tips of his fingers lining up along her spine. It was meant as a sympathetic gesture, she knew that, yet heat still shivered down through her. Her body was disintegrating—all she could feel was the place where his palm spread over her. She was barely able to register that he was still talking:

  “Listen, I can get out of here now. I really appreciate you letting me take a look at the sketch though.” He drew his hand away, but the sensation of it lingered like a brand.

  “Oh! You’re welcome, anytime.” The words spilled out automatically, a routine phrase her mind was fortunately able to summon, while the rest of her body shook itself out of its stupor.

  Still feeling his handprint on her shoulder, Rose opened the workroom door. As she led them through the shop, a new sound emerged to layer over the click of her heels. While they’d been in the back, storm clouds had blown in: now rain streaked down sideways, spattering the windows. Broad puddles were already forming on the concrete outside, the light darkened like a dimmer switch had been lowered.

  William stepped forward to peer up at the sky. “Wow, really coming down. Guess we couldn’t hear it with the music.”

  Rose joined him at the window, gazing out at her bike locked to a post on the sidewalk. It had a wicker basket attached to its front; water was now pitifully leaking through the gaps in the weave. More rain pooled on the seat, snaking off in thin streamers. “Why do I always forget to check the forecast?”

  He followed her stare. “Did you bike here? I can give you a ride home if you want. It’s no problem.”

  “Really?” Rose took another look at her bike. “Actually, that would be amazing.”

  He held the door open as she ran to undo the bike lock, her trench coat clutched over her head. At least the canvas was somewhat waterproof. While he waited, she wheeled the bike to her workroom, where it began dripping onto the linoleum. Coming back out front, she wiped the wet from her hands, then picked up her bag from behind the register.

  “Okay, ready.”

  “I’m just around the corner.” The wool cap reappeared from his pocket, was tugged on.

  They made a run for it, leaping around and over puddles. As they neared the truck, Rose aimed wrong: her foot landed squarely in the center of a pool, water splashing up over the top of her pump. She squealed and hopped, shaking her leg. William spun around and laughed at her, head thrown back in the rain. It didn’t matter, they were both drenched. He pulled a key from his vest pocket and unlocked her side before jogging around to the driver’s seat. They slammed their doors shut.

  “God, it’s pouring.” Her bun had come loose; she tossed her head over her knees to gather the hair together, twisting it up into a damp knot. “Nice truck.”

  “Yeah, it works for hauling lumber; I make my own frames. Okay, where am I heading?” He pulled out into the street, flicking on the windshield wipers.

  “Oh, right.” She gave him her address, fastening her seatbelt. “Just past the dog park.”

  “That’s fine, I’m out in the burbs.” The car picked up speed. For a few moments they drove in silence, save for the pummel of rain on the windows, the soft swish of cars passing in the opposite direction, tires churning puddles.

  “Want some chocolate?” He pointed to an unopened bar that sat tucked in the center console. Rose leaned to slide it out. DARK CACAO AND SEA SALT.

  “Okay, but only because it has sea salt on it….Do you want a piece?” She flipped the bar over, tugged apart the stiff adhesive on the back.

  “Sure.” He held out a hand. Rose cracked the chocolate along its molded demarcations, deposited a section into his waiting palm, the same one he’d touched her back with. She saw lines etched into his flesh, clear and deep, like a tree. The car fell silent again as they both sucked on their squares, grains of tangy salt rubbing the roofs of their mouths. Their heat had started fogging the windows; William turned the defroster on. Lukewarm air began blowing up over the dash.

  “So, Rose.” He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “How’d you get into the restoration business?”

  “Well, hmm.” She considered, watching rain burst and streak across the glass on all sides. “I’ve always liked books a lot. Like I said, my father taught classics, so I was in the archives even as a kid. I eventually figured out that I liked books as material objects as much as I liked reading them, so I ended up getting a degree in restoration. That was in New York.” She pulled a strand of hair loose at her temple, started twisting it around a finger. “Then my dad got sick, and I needed to come home to take care of him, but I still wanted to work with books so…I guess it all just sort of fell into place…”

  “Well, it seems to be working out so far; the store’s charming.”

  “Thank you. It definitely helps to be by an Ivy League school—most of those students have pretty healthy book-buying allowances.”

  William chuckled. “I can only imagine. You know, I used to live in New York also.”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, his silhouette slipping past houses and lawns, a sudden surge of dark green as they reached the park. “Really? What made you move?”

  He cleared his throat again. “Ahh. Well, my wife grew up here, and she thought it’d be a better spot for our kids. I have two girls. Six and nine.” There. He’d said it: Wife. Kids. Everything out in the open now. The back of his skull prickled; he readjusted his grip on the wheel. Another bout of rain slapped the windshield.

  “It’s calmer here than in New York, that’s for sure.” Rose turned to stare again at the water veining down her window. Her seatbelt suddenly felt too tight; she tugged at it, pulling it away from her ribs.

  “You grew up here too, right? Maybe you know her—my wife? Her name would have been Sarah Larsen. She was a cheerleader, I’m not sure which school.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it: Rose had to be years younger than Sarah, they wouldn’t have overlapped. What was he thinking?

  “No, I can’t say that I do. Though I didn’t really spend much time with the cheerleaders.” She let go of the seatbelt, let it snap back across her chest.

  “No, no, of course not.” William flushed, staring straight ahead at the road. Rose put a finger up to the glass and drew a sad, lopsided star in the remaining fog, which clung to one corner. Then the wheels slowed, and she saw they’d reached her block. He put the truck in park and turned off the headlights. Overhead, hemlocks shed needles onto the roof, battered by the deluge.

  “So, what happens next?” He pulled his cap off again, shoved it into the console next to the chocolate bar. His hair stuck up at odd angles until he smoothed it with a swipe of a palm. The streetlights hadn’t come on yet; they were cast in clinging shadow.

  “Next?”

  “With the book?” He’d shifted in his seat so
he was facing her. The outline of his body etched itself against the dim.

  “Oh! I’m about halfway through cleaning the pages. I’ll scan the top text as soon as I can, then let you know when it’s translated. After that I’ll start on the undertext.”

  “Will you tell me if you find other portraits? Or any other drawings? I’d like to see them…”

  “Of course. And you can always stop by if you’re interested in how it’s coming along.” She said the last bit before she could think better of it.

  “Yeah, I just might.” The streetlights flicked on then, dousing them in a brassy glow.

  “Good. Well. Thanks for the ride, I really appreciate it. And the chocolate.” She stuck her hand out, awkwardly. He gave a sideways smile and shook it. The feel of his skin, the same as the first time, rough and warm.

  “Anytime.”

  She leapt out then, swung the door shut, and ran up the walkway to her door.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, William eased into his driveway. The rain had slowed to a halfhearted drizzle. He got out, walked around the hood to the passenger’s side, and opened the door. It still smelled like her hair here: shampoo, maybe—a clean, floral fragrance. It’d drifted over at him when they first sat down, as she unwound and rewound her bun. He’d wanted to lean into it.