“Follow your heart,” said Stefano. “It’s the best compass there is.”
—
That night he and Gloria had dinner together in a small restaurant near Paul’s flat. He had sent her a message from Montalcino, that morning—an important message. She had replied, although he did not get the message until his plane had touched down and he was waiting for his luggage. It simply read, Of course.
He had been puzzled, but now it seemed to him that things were clearer. “Do I detect your hand in what happened?” he asked. And then he added, “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”
She tried to affect an innocent expression, but failed. “I’m such a bad liar,” she said. “So I suppose I’m going to have to say yes. Not in everything, of course, but in some of it.”
Paul nodded. He was still unsure why Becky had come out to see him. “Is it really possible to be so confused about one’s feelings?”
“Yes,” said Gloria, simply. “It is.”
“So she really did want to apologise?”
“Yes, she did. She had been feeling pretty guilty.”
“How do you know?” asked Paul.
Gloria hesitated. “You won’t be cross with me?”
“Not if you tell me.”
“Because she actually told me. She came to see me, and it all spilled out. She was in a complete spin. And then she asked me whether I thought she should come out to say sorry in person—to explain herself.”
“And what did you say?”
“I’m afraid I said yes. In fact, I rather encouraged her.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to bring matters to a head. I was worried, you see, that when you came back you might just…well, you might fall right back into it. I thought that if she came out to Montalcino when you were trying to finish your book, it would probably put the final seal on it.” She looked at him apologetically. “I suppose I was being a bit selfish. I was thinking of myself.”
“I forgive you.” He did.
“And then I suddenly had cold feet about the whole thing and imagined that you might be brow-beaten by her, or something like that. So I came out to protect you.”
He sat back and stared at her. “And the whole thing worked out more or less as you had imagined?”
“Yes, it did, as it happens.”
“But what about my thinking I’d fallen in love with somebody else altogether…”
“That was tricky,” said Gloria. “But I think you dealt with that yourself. You did the right thing. So if that were going to be a test, you would have passed with flying colours.”
“You’re not saying it was a test?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “Unless you decided that was what it was. For yourself, of course—a test you set yourself.”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, there you are, then.” She smiled at him. “I hope you felt the whole trip was worthwhile.”
“It was.”
He was going to say more; he was going to reflect on how he had been able to help, intentionally and unintentionally. But that would have been boastful, and good deeds should never be paraded by those who do them, no matter how strong the temptation to do so may be.
He looked at Gloria across the table. Sometimes the things that are most important to you are right under your nose and you just don’t notice them. Then the scales fall from your eyes when you are away from home, in a small hill town in Tuscany, for example, where unusual and extraordinary things happen. And then you realise how rich life is, and how precious.
“Shall we go to Venice?” he asked. “I seem to recall your saying you’d never been there.”
“I’d love to,” she said. “When?”
“Very soon,” he said.
“And you could do a Venetian book. A seafood book, perhaps.”
“I can just see it,” he said. “Paul Stuart’s Floating Table.”
He reached out and took her hand across the table, which she gave, willingly, and with tears in her eyes.
“I can’t help myself,” she said. “I always do this. I cry when I’m happy.”
“Cry away then,” he said. “And I may even join you.”
“Could we hire a boat in Venice?” she asked.
He thought about this before answering. “I don’t see why not.”
And for a moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw a working boat, a rough bruiser of a barge, complete with crane, moving slowly through the waters outside the entrance to the Grand Canal, and on the deck, or perhaps even at the wheel, two utterly happy people, their arms around each other, pleased at having found Venice, a boat, and themselves.
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Alexander McCall Smith, My Italian Bulldozer
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