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As he told the story he had almost forgotten he had an audience. His desire for the tale to have a different ending burned as deep as it had in childhood. Accompanied by the same sear of guilt.
A feeling of warmth permeated his senses, the scent of rose, the sense of comfort, as Kaitlin shifted closer to him on the bench, leant forward and touched his arm. ‘Your poor, poor mum. The shock must have been awful—your dad sounds so vital, so strong. And poor you as well. To never have known him.’
‘My mother told me about him. He was the love of her life—according to her, love at first sight is possible. She was a waitress in one of his family’s restaurants—they met and kaboom.’ The sound of his mother’s voice echoed across the years. The click of her fingers as she’d said the word. ‘They had so many hopes and dreams and plans—if it hadn’t been for me their story would have played out differently.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Her voice was urgent; fervour brightened the green of her eye to emerald.
‘It’s not about fault. It is about fact. My grandparents cast him off because of the pregnancy. He was working all those jobs to provide for me.’
Kaitlin shook her head, studying his expression with way too much understanding, and discomfort caused him to shift on the wooden slats of the bench.
‘It sounds to me as though your dad loved you, and it is a tragedy he didn’t live to see the man you have become. But the fact is that it is not your fault.’ As if sensing his unease, with her usual unerring social poise she changed tack. ‘So, what were their plans and dreams? Did your mother tell you?’
‘They wanted to set up a restaurant—here in Venice, where his family originated. Travel...have a brood of children.’
‘So your dad was Italian?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you took your stepfather’s surname?’
Easy does it.
This was why he should have never have embarked on this conversation. Perhaps the ambience of Venice, the flavour of might-have-beens, the sudden urge to keep his father’s memory alive had all combined to loosen his tongue. The suspicion that in actual fact it was Kaitlin—her understanding, her sheer presence—that had caused the hitherto unheard of confidence-sharing unnerved him.
It was an unacceptable possibility—letting people close caused potential hurt to all concerned and it was time to bring this to a halt.
‘I kept my mother’s name.’ In fact he had changed it when he’d left the States—had needed a clean start with no connection at all to his past. A past he had left behind.
Daniel screwed up his napkin with a savage scrunch and rose to his feet, saw Kaitlin’s troubled look and pulled a smile to his face. This was not her fault—it was his. And he wouldn’t let it happen again. From now on in this was about enjoyment of Venice—no more than that.
‘If you’re ready, I know the perfect place for dessert.’
* * *
As they walked back towards the hustle and bustle of St Mark’s Square Kaitlin couldn’t help but dwell on what Daniel had shared.
Next to her, she could sense the strength of his body and the vibration of frustrated anger, and she wondered about his current family situation. The way he had spoken of his mother suggested distance—she had no immediate sense of the woman whose life had been touched by such tragedy.
Walking closer to him, she wanted to soothe him, remembered how much comfort she had derived from human contact. So she slipped her hand into his. For a second his stride faltered, and then he returned the pressure and they kept walking until they arrived at a café.
Though ‘café’ seemed way too commonplace a word—this was a real, proper European coffee house.
‘If I narrow my eyes to filter out the modern-day clothing I can imagine that we’ve stepped back in time.’
‘This was once the haunt of the likes of Casanova, Proust and Charles Dickens. Lord Byron used to brood and breakfast here as well.’
‘Where would you like to sit?’
Outside, tables and chairs were scattered under the colonnades, and an orchestra played classical mu
sic that further added to the sense of history.
‘Wherever you prefer,’ Daniel said.
‘Let’s go inside,’ she decided. ‘If the outside is so magnificent I can’t imagine the inside.’
And indeed it did defy description. As they sat in the gilded interior, where vast mirrors, stuccos and paintings ranging from the Oriental to portraits vied for attention, listening to the strains of beautiful notes that wafted in from outside and mingled with the smells of cakes and pastries, Kaitlin felt joy touch her.
