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“That all does sound lovely,” Kate said eventually. “But I would want to check with my family and give it some thought before any final plans are made. After all, there is no rush.”
Giancarlo gave her a reassuring smile. “There is no rush of course, Katerina. But Mamma is naturally excited and she is correct to want to get arrangements underway, even if we can only speak in rough terms of a date. There is much involved in planning a wedding for a family as prominent as ours.”
The last words echoed in Kate’s mind. How would she be able to involve her family in the wedding when her fiancé was from a prominent family in Rome? It was difficult to imagine.
* * *
Kate blinked her eyes a few times to regain her focus. She put the calligraphy pen down and stretched out her arms. The current art piece, a scene of one of the pillars of Medina ruins printed in sepia on thin rag paper, was stretched out before her on the artist table. The large window in front of her showed the small piazza below empty of anything but a few stray leaves whirling in circles on the cobbles. Late afternoon sun cast shadows on the buildings across from her. A tabby cat padded out from the side of one of the buildings, stretched, and carried on its way. She smiled at the sight, reminded of Max, suddenly, when he would stretch on the back porch before going down the steps to the yard. He was such a soppy old soul, really, not a fierce bone in his body, and loyal to the core. She thought of how he’d slept at the end of her bed when she was home. Just like old times. As if she hadn’t been away. His presence had meant a lot to her, she realized. And had gone a long way to helping her cope with what had changed and what hadn’t been said, but hung in the air like bad cologne.
She turned away, pushing those thoughts out of her mind and returned her focus to the art piece in front of her. She had only started the calligraphy, conscious that she had a deadline of sorts pushing her on. It made her feel uncomfortable, the joy of the process and creation of the work somehow now muted with that worry lurking in the background. She studied the piece, second guessing the phrase she’d selected for it. It was in the original Tuscan, not only because it was part of the remarkable nature of Boccaccio’s foray into writing in the vernacular at a time when it wasn’t the norm, but because the words and letters worked with the image. Perhaps the place was wrong, though? But she didn’t have time to go through the process of printing another image. She’d carefully allocated the amount of paper for this project, and she was using the spare sheets already for this next exhibition that only might take place.
She sighed. She shouldn’t worry about the cost of the supplies. After all, she’d made a tidy sum from the sale of the pieces last week. But she couldn’t help but feel that the profit really should go to Giancarlo, because he had invested untold amounts in her already. And not just the art side. She tried to promise herself that she would pay him back for all of it and that she was holding true to that promise.
She took up the pen and continued forming the letter, dipping the pen into the ink when necessary. She’d managed two more words when her phone rang. She ignored the first few rings, thinking it was Giancarlo asking when she’d be finished. She’d already told him she wouldn’t be back until the evening. She had too much work to do. It wasn’t until she caught sight of Tom’s name on her phone that she put down her pen and picked it up, swiping it quickly to answer the call.
“Tom?” She could hear the anxiety underlying the questioning tone of her voice. She found herself toying with her engagement ring, pushing it around and around on her finger. She stopped, hearing the hitch in Tom’s voice.
“It’s Dad,” he said. “He’s in the hospital.”
“The hospital? How? When?” Her anxiety had turned to alarm. She stood up and began to walk around the room.
“He collapsed. Ethan found him on the living room floor this morning when he stopped by.” He took a deep breath. “He’s in Somerton Memorial. I don’t know anything yet. They’re doing tests.”
“Where are you?”
“Here, at the hospital.”
She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “What sort of tests?”
“I don’t know, Kate. Tests.” His tone was sharp, stressed.
She took a deep breath. Tom was upset, she understood that, but she also needed to know more.
“When will you know anything? Did they say? Is he still in the Emergency Room or have they admitted him?”
“He’s still here in Emergency, but the doctors are with him now.”
Kate looked at her watch. It was after five. That would make just it after eleven in the morning in Somerton.
“How is he now? Has he regained consciousness?” she asked. The questions were just delaying what she knew she would do, but she needed to know. She had to know.
“He’s conscious, at least when they admitted him, about an hour ago. I’ve been out in the waiting room since then. Ethan called the ambulance and then called me. I met them here at the hospital.”
His breathing was more even now and he seemed calmer, but that made no difference to her at this point. She’d decided, though in truth she’d decided the moment Tom told her that her father had collapsed.
“I’m coming over. I’ll book a plane and let you know the details,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “You should.”
It might have been the tone of his words or the words themselves, but her uneasiness increased and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away. There was much to do if she was going to fly out tonight.
Nine
Kate took her suitcase from the rack above, picked up her handbag from the seat and made her way to the end of the train to disembark onto the platform. It had been a long day, and the late afternoon sun was already sinking toward the horizon, casting long shadows along the platform. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the small dirt lot that was beside the station. It had been a small goods yard many decades before, during the railroad’s heyday, but now it only sported weeds and an occasional hopeful poster about local plans for its use. Plans that warring local factions apparently never allowed to come to fruition.
Kate didn’t mind, though. It was old and familiar, and she wasn’t going to argue with that as she stepped onto the platform. People shuffled around her, some commuters and others returning from a day’s shopping in New York City. She walked toward the station, wheeling her suitcase behind her, looking for some sign of Tom. She’d told him she’d take a taxi, but he had insisted on picking her up. She sighed. He was probably delayed.
A hand grabbed the handle of her suitcase and she stopped, startled.
