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“No. Libby. You could never be that. Look…” Gianni reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He opens it and carefully pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Here. I kept this. Remember?” Gianni hands the grubby worn page to me. I take tentatively.
“Is this what I think it is?” I ask as, with trembling fingers, I unfold the delicate page, not believing what is in my hand.
Gianni doesn’t say anything, but his soft deep eyes plead with me. He nods slowly.
“It’s my drawing,” I gasp. “You still have it after all this time.”
“Of course. It’s the only thing I have of you.” Gianni smiles. “I didn’t even know your full name. Olivia Morgan. Libby. The initials here were the only clue I had. L. M. Libby Morgan.”
I laugh then say, “Yes. Libby. It’s what my friends call me. Olivia is very grown-up and serious. It’s formal, you know, for work. But Libby or Livvy, sometimes, I think it suits me better.”
“Yes, you’re right. I like it too.” Gianni’s finger lightly touches the corner of the page where I wrote my initials. “This drawing was all I had to remind me that you are real, and we shared something… magical.”
“Yes. It really was, wasn’t it?”
In that moment, the years melt away. Gianni leans toward me, his large dark brown eyes liquid with emotion. I touch his sensuous mouth with my fingertips before pressing my lips to his and inhaling the scent of his caramel skin. The kiss that I had so desired for all those years. The kiss that I knew was perfect. The kiss that I remember from a teenage holiday romance, was here in a bar, in my street, in my town. The kiss was honey and almonds. The kiss was a Negroni and olives. The kiss was all the romance of Italy. We kissed and kept kissing and I realize I’m crying. Tears mix with the kiss, the happiest tears, and I pull away, suppressing a sob. Gianni gently smooths away the wetness from my cheeks. He pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me, and breathes into my hair.
“Libby, tesoro mio, my darling. I’ve found you at last.”
Chapter 30
Olivia
It’sonlyfourweeksto my show and I’m getting jitters. Gianni went back to Florence to take care of business, but we talk every day. It’s distracting but exhilarating at the same time. The exhaustion of focusing on my work is lifted by the love and support I feel from Gianni, even if he is all the way over there in Italy. I’m still riding the wave of happiness and sometimes I stop working to pinch myself; to know that all this is real. And sometimes Gianni randomly calls me to make sure that I am real and not a dream.
“Libby?”
“Yes.”
“Just checking it’s really you.”
“Yes. This is Libby. I am alive and well and here in New York, trying to get an exhibition together, if you don’t mind,” I say in a mock stern tone that’s not convincing at all.
“Okay, okay. Just checking.” And Gianni hangs up.
My heart flutters and I grin to myself in my lounge studio as I put down my phone. I have so much to do but I allow myself a moment to feel like the princess in the fairytale. Contessa raises her head from the sofa cushions and gives me one of her best, ‘Ugh! Puleeze,’ expressions before closing her eyes and going back to sleep.
My thoughts turn to the practicalities of paying the monthly bills and my focus rests on the wall of my art collection, which is now empty. One by one I have sold the paintings, prints, framed photographs, and sculptures. Only one remains. The last piece to be sold off is the painting that Gianni gave me. It is still in the drawer. I haven’t looked at it for weeks. I have been avoiding it because of the significance of its meaning.
Thinking about the picture immediately catapults me back in time to when Gianni gave it to me. He said it was an original and not a copy. He said that he wanted me to have it because I appreciate fine things: things that are real and true. I remember how he had looked into my eyes as he said these words.
Then, that last time I was in Florence, Gianni asked me if I still had the painting. I lied and said I didn’t. I’m not sure why I lied. I think it was pride and because I felt foolish. To say that I still had the painting was an admission that I was still hung up on him. Which was true. I was. But I didn’t want him to know that then. I was hurt that he hadn’t recognized me. And hurt that I had put my life on hold. And hurt because I believed that he had a stack of paintings to give away to all his tourist conquests. I didn’t want to be an Italian gigolo’s conquest.
So, now I’m torn about what to do. I have considered fronting up and telling Gianni I still have his gift. But he thinks I don’t have it. As far as he knows, the painting has been sold, given away, or lost. I reach for my phone fully intending to come clean with what happened to his gift; that it is still here in my apartment, in a drawer. But then, rent is due, and I have to cover bills this month. Selling the painting seems unfair and mean and I don’t feel good about it. In the end, I decide that practicality overrides sentimentality in this instance. It could be worth something. When Gianni gave it to me, he said it was an original and not a copy. But he could have said that to impress me at the time. He was young. Did he know anything about the true value of the painting? I don’t know. I would ask Henry.
Chapter 31
Gianni
Myworldiscompletelyupside down. Meeting up with Libby again ignited the magic I thought was lost forever. And the kiss. Oh, the kiss in the bar. I was lost in that kiss. It was so intense. Finding Libby after all this time is a miracle. I can’t believe I am so lucky. It’s as if Olivia has reclaimed her happy self and Libby, my Libby, has been released: fierce, confident, and absolutely irresistible. I can’t believe I have found her. She must think I’m a crazy person because I need to call her up just to hear her voice and to know she is real and not a dream.
My heart is full of love again. Happiness courses through my veins as I drive to a company board meeting at the Moretti vineyard. It’s a beautiful Tuscan spring day. I have the top down, enjoying the rush, even if it is a little chilly. The Ferrari hugs the curves of the roadside, testing the handling of this outstanding classic. The thrum of the revved-up engine is the sound of my exuberant soul.
Through the vineyard’s wrought-iron gate and up a sweeping driveway, I pull to a stop in the courtyard surrounded by solid stone buildings of wine production. Wine sales are good this year. The vintage Vernaccia di San Gimignano won an award in Wine International Magazine, which boosted our profile through the roof. I have ideas of how to capitalize on this success. Hopefully, I have proved myself to the members of the board and I’ve earned a bit more trust moving forward and onto my next project.
The board of directors is gathered around the long wooden table in the tasting room, one of a collection of rustic stone buildings that used to be a Franciscan monastery. The vaulted ceilinged tasting room was the refectory where the monks ate their meals together. The place still retains the ambiance of hushed reverence. When I walk in, the members of the board peruse figures on printouts, open files, and laptops in front of each of them. My footsteps echo slightly around the cool stone walls. Papa greets me with a bear hug and ruffles my hair like he used to do when I was a kid. I let him.
“Gianni, my boy. Great timing. Everyone else is here,” he says beaming at me as he takes his place at the head of the ancient table. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen.” His rich deep voice booms. I sit at a vacant place beside him, trying to center myself, knowing I have to present my report on the M&L gallery to the board members. “Thank you for your time. We have a lot to get through, so let’s make a start.” My father pours a glass of water from a jug and drinks from it, then reads from the agenda.
