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“Nonna said it would be an adventure.”
“Yes. She is right.”
Luisa stands up and walks to the open window. Traffic noise drifts up from the street below. She turns to face me.
“Papa.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not scared.”
“No. Good. Why would you be?”
Luisa shrugs. “Being in a new place; away from people and things I know. I was scared about that last night, but now that I’m here, it’s exciting.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Take your time. Have a shower, relax, and then we’ll go out to explore, okay?”
I hug Luisa then leave her and close the door.
I sit on one of the sofas in the lounge and open my laptop on the low table in front of me. I have some emails to answer and a spreadsheet of figures to work through but my concentration wavers. I lean back against the cushions. I reach into my pocket and take out my wallet. I open it up, pull out the piece of folded paper, and hold it up to the light.
Will there be a day when I don’t want to see the drawing or wonder at the initials? L.M. Libby M could be dead for all I know. The sketch of the Ponte Vecchio is faded but still shows masterful marks. Perhaps she is a famous artist now. Sometimes, in random moments, I’ll type a search term into the browser – USA artist L.M. or Libby M artist or Libby M golden-haired angel love of my life last seen in Firenze.
I kiss the torn, scruffy piece of paper, then carefully fold it ready to replace it in the special slot in my wallet.
“What is that, Papa?” Luisa joins me on the sofa. I was so immersed in my thoughts; I didn’t hear her footsteps.
“What, my darling?”
“The piece of paper you keep in your wallet. I see you take it out sometimes.”
“Oh. It is from someone special.”
“Who?”
“A friend. From a long time ago.”
“Is he dead?”
“She. I don’t know. I hope not.” I don’t know what happened to Libby. She left Florence. That’s all I know.
“You don’t know where she is?”
“No. No, I don’t.” She could be married by now. She could have a family. Perhaps a daughter. How old would she be? Younger than Luisa.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” I unfold Libby’s drawing again. Luisa and I lean back against the cushions and are silent for a moment. We both look at the drawing.
“It’s beautiful. It’s the old bridge, isn’t it, Papa? In Firenze.”
“Yes. You’re right.”
“Is that where you met your friend?”
“Yes.” I don’t want any more questions because I don’t want to live the memory today.
