Everyone in the room took a turn to express their sympathy over Mario’s passing. They’d all been to the funeral and had talked to Vittorio and his family, but he was touched by the outpouring of praise for his father.
Finally, the secretary called for the vote to elect the new chairman. Vittorio knew whom he wanted and wrote down the name Salvatore Riva, one of the directors. Within ten minutes the ballots were collected and tallied.
Their secretary cleared his throat and stood up. “Without question, the will of the group has prevailed. Congratulations, Vittorio. Please stand and say a few words.”
The possibility that he could be voted in had come to pass. Vittorio’s only consolation at the moment was that his father would have been happy about it.
Vittorio looked around. Nobody had jumped up and run out of the room, but he knew there were several people there, including his uncle, who couldn’t wait to leave and vent in private.
“Signori,” Vittorio began. “This is a great honor, but overwhelming since I’m still grieving over the loss of my father. No one could ever take his place. Please be patient and give me time to take on a mantle that could fit the shoulders of anyone in this room more qualified than I am. We’ll meet in a week or so when I’ll have had an opportunity to take a good look at everything. Mille grazie.”
Now it was Vittorio who left the room in a hurry. His brother, Gaspare, had known this meeting was going to happen and was waiting for him. With business concluded, he headed for the speedboat. His brother sat on a banquette reading. When he saw Vittorio, he stood up. The two men eyed each other before he gave him the news.
“I knew you would be chosen.”
“Then you knew something I didn’t. I’m aware you don’t want to hear me say it, Gaspare, but you should have been the one voted in to head the company.”
“It would never have been me. There’s greatness in you. Don’t forget you have your calling. I have mine.”
Yes, he did. Gaspare had known by his early teens he’d wanted the religious life. To show his approval, their father had established a perpetual fund to help support the monastery.
Still it didn’t help the wrench of separation from the family, Vittorio reflected, as he started the engine and they left for the monastery. Once they reached the jetty, he tied up the boat and they headed for the building.
Because Gaspare had taken family bereavement leave, his presence had helped all of them to begin the healing process. But Vittorio needed his ideas and counsel more than ever about the direction of the company. “How soon can I visit you, Gaspare?”
“Any time.”
“Then I’ll come soon and plan to stay overnight so we can really talk about more foreign investments.”
Vittorio also had a personal matter to discuss to do with the situation with Paola, which had grown serious. Meeting Signora Lawrence had increased his guilt and anguish because he knew he couldn’t marry Paola even if it was expected. He needed some objective advice on that subject. No one had a more level head than Gaspare.
The abbot had granted Vittorio special privileges to stay inside the clausura, the heart of the cloistered monastery where the public wasn’t allowed to enter. He followed his brother to his room.
Gaspare lowered his suitcase to the floor and smiled at him. “I always look forward to your visits and will expect to see you when you can make it. As you know, I also need someone to confide in and have done a lot of that in the last year. I’m unworthy in so many ways, but when I’m with you, I feel better.”
“I could tell you the same thing.”
At that moment one of the monks appeared in the open doorway. “Father Giovanni? A tour group has arrived to speak with you. They’re waiting in the museum. And there’s an American college teacher from California who has been here before and is also waiting in the garden, hoping to talk to you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Vittorio’s head reared. Could he possibly mean Signora Lawrence? Was it possible she’d come back from Switzerland?
He’d already made up his mind to call Dr. Manukyan and get more information on Signora Lawrence. But if she was here at the monastery for some miraculous reason, then he didn’t have to go to the trouble of contacting the other man.
His heart thundered so hard in his chest, he feared his brother could hear it. Was she the person outside?
After the other monk walked on, Gaspare smiled at Vittorio. “I’m afraid I have to get to my duties.”
“Then I’ll walk you as far as the museum.” Vittorio wouldn’t be leaving the monastery until he knew the identity of the woman. When they reached the doorway, he put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Gaspare.”
“God keep you, Vittorio.”
* * *
Ginger was excited because she’d just learned that Father Giovanni was here. She already knew that he was the most knowledgeable about Lord Byron’s life when the poet had spent time at the monastery.
Ginger wanted to pick his brains. That’s what she kept telling herself, but she also knew there was another reason. Signor Della Scalla was a friend of the monk’s. Ginger wanted to know who he really was. She couldn’t rest until she found out.
While she waited, Ginger took a walk around the colonnaded courtyard. A ledge with tubs of flowers placed between the columns enclosed the lush green garden where Byron had strolled during his studies.
Ginger didn’t care if the monk was busy for a long time. She would stay until she’d spoken with him. After a few more minutes, she sat on the garden bench. Before long someone came and sat down near her.
When she looked up, Ginger almost fainted to see a certain unforgettable black-haired Italian male. She’d never expected to see him again. This morning he was wearing a luxurious dark gray suit and tie. He turned in her direction. His left arm slid along the top of the bench.
On the third finger of his hand gleamed a gold and red signet ring that looked royal for want of a better word. He hadn’t been wearing it the night of the shipboard dinner. It isn’t a wedding ring. Those fabulous cobalt eyes stared into hers in recognition. Her pulse was racing.
“We meet again, Signora Lawrence. I thought you only had one day to be in Venice.”
She could hardly breathe. “My plans changed.”
“So did mine,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“What do you mean?”
“After the night we met, I’d intended to find you here the next day, but fate intervened.”
Before she could ask him anything else, he stood up because a monk had walked out to the garden and approached them. When she turned around, she let out a quiet gasp.
The monk bore such an amazing resemblance to Signor Della Scalla, she realized they had to be brothers. But the latter had longer, wavy hair and might have been
