He’d felt...vital—full of the joys of life. In his prime. When she’d told him she didn’t want him anymore he’d just shut down. “Fine,” he had said, and pointed toward the door. What are you waiting for?
He sure as hell hadn’t found any answers when she’d taken him up on his offer.
And he was certain there hadn’t been any when Elisa had died.
He’d found a modicum of peace when he’d gone out to that tiny island friary.
When one of the monks had fallen ill he’d brought him to the clinic here on the lakeside, had accepted the odd shift and found himself, bit by bit, coming back to life. Part of him wondered if the monk had been faking it. And when the clinic “just happened” to mention they needed full-time staff he’d thrown his hat into the ring. He’d been there almost a year now and—as strange as it sounded for a village several hundreds of years old—he felt a part of the place.
“They make some sort of famous Christmas cake—a special sort of panettone. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
“The Friars of Torpisi!” Beatrice clapped her hands together, her eyes lighting up as the dots connected. “Of course. I had some last Natale.”
Again that faraway look stole across her face.
What happened to you, my love?
Jamie scrubbed a hand through his hair before stuffing both hands into his pockets again.
Perhaps some questions were best left unanswered.
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