“Fashion design. I went to art school.”

“Ah. So art runs in your family. What would you like to do? Be another Armani?”

She hesitated, unsure of herself. “I’m not certain anymore. I used to think I could design a brilliant collection, but I was never like Josh. He always wanted to push the envelope and design outrageous things. Me, I went more for beauty and good lines.”

“Yes, I can see that. Well, you can sell me the apartment and use the money to start your own fashion house.”

She smiled. “It does sound tempting.”

“Think about it.” He gave her a smile. “See you soon.”

After Luca had gone, she found that she was still staring at the door. Was he just being charming until his lawyers found a way to turf her out? Or would he try to buy the place from her at a steal? She just wished she knew whether she could trust him.

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27

Juliet, Venice, Sunday, September 3, 1939

On that Sunday morning, the bells mocked us with their serenity. “We are well and safe here,” they were saying. “You can come to Mass as usual. All is well.” Pigeons flapped unconcernedly; seagulls wheeled in a clear blue sky. The signora went off to church.

“We must all pray really hard that another catastrophe may be averted,” she said. “We cannot suffer through another war like the last one.” She gave me a look of pity. “You are too young. You do not remember, do you?”

“I was only four when it began, but I remember my mother weeping when my father was sent off to fight,” I said. “And he returned home badly wounded, never the same. And I saw the names on the war memorial in our village. So many sons who did not return. You’re right. We must pray that it doesn’t happen again.”

And so, for once, I went across the bridge to St George’s Anglican church and sat, taking in the simplicity of white walls and dark polished wood, the tranquillity of the light, falling through stained glass on to the tiled floor, and tried to pray. But my head was full of such conflicting thoughts and worries that prayer wouldn’t come. I had never found any closeness to God since my father died. It felt as if He had deserted us. So I sat like a statue, listened to a sermon full of hope and trust, mouthed the words of familiar hymns—“O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come” and “Fight the Good Fight”—but came out still feeling hollow and with no real sense of what I should be doing.