“It would appear that way.”

She gave a nervous little laugh. “We really are related.”

“How about that?” He chuckled. “But luckily not closely enough to cause a problem.” Then his face became sombre again. “My father should never know, don’t you think?”

“Definitely. Neither should my grandmother. It will remain our secret.” She paused, then said, “When would you like to go to scatter your grandmother’s ashes?”

They waited for the first fine afternoon. His boat sped them to the Giardini. They walked together amid the swirls of dying leaves until they stopped and both said, “Oh” at the same time. There was the sad statue, now missing more fingers, its legs weathered from the salty wind, almost swallowed behind large bushes and a towering tree. Caroline opened the little urn and tipped out some of the contents, slowly, reverently. “Goodbye, dear Aunt Lettie,” she whispered. Then she handed the urn to Luca, who walked around the tree, gently sprinkling ashes.

“Goodbye, dear Grandmother,” he added. “I wish I could have met you.”

As if in answer, a breeze sprang up, catching leaves, mingled with ashes, swirling them overhead, then carrying them out into the lagoon.

On the way back they stood together at the helm in silence until Luca said, “I spoke with my mother. She told me she came to see you. She also told me . . .” He broke off. “Never mind that now. We both think you should just fly to New York and bring your son home.” He paused. “I have to go on business anyway soon. Would you like me to come with you?”

Caroline stared out, not daring to look at him. “If you want to.”

“I do,” he said.

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 43

Juliet, Venice, July 1942

I have not written a diary for such a long time. It has been too painful, but I must put some of the events of the past months down on paper or they will stay forever as a burden in my heart.