Alessandro
predicted.
Alessandro and I talked for about an hour,
during which he wanted to hear everything about my life. I told him how I grew up, leaving out the part with my sister and my father,
because I didn’t think it mattered. Besides, I didn’t want to depress him. I
tried to ask questions, but I could sense his reluctance at talking about more
than his upbringing. He mentioned his son who died at birth and Maria’s
miscarriage a few years later. He told me of his wife’s battle with cancer and
how she lost it ten years ago, making me aware how lonely he must have been in
the years after her passing. At some point, Alessia refilled our teacups, like a shadow slipping into my view and out of it, but
never leaving the old man out of her sight. Alessandro and I talked some more
until another nurse entered to remind him that it was time for his medication
and therapy. Before he left, his shaky fingers pointed at an envelope on the
table, bearing the conditions of his final will and photos he wanted to share
with me.
“Thank you, Alessandro,” I said.
He smiled and his shaky fingers touched my
cheek gently. “Thank you, Brooke. Now that you’re here I can finally rest.”
His words hung heavy in the air as Alessia wheeled him out of the room. With a heavy heart and
moisture in my eyes I watched him leave, vowing to keep my word to him no
matter what. We had barely skimmed the surface of our lives, and yet I felt as
though we were interconnected, our paths intertwined by fate, even if for a
brief time. I felt as though I knew him on a deeper level, and that knowledge
made it even harder to accept just how little time we had.
Call me naïve because I liked to believe in
the good in people, but I knew that Jett’s claims about Alessandro Lucazzone couldn’t be true. I could feel it. I could see it
in the old man’s eyes. He wasn’t flawless; like everyone else, he had made
mistakes. He married my ancestor for money rather than live the life he was
born to live—with a man. Or maybe he had loved her, in his own way. I didn’t
know and even if I did, it wasn’t my place to judge. But he was no murderer.
Whatever Jett’s private detective thought Maria Lucazzone had written in her diary, I knew it couldn’t be true and I would prove it.
Opening the window, I stared out onto the
beautifully landscaped park-like garden as I took a long, deep breath to regain
my composure, and then returned to Clarkson and Sylvie.
***
I found Sylvie on a bench on the veranda,
sitting near the rosebushes and sipping lemonade. The sun was hiding behind
light gray clouds, and a soft breeze coming from the lake ruffled the leaves
and green grass, promising a light rain shower. The fragrant air was still warm
though, as if not even the lack of sunrays could cool down the earth beneath
our feet.
She frowned when I arrived, but if she caught
my shaky emotional state she didn’t dwell on it. “You’ve been in there forever.
How was the meeting?”
“Great.” I managed a half-hearted smile that
wouldn’t have fooled anyone. “It went really well.” I sat down next to her and
she pushed her lemonade glass toward me, silently welcoming me to take a sip.
My fingers tightened around the glass but I couldn’t bring myself to lift it to
my lips. I didn’t want to risk shattering it.
“Brooke,” Sylvie said slowly. Sensing something
in her tone, I looked up to meet her stare. A shadow clouded her blue eyes and
a soft line formed between her delicate brows.
“What?” I said warily.
She took a deep breath before replying and let
it out slowly. I could tell she was preparing her words carefully, or maybe she
was hesitant to share with me whatever was bothering her. “I’m sure I’m just
blowing it out of proportions and it’s probably nothing.”
“What?” I repeated. “Just spit it out.”
“Okay. While you were in there, the old man
asked to speak with Clarkson. Alone.” She raised her brows
predicted.
Alessandro and I talked for about an hour,
during which he wanted to hear everything about my life. I told him how I grew up, leaving out the part with my sister and my father,
because I didn’t think it mattered. Besides, I didn’t want to depress him. I
tried to ask questions, but I could sense his reluctance at talking about more
than his upbringing. He mentioned his son who died at birth and Maria’s
miscarriage a few years later. He told me of his wife’s battle with cancer and
how she lost it ten years ago, making me aware how lonely he must have been in
the years after her passing. At some point, Alessia refilled our teacups, like a shadow slipping into my view and out of it, but
never leaving the old man out of her sight. Alessandro and I talked some more
until another nurse entered to remind him that it was time for his medication
and therapy. Before he left, his shaky fingers pointed at an envelope on the
table, bearing the conditions of his final will and photos he wanted to share
with me.
“Thank you, Alessandro,” I said.
He smiled and his shaky fingers touched my
cheek gently. “Thank you, Brooke. Now that you’re here I can finally rest.”
His words hung heavy in the air as Alessia wheeled him out of the room. With a heavy heart and
moisture in my eyes I watched him leave, vowing to keep my word to him no
matter what. We had barely skimmed the surface of our lives, and yet I felt as
though we were interconnected, our paths intertwined by fate, even if for a
brief time. I felt as though I knew him on a deeper level, and that knowledge
made it even harder to accept just how little time we had.
Call me naïve because I liked to believe in
the good in people, but I knew that Jett’s claims about Alessandro Lucazzone couldn’t be true. I could feel it. I could see it
in the old man’s eyes. He wasn’t flawless; like everyone else, he had made
mistakes. He married my ancestor for money rather than live the life he was
born to live—with a man. Or maybe he had loved her, in his own way. I didn’t
know and even if I did, it wasn’t my place to judge. But he was no murderer.
Whatever Jett’s private detective thought Maria Lucazzone had written in her diary, I knew it couldn’t be true and I would prove it.
Opening the window, I stared out onto the
beautifully landscaped park-like garden as I took a long, deep breath to regain
my composure, and then returned to Clarkson and Sylvie.
***
I found Sylvie on a bench on the veranda,
sitting near the rosebushes and sipping lemonade. The sun was hiding behind
light gray clouds, and a soft breeze coming from the lake ruffled the leaves
and green grass, promising a light rain shower. The fragrant air was still warm
though, as if not even the lack of sunrays could cool down the earth beneath
our feet.
She frowned when I arrived, but if she caught
my shaky emotional state she didn’t dwell on it. “You’ve been in there forever.
How was the meeting?”
“Great.” I managed a half-hearted smile that
wouldn’t have fooled anyone. “It went really well.” I sat down next to her and
she pushed her lemonade glass toward me, silently welcoming me to take a sip.
My fingers tightened around the glass but I couldn’t bring myself to lift it to
my lips. I didn’t want to risk shattering it.
“Brooke,” Sylvie said slowly. Sensing something
in her tone, I looked up to meet her stare. A shadow clouded her blue eyes and
a soft line formed between her delicate brows.
“What?” I said warily.
She took a deep breath before replying and let
it out slowly. I could tell she was preparing her words carefully, or maybe she
was hesitant to share with me whatever was bothering her. “I’m sure I’m just
blowing it out of proportions and it’s probably nothing.”
“What?” I repeated. “Just spit it out.”
“Okay. While you were in there, the old man
asked to speak with Clarkson. Alone.” She raised her brows
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