Read Online Her Father's House by Belva Plain - Free Book Online Page B

“All these hills and steps? Everywhere we go there seem to be a million steps to climb.”
    â€œI'm fine. They don't bother me. There's nothing fragile about being pregnant, you know.”
    Actually, he did not know anything about the condition. Of course, one sometimes did still hear those old wives' tales about women waking up in the middle of the night with a terrible craving for strawberries or whatnot. There were no signs of anything like that in Lillian. As she said, she did not feel in any way different.
    Yet there did seem to be a difference. At night she had no energy left. As soon as she lay down, she fell immediately asleep. Wondering about that, he tried a few times to arouse her, but since he seemed only to be disturbing her, he concluded that this must be an effect of her condition and that he ought not bother her. Once they were home, he would ask her to speak to her doctor about it. He had never heard that a man must make exceptions for a pregnant woman, but then he had never had any reason to discuss the matter.
    Venice was the next trove of treasure. Arriving by train from Rome, they took a few steps up to the Grand Canal, where they boarded a boat. Within a minute or two it passed beneath the Rialto Bridge, which brought at once to Donald's mind the ninth-grade classroom and his
Merchant of Venice
in its dark green paper jacket.
    â€œLook, look!” cried Lillian, pointing left and right. “There's a marvelous Tintoretto in that church. We'll have to see that. And over there, the Ca' Rezzonico, it's a palace with everything you can think of—
Tiepolo,
frescoes, tapestries—oh, look now. People, terribly rich people, actually live all along here in these marvelous mansions.” She was almost breathless. “We need a month in Venice, and probably that wouldn't be enough. Now we're passing the Accademia, such paintings, such precious things, Donald! We're almost at the hotel, we'll have dinner and rush out first thing in the morning.”
    â€œYou seem to have traveled all over Italy,” he remarked that evening. “Just you alone? Or with your friend Betty?”
    â€œOh, I made many friends, American students and Italians, too.”
    â€œYou've picked up the language very quickly.”
    â€œYes, it's a beautiful language, isn't it? By the way, when you meet Betty in Florence, you must call her ‘Bettina.' She's become very Italian.”
    Donald watched her. She was loving it all, the elegant dinner table on the water's edge, the church across the canal that she had lost no time in telling him was called the Santa Maria della Salute; she was loving the way she was able to translate for him; she must surely love the woman in flowered silk whom she had seen in the mirror upstairs.
    â€œI'm beginning to show,” she said.
    â€œNot yet, but soon you will, I guess.” And then, because he thought that perhaps she had sounded a trifle petulant, he asked, “Do you mind?”
    â€œNot if it's only temporary. I should hate to get droopy, though, or ever have stretch marks.”
    â€œIf you ever have stretch marks, no one will see them except me, and I won't mind,” he said gently.
    â€œWell, let's not talk about them, anyway. Tomorrow we're going to explore. I know all the little
campi
where the people live. I'll show you the real life, not only the great sights.”
    She could have been a teacher, he thought, as he walked with Lillian and listened to her. Then he corrected himself: No, not a teacher, but one of those entertaining and intellectual beauties that you read about in biographies of emperors and kings.
    â€œI've saved the best for the last,” Lillian said on the final morning in Venice. “For me, at least, Florence is the best. And there's a lot to see on the way there, too, so that's why I thought we'd get a car and drive.” She wanted to do the driving. “I know the roads, you see. I can't believe how much