Chapter 13 - FLORENCE WAS ALWAYS WAITING
Florence was everything I'd imagined.
The narrow streets.
The stone bridges.
The museums.
The golden light over the Arno.
I attended lectures.
Studied paintings.
Visited churches.
Learned restoration techniques.
And spent hours standing before works of art I'd only seen in books.
For the first time in my life, I was simply Ginevra.
Not Vittorio Moretti's daughter.
Not Elio Viera's wife.
Just a student.
An artist.
A woman building her own future.
Elio called every evening.
Sometimes we talked for an hour.
Sometimes five minutes.
He asked about my classes.
My friends.
My discoveries.
He never asked when I was coming home.
Never complained.
Never made me feel guilty.
One evening, I stood on the Ponte Vecchio watching the sunset.
My phone rang.
Elio.
I smiled.
“Hello.”
His voice softened.
“Hello, beautiful.”
I laughed.
“You sound tired.”
“Long day.”
I looked toward the river.
“Did you eat?”
He chuckled.
“Teresa would be proud.”
We talked.
About Florence.
Chicago.
The estate.
The restoration of the conservatory.
Then Elio said:
“I miss you.”
My heart tightened.
“I miss you too.”
He hesitated.
“Are you happy?”
I looked around.
The river.
The city.
The life I'd dreamed of.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Elio smiled.
“Good.”
For the first time, I understood something.
He wasn't threatened by my happiness without him.
May you like
He was glad I had found it.
And that made me love him more.
