The Padova Pearls

As she stared down at his bent head, noticing how the thick blond hair, dampened by the drizzle, was trying to curl, he replaced the groceries in the carrier. As he picked up the last item he laughed, ‘Good thing there’s no eggs.’

His voice was pleasant and well-modulated, with a fascinating hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place.

Holding the carrier to him with one arm, the other supporting the bottom, he rose to his feet, dwarfing her five foot seven.

Glancing up into his handsome face, she felt a jolt of recognition, a shock of surprise.

But while her brain insisted that it couldn’t be him, her heart and eyes told her it was.

Though she was unable to make out the exact colour of his dark, long-lashed eyes, the strong, clear-cut features, the beautiful, ascetic mouth with its controlled upper lip and sensuous lower, the cleft chin and squarish jaw, were as familiar to her as her own face.

She was filled with joy and wonderment, an overriding sense of fulfilment, as though she had been subconsciously waiting for this meeting. As though it had been preordained.

As she stared at him, he went on, ‘Oh dear, I’m very much afraid that the whole thing’s starting to tear open. Have you very far to go?’

Knocked off balance by the strangeness of it all, she stammered, ‘N-no, not far. Just a little way down Roleston Road.’

Hitching the carrier a little higher, he suggested, ‘Then suppose you lead on?’

Her natural good manners coming to the fore, she managed, ‘Thank you, but I don’t want to take you out of your way,’ then waited in an agony of suspense. If he just handed over the shopping and walked away she would never see him again.

But, to her vast relief, he did no such thing.

With a little smile, he told her, ‘As it happens I’m going in the same direction.’

The excitement of seeing him—only it couldn’t possibly be him—and the sheer charm of that white, crooked smile sent her heart winging, making her forget, momentarily, the sadness that had been her constant companion over the last few weeks.

After a second or two, she said breathlessly, ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘I’m sure.’

She returned his smile and, feeling as if something momentous had happened, tried to contain the fluttery excitement that was so unlike her.

As they began to walk on, the stranger—for in spite of that instant, joyful recognition she knew they had never met before—queried, ‘So you live on Roleston Road?’

‘No, just off, on Roleston Square. I’ve a flat in one of the old Georgian houses that overlook the Square’s gardens.’

He raised a well-marked brow. ‘You live alone?’

‘I do now.’

‘You’re very young to live alone.’

‘I’m not that young.’

Glancing at her lovely heart-shaped face with its flawless skin and almond eyes, the winged brows, the small straight nose and generous mouth, the long curly tendrils of seal-dark hair that had escaped from her collar, he said, ‘You look about sixteen.’

‘I’m twenty-five.’

‘Twenty-five,’ he repeated, as though the knowledge gave him some satisfaction. Then, harking back, ‘So how long have you lived alone?’

Her voice wasn’t quite steady as, with remembered grief, she told him, ‘Since my father died a few months ago.’

He caught the sadness in her tone and asked, ‘Was it unexpected?’

‘In a way. He’d been ill for quite a long time, but in the end it was sudden.’ Sophia could feel a tear begin to form but quickly brushed it away.

He probed gently, ‘And your mother?’

‘She died when I was about seven.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’

‘No. I was an only child.’

He frowned a little. ‘Your father couldn’t have been very old?’

Sophia shook her head. ‘Dad was just sixty-two. He didn’t marry until he was thirty-six.’

‘And after your mother died he didn’t remarry?’ he questioned.

‘No.’ She shook her head again. ‘I’ve never understood why. Apart from the fact that he was good-looking and talented, he was kind and thoughtful, a really nice person with a wonderful sense of humour…’

‘In what way was he talented?’

‘He painted.’ Sophia smiled at the memory of her father’s talent.

‘It was his profession?’

‘No. He was a diplomat. Painting had always been his hobby. But when, after his accident, he retired from the diplomatic service, he did a lot more.’

‘Landscapes?’

‘Some, but portraits mainly. He painted one that’s very like you.’

He gave her a quizzical glance and, embarrassed, she wondered what on earth had made her blurt that out. Except that it was the simple truth.

‘Very like me?’ He sounded amused.

‘Yes.’

‘Really? And is his work good?’

‘I’ve heard it described as brilliant.’

Seeing a look on her companion’s face that might have been scepticism, she added defensively, ‘There’s going to be an exhibition of his paintings at the art gallery where I work.’

‘Which gallery is that?’ he enquired politely.