The Venetian's Proposal

Even before her young husband’s fatal car crash Nicola had been quiet and self-contained, a woman who tended to stand alone in the wings and watch.

Whereas Sandy, outgoing and outspoken, was at her best bouncing off people.

In what seemed to be a case of role-reversal Sandy worked from home, as an information consultant, sitting in front of a computer screen in what she described as solitary confinement, while Nicola liaised with people, travelling almost non-stop as a conference organizer for Westlake Business Solutions.

Together they went through to the bright little kitchen and sat down at the pine table, where Sandy poured tea for them both.

Nicola accepted a mug and said simply, ‘John made me his sole beneficiary. It seems I’m going to be a wealthy woman.’

Sandy gave a silent whistle.

‘Apart from his business interests and the money from the sale of his London house, there’s also a small palazzo in Venice.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Did you know he had a place in Venice?’

‘No, he never mentioned it.’

‘Sure you haven’t got it wrong?’

‘Certain. It’s called Ca’ Malvasia. I’ve even been given a set of keys to it.’

Taking the padded envelope from her bag, Nicola tore off the tape and tipped the contents on to the table.

As well as a bunch of ornate keys on an iron ring there was a small chamois pouch with a drawstring neck and a letter.

While Sandy examined the keys, Nicola unfolded the letter and read in John’s small, neat writing:

Nicola, my dear, though we’ve known each other just a short time, you’ve been like the daughter I always wanted, and your warmth and kindness have meant a lot to me.

In the pouch you’ll find Sophia’s ring. Since she died I’ve been wearing it on a chain around my neck, but now I sense that I haven’t got much longer I’m lodging it with Mr Harthill.

It’s a singular ring. My darling always wore it. She was wearing it the day I met her. She once remarked that if any ring possessed the power to bring its wearer happiness, this one did. For that reason I would like you to have it, and I truly believe Sophia would approve.

Though we had both been married before, she was the love of my life as, I hope and believe, I was hers. We were very happy together for five wonderful years. Not long enough. But perhaps it never is.

In your case, I know your time with your husband was very brief. You’re desperately young to have known so much grief and pain, and I’m only too aware that anyone who loses a loved one needs time to mourn. But remember, my dear, no one should mourn for ever. It’s time you moved on. Be happy.

John

Blinking away her tears, Nicola passed the letter to Sandy, and, while the other girl read it quickly, picked up the chamois pouch and unfastened the drawstring. Tilting the pouch, she gave it a slight shake, and a ring slid into her palm.

Both women caught their breath.

It was exquisitely wrought, with twin ovals of glittering green stone sunk at an angle in the softly glowing gold setting.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Sandy’s face held awe. ‘What’s it meant to be?’

Her voice unsteady, Nicola said, ‘It looks like a gold mask, with emeralds for eyes.’

‘Try it on,’ Sandy urged.

With a strange feeling of doing something portentous, Nicola slid it on to her finger.

After Jeff’s death she had lost weight to the point of becoming gaunt, and it was just a fraction too large.

‘Even if it’s only costume jewellery it looks fantastic!’ Sandy enthused. ‘Though it may be a little too spectacular to wear to the local supermarket.’

‘You’re right,’ Nicola agreed. ‘It would look more at home in Piazza San Marco.’

‘Are you going to wear it?’

‘At the moment I’d be scared of losing it. But I’ll certainly keep it with me.’

‘You speak Italian, don’t you? Have you ever been to Venice?’

‘No.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to go?’

‘Yes, I would,’ Nicola said slowly. ‘I was thinking about it on the way home. I’ve time owing to me, so I might take a holiday. Stay there for a while.’

‘Glory be!’ Sandy exclaimed. ‘A sign of life at last. I’d about given up hope. You haven’t had a holiday since Jeff was killed.’

‘There didn’t seem much point. It’s no fun staying in a hotel full of strangers. In any case, it’s too much like work.’

‘But you won’t need to stay in a hotel when you have your very own palazzo.’

Nicola half shook her head. ‘I can still hardly believe it.’

Her smooth forehead wrinkling into a frown, Sandy remarked curiously, ‘I wonder why John Turner never mentioned having a house in Venice?’

‘Talking about it might have conjured up too many ghosts. He absolutely adored his wife, and couldn’t get over her death. It’s one of the reasons he worked so hard and travelled so much…’

Nicola had done the same, only to find that pain and grief couldn’t be left behind. They had travelled with her, constant companions she had been unable to outstrip.

Though she’d never found it particularly easy to make friends, she and John Turner had met and, drawn together by circumstances and their mutual loss, become firm friends—overnight, almost. The immediacy of their friendship had never been discussed or questioned, just accepted.

‘Though there was an age difference of over thirty years, John and I had a lot in common. I was very fond of him. I’ll miss him.’ With a lump in her throat, she added, ‘I’d like to see the house where he and his wife were so happy.’

‘Well, now’s your chance.’ Sandy’s tone was practical.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’

‘I can’t say I’m not tempted, but I’ve too much work on. Besides, Brent would hate me to go to Venice without him. Apart from believing that English women find all Italian men fascinating, he thinks Italian men tend to stare at English women… And while he might not mind them looking, if it came to bottom-pinching…’