The Florentine Bridge Read online

  While I wait for our guests to arrive, I get cosy on the wooden swing in the front yard. I grab the sturdy rope and propel my legs forward, allowing the sense of freedom to course through my veins as I gain momentum with every leg extension. I arch my back, watching the clouds as I drift into a familiar meditation.

  I mentally make a list of some of the places I want to visit before my trip is over: Rome, Siena, Pisa, San Gimignano, Venice. The swinging eventually stops, and I’m promptly interrupted by the sound of a voice. My gaze shifts from the blue sky towards the direction of the voice and I blink several times in an effort to regain complete vision.

  I’m sure he’s been watching me. He’s wearing a pair of denim jeans and a light-blue polo with the collar popped, not perfectly straight but with one side slightly higher than the other. His messy dark-brown hair could do with a trim. He’s wearing a pair of loafers without socks and I can’t tell what colour his eyes are because he’s wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. He’s probably in his early twenties. My eyes trace the form of his clean-shaven face and my heart skips a beat when I reach the definition of his jawline. This guy is beautiful. My eyes travel down to his perfectly formed biceps, and I have to look away. I glance down at my old pair of jeans and ballet flats and wish I’d taken the time to at least iron my shirt and make a half-decent effort. I look so … Australian.

  I stand up and try to smooth out the creases in my shirt. I may have just showered, but my hair is in a messy ponytail and my face is bare of makeup. He lifts up his sunglasses, and now he’s squinting to get a better look at the girl who has come to stay here—the girl from Australia, with no fashion sense whatsoever.

  ‘Buongiorno, signorina!’ he calls.

  I manage a small wave in response, and by the time I reach him, I seem to have lost my voice. I don’t know whether to speak in English or to try out my limited Italian. ‘Hi there! Ciao!’ I blurt.

  Oh my God, he’s so incredibly handsome.

  ‘Ciao, sono Luca, Luca Bonnici.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Mia.’

  He steps towards me, towering over me slightly, and I can smell his aftershave. It’s subtle, but I recognise it from my brief stint at Myer’s cosmetic counter; I know I’ll never forget the scent of Gucci by Gucci Pour Homme again. He extends his hand and leans down until our cheeks touch. He kisses me once on each cheek. And in some completely inexplicable way, it feels familiar.

  ‘Welcome to Florence, bella Mia,’ he says, smiling as he winks at me. If any other guy back home were to wink at me like this, I’d turn the other way. I find myself wondering if he might have a girlfriend, even though we’ve only known each other for around forty-five seconds.

  ‘So, where are you from, Mia?’ he asks, with the slightest hint of an American accent.

  ‘Melbourne,’ I say, willing my cheeks to stop blushing. ‘Australia,’ I add, feeling the need to explain.

  ‘I guess that means we haven’t met before,’ he says, his eyebrows furrowed together, as if he’s trying to figure out the connection.

  I shake my head.

  ‘How long are you staying in Italy?’

  ‘I’m not really sure; I guess it depends on how I find it.’

  ‘So what are your plans?’ he asks, just as we’re interrupted by Stella and Paolo. I quickly try to ground myself as they make their affectionate greetings. I can’t know for sure, but judging from his salt-and-pepper hair, Paolo seems to be several years older than Stella, possibly even in his mid-thirties, although I can see immediately that they make a sweet couple.

  ‘Luca, you’ve already met Mia by the looks of it,’ she says, nodding to the dark, handsome guy. ‘Paolo, this is Mia.’

  Paolo extends his hand. ‘Piacere, Mia.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, too,’ I say, extending my hand.

  ‘She arrived this morning,’ announces Stella. ‘She booked a one-way ticket. We know what that means.’ She nudges Paolo.

  Paolo grins. ‘Mia, you are in one of the most charming cities in Italy. It will capture your heart in a week. Just ask Stella.’ He affectionately pinches his girlfriend’s cheek.

  ‘He’s right. Tuscany will forever hold a piece of your heart, Mia. Just wait and see,’ she says.

  I glance over at Dark, Handsome Guy, who’s leaning against the wall of the villa, legs casually crossed, glasses in his hand, watching us … err … me … intently. I’m convinced that if a photographer for Vogue Italia was to turn up in this moment he’d have the perfect shot for the next Gucci spread.

  ‘Let’s eat! I’ll be back in a second,’ says Stella, turning to walk through the front door.

  ‘Let me help you,’ I say, trying hard to bring myself back to reality.

  Please don’t leave me out here with him.

  ‘It’s fine. Paolo will help me. Luca, vino,’ she orders. I decide that I like Stella already. She’s assertive and I can’t help feeling relaxed around her, even if she is abandoning me completely with Luca.

  Just breathe, I tell myself as I take a seat opposite him. He places his shades in the centre of the table and now I’m losing myself in his dark-brown eyes adorned with eyelashes that would make any girl envious.

  ‘Rosso o bianco?’ he asks.

  Red or white? Why is it that everything sounds better in Italian?

  ‘Uh, rosso, per favore,’ I mutter. What is happening to me? I’m nervous about speaking in Italian, but it’s the mere presence of this guy that has turned me into complete mush. He pours me a glass of red wine and our eyes meet as he hands it to me. His eyes are sharp and intense yet kind. I’m in awe of how relaxed and comfortable he is in his own skin.

  ‘So how was your flight?’ he asks, leaning slightly forward.

  ‘It was great. About twenty-one hours.’

  Could I be any more boring?

  ‘You were going to tell me about your plans,’ he says.

  I’m quiet as my mind scrambles to find the right words. Finally, I reply, ‘I guess I needed a change of scenery.’

  ‘Well, the scenery’s good here.’ His mouth twists into a smile as he waits for my reaction.

  Is it ever.

  I take my third gulp of wine and feel my shoulders relax.

  ‘Salute!’ he says, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to good food, good wine, good scenery and the best Tuscan adventure of your life.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I smile, lifting my drink. Our eyes meet over the rims of our glasses, his gaze lingering on me long after I settle my wine back on the table. ‘So what do you do?’ I ask, relieved that I haven’t lost my voice for good.

  ‘I’m a mechanic,’ he says. ‘I have an Officina Moto with Paolo. We sell and service scooters and bikes.’ He gives me a smirk. ‘Australiani! Always thinking about work. Most of you live to work, not work to live,’ he says, his hands frantically trying to keep up with his mouth.

  ‘What do you mean?’ My interest is piqued.

  ‘In Italy we live la dolce vita. The sweet life. We don’t just go to work and come home, go to work and come home to then complain about work and how busy our lives are. Prendiamo la vita come viene,’ he says.

  ‘Prendiamo, what, sorry?’

  ‘It means take life as it comes. Just like what you plan on doing here.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ I whisper, staring over the green hills. ‘Making room for the unexpected is good,’ I add, nodding as I let out an unintentional sigh. There I go, drifting into that space between reality and my thoughts, a habit I’ve never been able to shake.

  ‘Esatto! For example, what are you doing tomorrow night? Let me take you out.’

  I snap out of my bubble and see that he’s …

  Oh, God, he’s actually serious.

  ‘Are you always this forward?’ I ask, shifting in my seat.

  ‘Do you have other plans?’

  ‘Um, no … but …’

  ‘Allora, prendi la vita come viene,’ he teases.

  I can’t help laughing.

  ‘Be careful o
f this one,’ warns Stella as she places the freshly sliced bread on the table and nudges my shoulder. I reach for my wine again and find I’ve almost finished my glass.

  ‘More wine?’ Luca asks, smiling. I’m certain my complete inelegance is amusing him.

  ‘Oh, no thanks,’ I reply too late. My glass is now full again.

  Thankfully, the topic of conversation switches to food and soon the three of them are all too keen to educate me on today’s menu in a fiery and passionate conversation about the origins of each dish on our table. The tomatoes come from Stella’s kitchen garden and the olive oil from Paolo’s uncle’s most recent olive harvest in October.

  ‘Why is it so green?’ I ask.

  Paolo explains that olives harvested early produce a greener and slightly bitter extra-virgin oil. Then Luca tells me about the fresh mozzarella di bufala. Although I’m as familiar with this cheese as any of them, I’m still captivated when he tells me it’s made from the milk of water buffalos, which have lived in the hills of Campania, near Naples, for hundreds of years. Their milk is heated so that the curds separate from the whey, before being added to hot water until the cheese is ready to stretch and form into mozzarella balls, which are later immersed in whey liquid to keep them fresh.

  I find it ironic that I’m in gastronomic heaven with a decreased appetite. Stella piles an enormous heap of pasta onto my plate, and I know there’s no way I’ll be able to finish it. She tells me about the simple pleasure of a scarpetta. ‘This is where you take a piece of bread and relish the remaining pasta sauce on your plate. It’s better for the dishwasher,’ she jokes. When she sees that my plate is still half full I realise that despite my phenomenal effort, I’ve just subjected myself to a scurry of questions from Luca and Paolo about whether or not the meal was good.

  Note to self: insist on smaller portions next time.

  I’m grateful when Stella interjects with a one-word question: ‘Caffè?’ to which the boys reply with a resounding yes. Of course.

  I help Stella clear the table, but she doesn’t let me wash the dishes. Instead, she tells me I can make the coffee. She goes to the cellar to hunt for some liquore to have with our espresso because the boys take their coffee corretto, which, she explains, is essentially an espresso with a splash of alcohol like sambuca or grappa. I hunt around for a coffee machine, but the only things I can see on the bench are pots and pans and handcrafted wooden spoons hanging from the tiled splashback. And then I see the same kind of aluminium moka pot that I remember from my Nonna Lina’s kitchen. I unscrew the upper part and fill the base with water. I find the ground coffee beans in an elaborately hand-painted majolica canister and breathe in their delicious aroma. As I pat down a few spoonfuls of coffee into the strainer I feel a presence. I don’t need to turn around to see who it is because I already recognise his unforgettable scent.

  ‘Here, let me show you, Australiana,’ he says, taking the moka pot from me, his hands briefly brushing mine, the contact sending waves of butterflies through my stomach. ‘If you pat it down too firmly like this, the water won’t come out properly and the coffee will be burned.’

  ‘Ah, I remember now,’ I say, nodding. ‘My nonna used to remind me about that.’

  ‘You’re from an Italian background?’

  ‘Yes, my dad’s side, actually. He was born in Italy, but his family moved to Australia when he was very young. That’s how I was able to get an Italian passport.’

  ‘Allora parli italiano?’

  Do I speak Italian? Oh gosh.

  ‘A little bit. Poco, poco,’ I say, in an attempt to exercise my cursory knowledge of Italian.

  ‘So, did you come here to study?’

  ‘Not exactly … it’s kind of complicated. I decided to take some time off after high school. I was … going to study at university, but … I turned down my spot.’

  ‘What were you going to study?’

  So many questions. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.

  ‘Art.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re an artist?’ He sounds intrigued.

  ‘Well, kind of, I suppose. I love to paint.’

  Loved to paint. Not so sure anymore.

  ‘Well, you’re in the best place in Italy for that,’ he says, turning away to check the coffee. ‘I know where to take you tomorrow night.’ I study his profile, completely fascinated. He’s so sure of himself.

  ‘I never said I was free.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re busy?’ He lifts the lid of the moka pot.

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then si, just say si.’ He turns to me as he breaks out into a smile, his eyebrows raised. ‘E prendi la vita come viene.’

  I laugh. ‘Si. Yes. Okay.’

  THREE

  One year earlier

  At the sound of knocking on my bedroom door, I poked my head up over my quilt and forced my eyes open.

  ‘You can’t keep sleeping your days away like this, Mia. We’ve got an appointment—you need to get up,’ said Mum. She ripped the covers off me, wincing when she found me curled up in the foetal position.

  ‘No more doctors. Please, Mum.’

  ‘It’s not a doctor. Wear something comfortable.’ She turned around and went to leave the room.

  ‘Wait, where are we going?’

  She turned back to face me with a serious look on her face. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s a friend of a friend. I think she can help.’

  ‘She can’t,’ I said, pulling the covers up to my chin.

  ‘God, Mia, you think this is easy for me? To see you like this? Can’t you see I’m trying to help you? Just let me in, trust me … for once.’

  I sighed deeply. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her name’s Sarah.’

  ‘Therapist?’

  ‘Meditation teacher.’

  I rolled my eyes and flopped my head back onto the pillow. ‘Oh my God, Mum, are you kidding me?’

  ‘She’s a warrior, too. Complete remission. Twelve years.’

  ‘Good for her,’ I said, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘We need to stay positive, Mia.’

  I sat up and looked her straight in the eyes. She swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact. I ran my fingers through my hair, effortlessly loosening strands from my head. I extended my arms out to Mum, the clump of hair hanging limply from my fingers. Mum simply stared, blinking at the orphaned strands.

  ‘Adam, can you please come in here?’ she called to my dad.

  She stepped closer to me, and I noticed for the first time the way her clothes no longer fit her; they hung off her almost nonexistent curves. Her eyes had become scored with extra creases around their edges. She sat down beside me and tried to hold my hands, but I pulled them away and ran them over my hair again, latching onto more clumps. I shook my head and balled up my fists. Something in me tightened, and through tears I yelled, ‘How am I supposed to stay positive when this is happening to me?’

  The colour disappeared from her face and her hands rose to her temples.

  I continued. ‘This is what happens when you’re dying from—’

  ‘Stop! I don’t want to hear it, Mia!’ Tears pooled in her eyes.

  I gasped, cupping my hands over my mouth. ‘Is this how you think it’s going to end? You don’t believe I’m going to make it, do you?’ When she didn’t answer, I raised myself up to her level. ‘Do you? When you sneak in here at night, looking at me while you think I’m asleep, you’re just watching me to ensure that each breath won’t be my last, that you can remember what this room looks like once the bed is empty. You don’t even believe I can beat—’

  ‘That’s enough, Mia,’ said my dad. He was standing in the doorway to my bedroom, toothbrush in his hand.

  I averted my gaze and Mum straightened. She slid her hands across the sheets as she gathered the loose strands of hair between her fingers. Then she reached for my hands, pried my fingers open, and took away the clumps of hair that I was still holding onto. She got up and
placed my hair in the wastebasket with such gentleness, you’d be fooled into thinking there was nothing destructive about the way they fell out in the first place. Then she left the room, avoiding my dad’s gaze on the way out.

  ‘Get dressed, pumpkin,’ he said. ‘I’m taking the day off work. We’ll do something nice after your appointment.’

  I blew my nose and nodded, and he left the room, following Mum down the hallway. A moment later I heard her let out a deep moan. The bathroom door clicked shut behind them.

  Without bothering to dress, I headed for the kitchen. I was about to flick the switch on the blender (pre-loaded with the ‘most amazing cancer-fighting’ fruits and vegetables my mum had ever read about and insisted I drink in a smoothie that looked like it had been dredged up from a swamp each morning), when I caught my dad’s raised voice carrying through the house.

  I left the kitchen and stood on the other side of the bathroom door, frozen.

  ‘You need to get yourself together, Julie! You’re scaring her!’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m not trying? Every time I look into those eyes and see sadness staring back at me knowing that I can’t do anything to make this better for her, I break. I break because all I want to do is hold her in my arms and kiss it better. That’s what mothers are supposed to do. And I hate that I can’t do that for her.’

  ‘You have to find a way to be strong for her. You have to show her there’s still hope.’

  ‘How much hope can I have when my one and only daughter is wilting away? The withdrawal from it all, everything and everyone—the painting, her friends, you, me. It’s killing …’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘You have to keep believing, Julie. If you don’t, how will Mia? The stats are on our side. She’s going to get through this.’

  ‘How am I going to get through this if she doesn’t?’

  The house grew quiet. I wanted to walk away because I didn’t want to hear his answer; I didn’t want to think about what it might be like for them if I died, but I couldn’t seem to move. It was like I’d been pierced with the numbing reality of what was actually happening to me, to them, to us.