The Man from Tuscany. Catherine Spencer

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       H ER GRANDMOTHER laughed. “Oh, no! The minute we boarded the ship, excitement replaced homesickness. We’d heard about the kind of comfort the Cunard Line offered its first-class passengers, but nothing could have prepared us for the luxury. It was said that no two staterooms were alike, and I well believe it. Ours was fitted with inlaid wood paneling and the most wonderful art-deco furnishings. Next door, Aunt Patricia was surrounded by such a wealth of elegance that she hardly ever ventured from her quarters except for meals—which fell in perfectly with Genevieve’s plans.”

      “Genevieve must’ve been fun. I wish I’d known her.”

      “My cousin was a hellion!” Anna said with fond nostalgia. “You won’t remember her, Carly. She died twenty-one years and three husbands ago, when you were only three, but even all these years later, I smile when I think of her on that ship. Half the crew and most of the male passengers were in love with her before we sailed out of New York. Before we reached Southampton, she’d turned down five marriage proposals and broken more hearts than all the other women onboard put together.”

      “And what about you, Gran? How many proposals did you receive?”

      Anna laughed again. “Oh, Carly, no one noticed me! I was merely the quiet cousin, pleasant enough in my way, but not nearly as vivacious or memorable as Genevieve.”

      “How unfair!”

      “Not at all. I didn’t lack for escorts by day or for dance partners in the evening. I just didn’t inspire grand passion, that’s all—at least, not until we arrived in Florence and I met Marco.”

      “What made him different?” Carly wondered aloud. “Was it that he noticed you and not her?”

      “For a start, she wasn’t with me that day. I spent the morning roaming the halls of the Pitti Palace, but she had no interest in art galleries and wanted to go shopping. By then, Aunt Patricia realized that, left to her own devices, Genevieve was likely to run off with the first handsome Italian who caught her eye. I, on the other hand, was comme il faut, and could be relied upon to behave appropriately without being chaperoned every minute of the day. So, as much to preserve her own sanity as to protect her daughter’s reputation, wherever Genevieve went, Aunt Patricia went, too.”

      The irony of the situation did not escape Carly, and she couldn’t resist a grin. “Leaving you, the good girl, free to have an illicit affair right under your aunt’s nose. Did she never suspect what you were up to?”

      “Never. As far as she knew, I spent my days absorbing the history of the city and improving my Italian. I was always back at the hotel in time to change for dinner and always spent the evening with her and Genevieve.”

      “And the nights?”

      “Well…” A delicate flush tinted her grandmother’s cheeks.

      Amused despite herself, Carly said, “Don’t tell me you snuck out every night as soon as poor old Aunt Patricia hit the sack, and Genevieve covered for you?”

      “Not quite every night.”

      But often enough for an unprincipled rat to put the moves on her naive and trusting grandmother! “So how did you meet this Marco? Was he trolling the halls of the Pitti Palace, looking for innocent young American girls to seduce?”

      “He was doing nothing of the sort,” Anna said sharply. “I met him over lunch at an outdoor trattoria. He was at the table next to mine. I had trouble explaining to the waiter what I wanted to order, Marco overheard and stepped in to translate….”