To Steal a Weeping Widow

Epilogue: Pride's Price, I Paid for You

Giacomo Segreti was a proud man.

A happy man. He worked the grotto, showing tourists the wondrous belly of his beautiful island, rowing them in boats through the narrow openings among the rocks. He enjoyed it. He loved it. He took pride in it.

When glowing colors lit up his passenger's eyes—illuminating their once-limited idea of what beauty was—Giacomo would even sing to them. His sonorous sounds would echo off the wet rock and harmonize with the splashes. Often, he would be joined by his fellow boatmen; their voices were deeper than the waters. Giacomo usually liked to sing a traditional lullaby. It was one his father once sang in the same grotto, and one his grandson joined from his crib before being soothed back to sleep. Although, for laughs, sometimes Giacomo and those around him would sing random lyrics, pairing them with traditionally solemn melodies. The tourists wouldn't know the difference.

Giacomo Segreti was a happy man.

Today was as beautiful as the day before, as beautiful as it would be tomorrow, and as beautiful as it would be long after he was gone. He'd worked a long shift; the sun was reaching to embrace the blue waters his boat treaded, sighing into the embrace. It was time to head home. A cruise ship was arriving in the morning; he'd have to be rested for another long day when the light returned.

His boat was small among the yachts at the pier. It wasn't the only of its kind, but it still stood out with its mundaneness. It nestled in its nook between the lapping waves; it would bob in wait until he returned.

Giacomo stood and stretched. The wood and concrete of the dock soon gave way to cobblestones, smooth under his feet as he ventured home. He headed up the sloping hill to the rest of the town. His path was worn from so many before him; the way had been decided long before even his earliest known ancestors had walked it.

His peaceful steps would gladly carry him to his wife now. She'd be finishing up her day, too, ready to return home with him for a meal and rest. She worked another popular spot for tourists. Like him, she was tasked with guiding the ignorant to enlightenment with an experienced hand, albeit with a more refined approach than wielding oars. The local museum was small, but it was mighty and valued. The two often worked in tandem, in fact, recommending the other to eager visitors, enriching their pockets and the guest's experience. It was a win for everyone involved.

Giacomo loved the water more than anything, but he could see why colors on canvas drew in his wife. It wasn't quite the same, he felt, because paint couldn't entirely capture the essence of the sea or its grottos, but art was beautiful in its own way. Paintings of lemons, scraggly cliffs, blue waters. Works depicting the town he called home, where he always had and always would reside. He admired the works his wife guarded.

When he arrived at the gallery and found her, hard at work describing a local piece to a visitor, he took a seat on an open bench. Sometimes he liked to people-watch while he waited. There were always interesting individuals coming through. A grumbly, unwilling partner; a child too young to understand; a tourist clutching shiny pamphlets with overwhelmed eyes.

Looking around, one woman stood out to Giacomo. The woman was alone, looked green with youth, and was dressed in clothes that warned of her wealth. It wasn't flashy wealth, though. There were no labels or brands seen anywhere on her, but it wasn't needed. The necklace latched at her throat, the gems in her ears, the rings on her fingers. All dainty, all elegant, all worth more than his house. Certainly not flashy wealth. He'd seen plenty of that before, and knew what it wasn't.

She was surely old money. Railroads, diamonds, oil, royalty. Something of the sort. Family money. He could tell. He'd gotten to know the look, the pensiveness, the noble quiet, the instinctual refinement. Except, she stood before a work like she was carved of marble herself. He couldn't fully see her expression, but from where he sat, he wasn't entirely sure she was breathing. He'd never seen someone so enraptured. Nor someone so seemingly scared to even breathe around the works. Was she alright?

When his wife wandered over, happy to see him, he pointed at the woman. He asked, quiet of course, but his wife only shrugged. She'd been there all day, his wife said. She'd stood in front of every piece like that. She'd bought a few that were up for sale, too.

His wife gave him a look. She'd guessed it like he had, but she had the evidence to support it. He'd been right in his assumptions.

He watched the young woman for a moment more, a little alarmed. Should he be worried? Was she up to no good, somber as she planned something nefarious? He was about to say something more to his wife, to point out the unnerving absurdity of the woman's strange behavior, when a new visitor caught his eye.

The man didn't seem confident he was in the right place. There was a hesitation in his step, a nervousness cloaking his shoulders and spine, a grim earnestness that grappled with itself. Giacomo didn't say anything to his wife then. His curiosity was piqued. The newcomer was a fit young man, hair curly on his head and eyes dark beneath his tense brow. A lone poppy hung off loose fingers held by his side. Giacomo watched the young man look around. He saw the moment he set eyes on the lone woman, and the mosaicked expression that was born on his face from the sight. Surprisingly, the stranger seemed even less sure now than before. Something about the man's gaze suggested he knew her, and was struck at the view.

She hadn't seen him yet. Was she waiting for him? Giacomo and his wife looked between the two. Her: she was more stone than woman, as if medusa herself had laid eyes upon her. He: he was gazing at her like she was Medusa herself, as beautiful as the myths said and as unbelievable to see, as if he welcomed the onset of stone for an eternal, lone glimpse.

They'd be a fitting couple, Giacomo thought.

He was a fool for love and tragedy. He blamed the Greek in him for it. His wife loved it, at least, and cherished him regardless, no matter how soppy he could be. He couldn't help it. Giacomo knew a museum like this would be a fairly romantic beginning to a summer love. Just look at him and his wife, he remembered with a stroke of warmth. They'd met there forty years before.

The man still hovered in the doorway. In his apparent shock, the man was blocking the way. Giacomo was about to say something about that, too, but his wife laid a hand on his arm and shook her head. Her eyes were bright with the same curiosity that glowed when she inspected new works. Giacomo sighed.

The young man's steps were slow when he finally started to approach the woman. Slow, and careful, his eyes staying on her like she was a ghost. Giacomo was baffled. Did they know each other or not? Surely they did. But what'd happened between them? Was it a good thing? A bad thing? He wasn't sure, but he didn't feel right leaving before he knew whether the woman would welcome the sight of the man.

Except, she didn't turn. The man finally slipped into place by her side, together in front of the large canvas. It didn't seem like either were speaking.

But then... the young woman finally looked at the man, and Giacomo saw her eyes.

We should go, Giacomo told his wife.

His wife nodded, and the elderly couple stood to leave.

Just before they escaped into the twilight-blessed streets of his town, Giacomo looked back. The two weren't looking at the canvas anymore; they stood facing each other. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that look between them—unsure whether it was an ending or a new beginning—but he smiled.

It was a look he'd only ever seen on canvas before, yet there it was now, before his very own eyes. How lucky he was, he realized, glancing at the woman by his side.

Maybe his wife had been onto something with her love of art. Maybe she'd known something he hadn't, but now could wonder about, sparked by his brief glimpse. Maybe only some understood artists—but right then, even if only for a moment—Giacomo understood. He understood, and he wished the pair well.

He turned and left the gallery, hand in hand with his wife under the Italian sky. They headed home, the smell of bright citrus and salty tides embracing them like lovers, like the smell of home.

Giacomo Segreti was a proud man.