Sunrise by the Sea (Little Beach Street Bakery #4) - Colgan, Jenny Page 0,104

up to his shoulder. Her heart felt like it was breaking. But she still had to be a friend for him.

‘Well, when you are sad what do you normally do?’

He shrugged.

‘Music. But I am too sad for music.’

‘I cannot believe you are saying that.’

He stared at the floor, still distraught.

Marisa sighed. And took a deep breath.

The idea of doing what she was about to do would have felt utterly preposterous, even before she’d become ill. On the other hand, now she’d found her courage, it felt that she didn’t even know how many different ways she could push it if she wanted to. Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And although the man she had thought about so very much, who had become so dear to her, was sitting next to her, crying about some other stupid girl, she couldn’t help it. She was going to try and help him anyway. Because he had helped her, more than he knew.

As they sat there together, she cleared her throat, opened her mouth . . . and started to sing.

In the quietest, most mouse-like voice, barely audible. But it was singing, nonetheless.

E cedo a vostri desideri . . .

mi fai la tua amante. . .

At first he didn’t turn, didn’t react. Very softly, but tunefully, she carried on with her nonna’s favourite song, or at least her favourite song that wasn’t a hymn.

Lontano di noi sapienza

più tristezza

Her voice trembled but she thought hard about the words and their meaning:

Wisdom is so far from us . . . there is so much sadness . . . I want a precious instant . . . where we will be happy. I want you.

He turned to her.

‘That is beautiful,’ he said in his low growly voice.

Marisa shook her head.

‘It isn’t,’ she said. ‘I was just trying to reach you.’

‘Don’t stop.’

‘Do you understand the words?’

‘Of course.’

‘You speak Italian?’

‘That song is not Italian. Is everybody’s song.’

He stood up finally, and moved towards the piano, beckoning her, then sat down and began to play a simple waltz time.

‘Sing with me,’ he instructed.

‘This is so stupid that you know how to play everything.’

‘Everyone knows this,’ he said. Then he looked at her.

‘But your way is my favourite. Sing!’

She was shy now and was speaking more than singing. But somehow the words came to her, even as she realised how intimate they were.

Il mio corpo sia tuo

– that my body is yours

Il mio labbro sia tuo

– that my lips are yours

Il tuo cuore sia il mio

– that your heart will be mine . . .

But her voice remained true, and then Alexei took up the melody again, played it faster and faster till it sounded like an old-fashioned fairground ride, and she leant against him as he finished with a flourish and turned round, grabbing her and sitting her down on his knee.

‘Thank you. You haff cheered me up very much,’ he said.

‘We are two survivors clinging to a life raft,’ said Marisa, smiling. ‘I suppose we have to cheer each other up. That’s what friends are for.’

But, she thought. But I want to be so very much more than that. I planned so much more than that. Her heart had even leapt when the ballerina had looked to see if she was the person Alexei must have mentioned.

But then she had seen him. In the very depths of despair, completely cast asunder by love for somebody else.

As soon as she said the word ‘friends’ he let her go, as if she was burning him.

‘Yes,’ he muttered ‘Friends. Of course. That is what we are. Thank you. My friend.’

She was standing up.

‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I’m just off the plane.’

‘Yes! Oh no! Your nonna! Oh, my zaichik!’

He gave her a huge hug and she allowed herself, just for a moment, to feel totally lost once more in his arms, even if she contrasted it sadly with the last time she had stood there: when her nonna was still alive; when she had had so much hope.

‘I am so sorry. We shall cling to this life raft together, no?’

‘Yes.’

Chapter Seventy-one

At least she was busy, throwing herself back into the job. Polly was delighted to see her, and she happily spent several evenings working just with Jayden, who had a seemingly infinite capacity for both eating and discussing pizza.

She had expected the black clouds to descend, had known to expect it, once the reality of a world without her grandmother in it really hit home. And she had, of course, been sad to