Epilogue
Epilogue
Two years later
The palazzo in Venice had to be her favorite of the seven places they’d lived in their two years of married life together. The farmhouse in Spain ran a close second, and the cottage in the Hebrides had been wonderful, as well.
But the palazzo, tumbledown and damp with mold and rotting plaster, was her absolute favorite. Because her first child was going to be born there.
It was the only place large enough to hold a sizable section of her extended family.
Alex and Mary had rooms on the third floor, Aunt Lou had left her villa in Tuscany for a state apartment on the first floor, prepared to await the arrival of the newest member of the family in style.
There were at least a dozen half brothers and sisters, all different ages, races, nationalities and sizes scattered throughout the ramshackle building, and Jake divided his time between some obscure project to shore up a section of the
sinking city and spending time with his myriad siblings, all of whom uniformly adored him. Not to mention his very pregnant wife.
She never would have thought Jake Wyczynski could be so patient and tender.
She never would have thought he’d be exactly what she needed in her life.
Someone to annoy and challenge her, someone to nurture her and shove her out on her own.
Someone to love her for being Susan, not an Abbott of Connecticut.
It was a perfect autumn day, cool and clear, and even the canals seemed serene. That was what they called the city—La Serenissima. The Most Serene. She could only hope they came back here later on. She’d like all her babies to be born in Venice.
But in the end it didn’t matter. Her home was the people she loved, and they were scattered all over the world. As long as she had Jake with her she’d always be at home.
She could hear the thunder of footsteps on the broad staircase, and Jake’s shout of laughter as he chased his teenage brothers, Mamoo and Walter, past Aunt Lou’s room.
From overhead she could hear the ripple of laughter floating down from the balcony outside Mary and Alex’s room, and somewhere in the distance a radio was playing opera at a distorting bellow.
She leaned back against the moth-eaten divan and stroked her belly.
The pains had been coming, regular as clockwork, for the past two hours, and they were getting close enough together that she knew this time was no false labor.
She’d have to go fetch her husband to take her to the hospital, unless Aunt Lou had her way and delivered the baby herself.
She insisted she’d delivered more than a hundred children, and Susan believed her, but she still had a nostalgic longing for a real doctor.
For a few minutes more she would simply lie back and listen to the noise all around her, feel the baby move inside her and know that life was very good indeed.