sandandwater: (venice)
How did we get here?
Well, I used to know you so well, yeah.
But how did we get here?
Well, I think I know
[‘Decode’ – Paramore]


She wasn’t the same woman who left Venice at twenty-two. There were similarities, certainly and familiarities—the things that Alessandro recognized as Phillipa Kerr despite this new broken aura that surrounded the gaffer. But this wasn’t his brilliant star, this wasn’t the woman he had loved so fiercely and given so much of himself to; she was a pale imitation. A ghost. A shadow. It broke his heart.

He accepted that she hadn’t wanted to marry him and that she had wanted to return to New York. Love was that way at times, burned fast and bright and then was over. The memories would last and there would still be a student for him to mentor. There was no regret or animosity there; he only wanted her to be happy—happy and fulfilled. It was painfully clear to him that Pippa was neither of these things.

Pippa spent her days working like a thing possessed, not an artist enjoying her craft but a soul tortured and engulfed in a painful penance for sins imagined and transgressions he couldn’t begin to fathom. They had argued about this, the way she worked. He wanted her to slow down, rest more. Drink. Eat. Live and not merely exist. She steadfastly refused and on the days that he would voice his concerns, Pippa would only work harder and longer. At what, he didn’t know. She would not discuss it after his one derisive comment regarding molds and forms. This had been his error and her silence the price he would pay.

Alessandro accepted that as well. He insulted her unwittingly and the red-haired beauty would hold a grudge. Recognizably Pippa, such behavior was. It would have made him smile if the sheer stubbornness hadn’t turned into something far more disconcerting of late. The anger, he could deal with it was the sadness in her voice and the hollow look in her eyes that he didn’t like. Something was missing, a vital part of the young woman. Determination wasn’t security, working to near exhaustion wasn’t confidence and aloofness didn’t disguise fear. Whatever happened to change his former lover had been profound.

The maestro had the disheartening suspicion that that something had a name and that name was Rory Stone.
sandandwater: (some class)

Make a list of things that you would leave to other people in the event of your demise.


As things currently stand, my Last Will and Testament decrees that my my assets both financial and otherwise are to be consolidated and put into a trust for _____________ (name redacted for recipient's privacy). The few personal effects that I would want distributed are more for sentimental reasons than anything else.

To Alessandro, I'd leave my silk scarf. He's always playing with it, rearranging it every time I wear it. When my hair was longer, he used to take the scarf and tie my hair back with it. While we were...involved, he used keep it folded under his pillow at night. He would also retain rights over the glass pieces I have created in his studios these last few months.

To Marcello, certain pieces of my jewelry. His little girls are quite taken with the handmade notions I've put together from dice and bouncy balls, game tokens and the like. His wife, I know, is very fond of my Nana's brooch. And Marcello, my dear, dear, Marcello--to him specifically, I'd leave the bracelet I wear on my left wrist. He would understand why.

To Ro, for Rory I have only one thing I'd like to leave with him. My sketch book. I don't often use it but for this latest project I have. Every stage, every step, has been drawn and drafted. If I can't have the chance to complete what I am working on, I at least want him to have the notes and progress. I need him to know just what it is that has been occupying my every waking moment and most of my dreaming ones as well while I've been in Venice. And I hope he'd understand what I have been attempting to do.
sandandwater: (marcello's muse)
I keep meaning to post these, most of them taken by Marcello, a few of the decidedly amateur shots are my own handiwork, of course. I'm not sure how much most of you know about The City of Water, but it's made up of many islands and I don't live on Venice itself, but the isle of Murano instead. Murano is where the furnaces for glass making have been for centuries. All of them exiled there, to one location in case of fires. Reasonable and cheerful, no? Si.

Anyhow, this is where I am most days:

Venga con me! (Follow me) )
sandandwater: ([short] to the side)

Rory

Peace be with you, my red-haired darling. Good-bye.

Those were the last words he’d said to her. All he could say once she told him that she was moving back to Venice and she wasn’t planning to return. That she was leaving him in order to try and make sense of the chaos her life had become. To reclaim the things so suddenly lost to her.

I love you.

That was what she wanted to tell him even if he might not believe it.

Mr. Beaker

She hugged the Doberman tightly, squeezed him until the pup whumped and whined at the way she was pushing the air from his lungs. Pippa kissed his head, his snout, rubbed his back once more and forced herself to stand. It broke her heart to leave Mr. Beaker behind but she honestly believed it the kinder thing to do for him.

Be a good puppy for Mike, Mr. Beaker. No making messes, don’t eat anything that isn’t doggy food and no loud barking in the house.

He tilted his head and gave Pippa a confused woof and an excited wag of his tail.

Mike

More hugs, more tears. Promises extracted and made. She’d call. He’d follow her lists of instructions about the dog. She’d take care of herself and he’d not work too hard. She’d find the time to drink good Italian wines for him and he’d call Rory Stone if Mr. Beaker became too much to handle. She’d stop crying and he wouldn’t ask how the Irishman could let her go.

Apartment

Everything necessary had been packed in two suitcases and a carry-on. Things that were important to her had been packed away and sent to storage. Furniture had been draped in white cloths and everything else had been sold or given away. Pippa flipped the switch to shut off the custom light fixture in the bedroom. She ran a hand around the basin in the master bath. The little bits of herself she was leaving behind—the real estate agent was thrilled with that. Real selling points, the woman had assured her.

Pippa left her keys in the lockbox hanging on the door.

New York

She flew out of Newark’s international airport, not JFK. It was more modern, less crowded and seemed less New York to her than the famed major hub. Somehow this was fitting in Pippa’s mind. She’d said farewell to the city as she’d taken the ferry from Staten, the subway through Manhattan and then finally hailed a cab to the airport. She kept the window closed during the plane’s ascent, her last memories of ‘home’ would not be an impersonal aerial view.

Alessandro

Phillipa! Mia Bella! Come here and let me see you.

She made it from the airport to the bus and then to the gondola all on her own. But once she’d arrived at the address belonging to Signore Evangelisti, Pippa was welcomed. She hadn’t seen him in three years and she’d been surprised at what a difference a short time-span could have on an old man. His eyes were still bright and his embrace still strong though and that’s all that mattered. She cried. He held her. They both laughed.

Later, they would talk of many things but for now Pippa was content to just be back.

Pippa Kerr//553
sandandwater: (Default)


Signore Alessandro

I was sorting through some things and found his picture on my desk so I scanned it in before finding a picture frame for it. My dear Signore, he's taught me so much and given me so much more. I suppose it's no surprise that I've been thinking about Venice again. About making glass in his studio, with him. Even being yelled at by him--no one yells like Alessandro, he has it down to its own art form. I miss that about him. He always pushes and he never, ever lets me run. I miss that too.

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sandandwater

October 2009

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