But that wasn’t his nature. Steven had already retired once, after selling his original company while in his late thirties, only to discover that his personality required more stimulation than endless napping. After a brief but deadly dalliance with the U.S. stock market and a whirlwind education on the lethal factions that congregated wherever big money circulated, he’d switched his interest to the internet — at a time when social media was coming into its own.
That had ultimately resulted in his current venture, which was precariously close to a real job. The company was supposed to run itself, but he was still inexorably sucked into the day-to-day operations far more than he liked.
And he still had his hobby. The challenges involved in cryptography had grown from being light entertainment to borderline obsession. He’d spent countless hours working on medieval and Renaissance cyphers, and had gone so far as to write several programs for tracking character repetition and analyzing coded messages. Many of his weekends had involved trips to ferret-out original parchments, hundreds of years old, written in the cyphers that were fairly common from the twelfth through eighteenth century. Steven didn’t get to spend as much time as he would have liked on it these days, what with the company seemingly going through one operational emergency or another, but he still took at least two days a week to work on his ‘projects’, as Antonia called them.
Which was why he was going to miss the party of the century, or at least, of this year, near Venice.
He’d been courting an octogenarian antique and rare parchment dealer from Bologna; his intention was to buy the man’s private collection of parchments, some of which were the stuff of rumor — scrolls from Morocco, thirteenth through fifteenth century England, Italy, France, and even some older works from Greece. These were museum pieces, rare and unseen, and would make perfect additions to Steven’s growing collection. They’d been in the old man’s possession for eons, many of them passed down from his father, who had also been in the business as well as being a counselor on rare documents to such entities as the Romanoffs at the turn of the 20th Century. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Steven, although he knew that the truly valuable works would have long ago been committed to heavyweight private collectors from Russia and China. Still, this man’s table scraps were probably as intriguing as the most highly-touted finds in the Italian trade, and Steven was anxious to seal a deal.
Steven checked his watch, a platinum Lange & Sohne perpetual calendar Antonia had gotten him as a forty-second birthday gift. He walked back into the house; his meeting wasn’t until five o’clock that evening but he was impatient to view the old man’s trove.
After a few minutes wandering aimlessly through the empty rooms, he resolved to go into Florence for a few hours to work out at his favorite Dojo. Steven’s fascination with martial arts was still as strong as ever, and even though he was an adept in most of the disciplines, he loved the ritual of performing his workout. He patted his stomach — after eating Italian food for the last three years, he needed every opportunity for exercise he could get.
He packed a messenger bag with his Gi and a towel, then strode to the small stand-alone garage, which was crammed full of the junk he and Antonia had collected during their years together. After a few moments, Steven emerged pushing a battered Vespa motor-scooter — the ubiquitous transportation in the region — and struggled with the kick-start. On the fourth try it rattled to life and, after revving the motor a few times, Steven settled onto the cracked vinyl seat and made for Florence in a cloud of blue exhaust.
Antonia loved the feel of the wind in her hair as she sped north on the highway that wound its way through the Italian countryside. She’d left the house just after 12:45 and, allowing for traffic and the odd unforeseen fuel and rest stop, she figured she could make it to Dante’s house by 5 p.m.. The little Audi convertible’s top was seldom up except when they went into Florence, and one of her guilty pleasures was to feel the sun warm on her face as she drove, admittedly far too fast, to one of her favorite places on the planet: Venice.
Even now, she felt the city possessed a majesty she’d never found anywhere else. True, it could get unpleasantly crowded with tourists in the spring and summer, but so could most of the larger cities in Italy. It was a necessary evil, and one she could deal with, especially if she was just visiting. She enjoyed the quiet of the country life she and Steven had together in Greve, but there was nothing like the magic of Venice to get the juices flowing.
Her mind wandered to the miracle that was their life together as she rolled through the hills — it really was a dream come true. She loved Steven deeply and completely, and she knew he would do anything for her — he’d more than proved that. And it was perfect that they’d turned the old farmhouse they’d bought into a rambling, Tuscan classic, lovingly renovating it while adding all the modern conveniences they both appreciated. It was large for the two of them — but they would soon need the space: only this morning she’d discovered, via the miracle of modern drugstore products, that she was pregnant.
Antonia had been so excited she’d repeated the test — both times had registered positive. There was no doubt. She’d wanted to tell Steven, but had composed herself and resolved to sit down with him once she returned — she knew enough about men that you didn’t just announce you were going to have a family and then hit the road to a party. This was a serious step; one they’d discussed, but it had never seemed like exactly the right time…eh, well, it’s the right time now, no?
After all they’d been through together, after she’d almost died in his arms, to create a life together — and see both of themselves in their baby's eyes — was almost too much to hope for. The circle of life was complete. They were safe, secure, healthy, prosperous, and Steven would be a perfect father…
Antonia was lost in her thoughts as she wound her way through the slopes north of Barberino de Mugello. As she twisted down the tortuous mountain highway her fuel light blinked and then illuminated. Damn. She’d forgotten to fill up. No matter, there was a station in a few miles, she was sure. Antonia passed a tanker truck making its way cautiously down the steep incline; as she swerved around it, she nearly collided with an old pickup that was barely crawling — in the fast lane, of course. She stomped on her brakes to avoid crashing into it, but the pedal went to the floor without any resistance. She slalomed around the pickup, nearly slamming through the guardrail, and checked her speedometer — 92 MPH. Her mind racing, Antonia downshifted, and the car gradually slowed. At least she could use the transmission to brake — it was just her luck that something would go wrong on a Saturday, when most mechanics were closed for the weekend.
Antonia pushed the thought aside. She could make arrangements once she’d found a gas station. At worst, she could have Dante send a car for her. It would be annoying and inconvenient, but sometimes that was how life was.
She downshifted again, slowing the little car to 60 MPH, then 50, and pulled off at the exit she thought led to a fuel station. She coasted along and glanced to her right — she could make out a service station sign through the olive trees. At least that’s what it looked like — she couldn’t be sure, but she thought it must be. She studied the map on her in-console GPS, looking for the icon that signified a fuel stop. Aha! She was right. There was one an eighth of a mile away.