Free Her Father's House by Belva Plain

I remember. So you just look and take it all in.”
    It was Donald's intention to take it all in. He had a habit after seeing things memorable of testing himself to find out how much of the color, the shape, and the history would remain in his head. And on this day, by late afternoon when they reached Florence, he already knew what would remain vividly and always in his head.
    They had passed a cemetery where soldiers of the Second World War lay among flags and cypress trees. His mind had leapt then to another cemetery on the coast of France where, under American flags whipping on the wind from the Atlantic, he had stood looking at his father's grave. By what curious connection his mind should take still another leap, he could not have said; he only knew that an acute sensation gripped his throat, and words burst from it. “I hope it's a boy. I really want a son.”
    â€œDo you think about this all the time, Donald? Are you going to keep it up for the next six months, for heaven's sake?”
    â€œI don't know. Why? Are you telling me that you don't think about the baby?”
    â€œNot if I can help it. I live for today.”
    He looked at her. Even though the afternoon sun was falling full upon him, he felt a wave of chill. We don't know each other. I don't know her, he thought. And it was as if these last few lovely weeks had never happened.
    â€œWe're almost there,” she said. “There's just enough of the afternoon left for us to see the Duomo. It's the next-largest cathedral in Italy, you know, after the Vatican. Tomorrow morning we'll walk around the central city. It's not more than a mile wide. After that, we'll start the museums. And after that, we'll meet Bettina for dinner. I can't wait.”
    Like a child obediently walking with an adult, Donald examined the inside and the outside of the cathedral. He saw and listened, yet all the time his own words were beating a rhythm in his head:
I don't know her. We don't know each other.
    And then a kind of fear began to creep through him, a fear of himself. Was he to go on like this, darkening the light because she had spoken with what had seemed a flip indifference to the coming child? True, she very often said things that he, and many other people, too, would probably not say. The word “boring” had been a very hurtful thing to him, and he had still not quite forgotten it. Yet there must be many who would simply have replied in kind and then forgotten the whole business.
    Yes, he was touchy. Quite tough when he was out in the world and toughness was required, he was touchy at home with Lillian. She had such great power to hurt him! Perhaps that was normal in such a close relationship. He didn't know. After all, he had never had such a close relationship before.
    They walked back along the Arno to their hotel. Coming and going, a stream of walkers flowed. For six hundred years they had been crossing this river on the old bridge; plagues and wars, that terrible last one, had wrought their terror here and still, new generations kept coming to live and love and walk. He began to feel somewhat small and foolish. A foolish worrier over small things. Stop it, Donald Wolfe, stop it, he said to himself.
    â€œThat's the Pitti on the other side, Donald. I think we'll start there tomorrow. It has the most marvelous gardens on the hill behind it. You'll love it.”
    And so it happened. By the next day it seemed as if all his heavy spirits had completely vanished, and his normally high spirits had taken their place. Fine weather, peace, and the prospect of a good dinner at the end of the day—what else could anyone ask for?
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    Lillian's friend Bettina was a vivacious woman, very bright, and very much like Lillian without possessing her beauty. The young man Giorgio who was with her gave Donald a cordial handshake and cordial smile, but since he spoke only a few stumbling words of English, Donald could have no opinion of him other