Her legs. Below a pleated skirt. Dancing down the steps. The first thing he saw. Just to the knees. He’d been passing the stepped street when they loomed. Enough to ignite his imagination about what might be above. Next, her face, its pale complexion, full lips, and light blue eyes, framed by black hair. What would he say when they came face to face at the base of the cobbled stairway? As possible greetings ran through his head, she slipped on an uneven paving stone. His hand caught, held hers, and guided her safely down. “A miracle,” she said in the cafè, “you were there.” Up close, a small vertical scar below her left eye and a sharp nose gave her face an unconventional air. “You were visiting the cathedral,” he said. Her reply was a tilt of the head. A waiter approached their table. “May I offer you an…
