"Luigi Amedeo, the drawings for the new house are ready," Cecilia Maria's voice said over the telephone. "I'd really like your opinion before I tell the construction company to go ahead and demolish our family home. Could you possibly come down sometime this week?"
"Yes," he replied. Luigi Amedeo stood and walked to the bow of his yacht. "I'll be there for supper. Probably late." In his mind's eye, Luigi Amedeo saw the sprawling building where he was born, the house where he had grown from child to man. It stood at the end of a large vineyard in the southern part of the Piedmont region. Mentally, he wandered down the wide gravel road and examined the tall, ancient poplars standing guard on either side. He shook his head, pushing the image from his mind. Cecilia Maria was talking to him.
"Luigi Amedeo? Are you still there?" she asked.
"Yes, of course, Cecilia Maria. I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere."
"I know you're attached to the old place, but we've discussed it in the past. You know how many repairs the old building needs. You know it will be less expensive to tear it down and rebuild, rather than try to remodel."
"Yes, Cecilia Maria. I know," he said, but his mind played with scenes from his past, showing him the main floor with the many activity rooms, the small, restricted sleeping quarters on the second floor. He knew the four precious arazzi, each thirty feet long and fourteen feet high, would be removed with care and reinstated in the new building. Each pictured different popes addressing or blessing a religious crowd; one showed Pope Gregorius VII conferring the gentle blazon to Luigi Amedeo's ancestor. He drew a deep breath.
"That place is very dear to me, that's true. But you're more important than an old mansion, and you deserve a functional home." He paused, stared out over the water and watched the gentle waves as they flowed toward the shore. "Do not worry, Cecilia Maria. I will come to look at the drawings, since you want me to do so, and then you can go ahead with your project."
After dinner in the drafty dining room, Luigi Amedeo settled in what had once been his father's den. He sat before the huge roll-top desk, drawers, shelves, and pigeon holes overflowing with papers, pictures, envelopes, and old bills. He went through each item with care, separating those to be saved and those to be burned. Near midnight, he came upon a letter which began 'Caro Michele,' and was signed 'Carla.' He read it once, then again. Finally, he carefully folded it and slipped it into his pocket.