I’ve never asked him anything about his time in Venice with you. And he’s never volunteered any information about it. I’ve imagined it many times, of course. But all I really know of that weekend is that Tom experienced the luxury of a handmade Italian shirt. A few days later, I took a great deal of pleasure in washing and ironing that shirt in my usual haphazard way, neglecting to starch the collar and deliberately pressing the sleeves so the creases fell in broken lines.
