The Last Promise (14 page)

“Definitely.”

“And lonely?”

She looked at him and smiled sadly but didn’t answer. Ross wondered how anyone so beautiful could be alone.

“I have some dessert wine. Vin santo. Or perhaps you would like some coffee?” she said, changing the subject.

“I’d love some coffee.”

They went downstairs. While Eliana went to the kitchen, Ross sat on a leather sofa in front of a glass-topped table. Eliana came in with the coffee and two small porcelain plates on which was pastry cake, white with confectioners’ sugar. She set the plates on the table and sat down on the floor across from him, her legs crossed.

“I almost forgot the dessert.”

Ross cut the cake with his fork. “I love
millefoglie
. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “
Sì.
You know a lot about Italy for only being here a couple weeks.”

“I’ve been here for six months. I just train-hopped for a while.” He tasted the dessert. “You made this?”

“No. The cake I bought. There’s a
pasticceria
near Piazza Gavinana that makes great pastries. I always buy our birthday cakes there.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” He looked up from the cake. “So you did the portrait in my place as well. The monk?”

She grinned. “That’s Saint Francis of Assisi. But you can call him ‘the monk’ if you like.”

“Sorry. Do you often paint portraits?”

“Not many. I like doing them, I just don’t like working from magazine pictures. If I could work with models, I’d do more. It’s hard to capture the right mood painting from a picture.”

“When did you start painting?”

“When I was twelve. I used to paint desert landscapes in Vernal.”

“Do you sell them?”

“Not often.”

“Really, why not?”

“I’m afraid that if I started painting for money it would lose its value for me. So I just let them pile up. I give them away as presents. Who knows, if you’re a good tenant you might end up with one.”

“I could only hope.”

She smiled then took a bite of her cake. “You know, it’s nice to have company. Sometimes I get cabin fever. Or maybe I should say villa fever.”

“Don’t you have many friends here?”

“I have a few. But Rendola’s a bit off the beaten path. Not that that’s an excuse. I should make more of an effort. It’s just hard with Alessio. Anna’s my best friend. Ever since her husband left her.”

“Anna’s been really helpful.”

“I love Anna. She looks out for me. She’s very maternal.”

Ross asked, “So how did you end up at Rendola?”

“This is one of the homes Maurizio grew up in. His family owns another villa in Siena. That’s where his mother lives.”

“Where did the two of you meet?”

“We met in Florence, at a discotheque. Just about every American girl here has the same story. We come to study and end up with a husband. I came for only a two-month university extension program. I was studying art history at the University of Utah. My father had just died, when this opportunity came up. I was taking my father’s death pretty hard. I guess I needed to get away. I met Maurizio on my third night here. He was gorgeous. He swept me off my feet. He was also seven years older than me. I was still too young to get married and he was planning to come to America to get his MBA, so he arranged to attend the University of Utah to be near me. We dated a little more than three years and he finished schooling and was about to go back. I still felt too young to marry, but rather than lose him I said yes.”

“Where does he work?”

“You’re awfully interested in my husband.”

“Sorry. It’s a guy thing. If you’d rather not . . .”

“No, it’s fine. He runs the family’s wine business. He makes all the sales and business decisions. It takes him all around the world, meeting with importers and distributors, sometimes restaurateurs. America, Italy, Portugal, Bangkok, Australia, Taiwan, Japan, you name it. He speaks six languages. He’s very smart.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she said, though the tone of her voice was flat. “He’s on the road more than two hundred and fifty days out of the year. I think it was in ’97, in one six-month period, he was only home for three weekends. You’ll meet him next week. You’ll like him. Everyone likes him. He’s very charming. Just not real”—she paused—“available.”

“How is that, taking care of a child with your husband gone so often?”

“Well, I have help. Manuela comes three days a week. She’s good to Alessio. And there’s Anna. As far as the husband part, you get used to being alone.”

“Do you?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “You don’t play games when you speak.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Her voice changed; it became soft and open. “No, you don’t get used to it. In fact it gets harder.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Yes, I’m lonely and I feel like I want to scream and run a million miles away from Rendola.” She looked up at him. “And then I see my sweet son and this beautiful country and all the nice things around me and I think,
Get a grip. There are people out there with real problems.
” She laughed at herself. “That’s where I live, somewhere between loneliness and guilt.” She shook her head as she looked up at him. “You probably think I’m crazy. It’s okay if you do. I do.”

“No, I don’t.”

She sighed. Her voice softened more. “About the other night. At the hospital . . . I wanted to thank you for”—she hesitated, feeling suddenly awkward—“for holding me. I needed that.”

“I was afraid that I was being too forward.”

“No. You were being sweet. The world needs more gentlemen.”

There was a moment of quiet as neither knew how to respond to the course of their conversation. Ross suddenly smiled. “That just reminded me of a joke I overheard at the Uffizi yesterday. Want to hear?”

She nodded.
“Certo.”

“A man and a woman were traveling to Sicily on a sleeping train. The train was completely full and they found that they had accidentally been placed together in the same sleeping cabin, just the two of them. They were a little nervous at first but they soon just turned off the lights and went to bed, the man on the top bunk, the woman on the bottom. Sometime in the night the man said to the woman, ‘Excuse me, but could you please hand me a blanket? I’m a little cold up here.’

“The woman said, ‘I have a better idea. Why don’t we, just for tonight, pretend that we’re married.’

“ ‘Really?’ said the man, very excited. ‘Great!’

“ ‘Good,’ said the woman. Then she rolled over and said, ‘Get your own damn blanket.’ ”

Eliana laughed hard enough that she covered her mouth. Ross also began to laugh, though not at the joke but at the effect the joke had on her. When he started telling it, he hadn’t considered its possible relevance. Now it was obvious.

As her laughter softened Ross looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly one.

“I can’t believe it’s so late.
Il tempo vola.
Can you say that in Italian?”

“Yes,
time flies
.”

“I better get out before you throw me out.” Ross climbed to his feet then offered her his hand. Then he grabbed the glasses from the table. “Let me help you clean up the kitchen.”

“No, it’s too late. I’ll clean up in the morning.”

“It’s okay, really. I can help.”

“I forget that you American men are well trained. But thank you, no. This was my treat.”

“Whatever you say.”

He left their glasses in the kitchen and they walked to the front of the house and stood just outside the threshold. The courtyard was luminous blue, lit by the crescent moon that peeked over the western wall of the villa like a voyeur. There was a curious, powerful energy between them. Ross felt awkward, like a boy on the doorstep of his first date.

“Thank you for dinner. It was the best meal I’ve had since I came to Italy.”

“You’re just being kind.”

“I think it was. Of course good company makes a meal better.”

Her eyes shone.

“And thank you for showing me your artwork. I’m obviously very impressed.” As he looked at her, Ross suddenly thought she had the most perfect lips he had ever seen. “And for the cookies the other night. They’re just about gone already.”

“Thank you again for helping us.” She began fondling a single strand of hair over her forehead.

He looked into her face, their eyes locked and an unspoken conversation played back and forth in the moonlight. Then Ross put out his hand. “Well, good night.”

His hand was soft, she thought, strong, but soft. “Good night, Ross. Sleep well.”

Then he turned and walked from her. She stepped back inside her own apartment then turned to watch him. As he began to vanish in the darkness of the corridor, something in her could not let him leave without knowing when she’d see him again. She called after him, “Ross.”

He turned, his face split by shadow. “Yes?”

“Could I paint you?”

“Paint me?”

She pulled again at the strand. “I mean a portrait of you.”

“I’ve never modeled before.”

“That doesn’t matter. If a bowl of fruit can do it, how hard could it be?”

He smiled. “When would you like to start?”

She didn’t want to seem too eager. “I’m just finishing up the painting I’m working on. Maybe we could start Thursday evening.”

“Thursday’s fine.”

“What time do you get off work?”

“I have a late tour Thursday afternoon. I should be home around seven.”

“Would eight be too soon?”

“No, eight works.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, Eliana.”

“
Buona notte,
Ross.”

Ross walked slowly back to his apartment. Her door closed softly behind him. The evening had turned out perfectly. She was different than he had expected. More vulnerable, perhaps. He felt as if he had finally found a friend.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

I
t rained the next day: a summer storm that turned the skies above Florence gray and dampened the Tuscan countryside. Eliana gazed out her studio window lost in her thoughts, watching the water trickle down the pane, the rain splash and pool in the corners of the stone courtyard, the geraniums dance from the fall of the drops. She did not mind the sudden cloud-burst. Even if it meant that Alessio was stuck inside all day and the customary whining from boredom would soon begin. There were only blue skies where she was—replaying the tape of the previous night in her mind. She felt a lightness of being that she hadn’t felt in some time. Whether something had been taken from her or added, she wasn’t sure. But she felt different.

The evening had been almost like a confessional. For she had bared her soul and he had listened. He seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts. But, like a confessional, there was a screen there, if only his eyes, and she knew nothing about the man behind it.

Still she liked what she knew. He was kind. He was good-looking; not like the posters of seminude male models plastered around the city—he was attractive in a different way. He seemed confident, yet still somehow vulnerable—if that were possible—and, at the least, he clearly wasn’t arrogant. He was masculine without being “macho.”

She worked quickly to finish the painting that occupied her easel. It had now lost importance to her, as she was anticipating her next project with her new model. Alessio slept in and she painted for more than two hours, until he walked into her studio rubbing his eyes. He was wearing briefs and socks and a Batman cape.

“I’m hungry, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Go in the pantry and get yourself a plum cake. I’ll be down in a few minutes and I’ll make you some oatmeal.”

“Okay.”

He stumbled off. She put the last touches on the section she was painting then put her brushes away and went downstairs to make breakfast.

Around noon Eliana was sorting laundry, sitting on the floor next to the washing machine, when she heard the front door open. Manuela walked in, singing to herself. She shook her umbrella off outside then stowed it in the corner.

“
Ciao,
Eliana. It’s me.”

“
Ciao,
Manuela. How are you feeling?”

“Meglio.” Better.
“But I don’t like rain.”

“Neither does Alessio. He’s up in his room playing Nintendo.”

Manuela hung up her coat and went off to find him. A few minutes later the front door opened again.

Eliana jumped a little. Maurizio stood above her.

“You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing home?”