“I’ll drink to that,” said Leonard, taking a hearty sip.
“And new friendships!” announced Elsa, clinking her glass with Rose’s.
“Yes, let’s all keep in touch,” said Beatrice. “We should make Jess take us on food tours all over Italy.”
“I’d love to.”
They exchanged emails and cell phone numbers, promising to meet again. Everyone wanted to come to Florence, and Rose felt a warmth spread through her. She was delighted to connect with such a wonderful and diverse new group of people; this weekend had far exceeded her expectations. It was bittersweet saying goodbye to her new friends, and she tucked away the list of new numbers in her bag, promising herself to take the time on the train home to enter them into her iPhone.
Her visit to the Vatican inspired her, and she was excited to paint when she got home. It was amazing to see Michelangelo’s depiction of the creation of Adam from the Book of Genesis. Meeting Elsa and Beatrice made her think that a dream job was possible. If nothing else, she was proud of herself for traveling on her own to Rome, meeting new people and putting herself out there in a way that she had never done before. It was her own personal renaissance.
Chapter 8
ROSE’S APARTMENT WAS A disaster. The white sheets she used to cover the living room furniture looked gray. Dust and debris were all over the floor next to the new opening. It looked like the workers had left in a hurry on Saturday afternoon because a half-filled soda can was still on the countertop. Taking her eyes away from the mess, Rose surveyed the new opening, which made the space brighter and airier. The workmanship was outstanding, and the mess would only take an hour to clean.
Rose immediately threw herself into scouring the apartment. Her belongings had arrived, and she decided to unpack two of the boxes filled with her personal keepsakes: a photograph of her father, her favorite coffee table books and a pretty black box that Zoey had given her for Christmas a year ago. The beamed ceiling gave the living room such incredible charm. With gusto, she pulled off the sheets and threw them into her new stackable washer and dryer.
Having found some pretty decorative pillows while in Rome, she had fun placing the gray-washed velvet squares on her new white side chairs and arranging some patterned plates on a bookcase. Hopefully, the workers would be more mindful when they returned. It’s all coming together, she thought proudly, as she admired her new apartment. The pictures made it look like she lived here.
Rose studied the new opening in the wall, which integrated the kitchen with the living and dining room area. The carpenter needed to add wood crown and floor molding to cover the seams created by the wall’s removal. He also needed to patch a few deep cracks near the base of the wall presumably caused by the demolition.
Rose ran her hand along the cracks and wondered whether to paint the new trim white or stain it to match the beams in the ceiling. As she did, a section of plaster about the size of her hand fell to the floor.
“Damn,” she said aloud.
Rose looked into the small hole and spotted something odd. Wedged inside was what looked like leather or parchment. Rose reached in to grasp the moldy object and gingerly pulled it into the afternoon light. The edges were caked with dust, which she carefully wiped away.
She stared at the dusty tube dented in two places and covered with particles of fine, dry powder. Rose went to the sink to wash her hands before touching it any further. She looked at the aged tube and stared at her new apartment, somehow feeling like an intrepid explorer in her own space. This is my home, she reminded herself. Therefore I own everything in it.
Grabbing a towel from the bathroom, she gently removed a layer of grime from the tube and continued to wipe it clean, anxious to peer inside. But she wanted to be cautious. She carefully pulled open the top of the container and tugged on the rolled paper inside. It took several tries to pry the papers free.
As if in slow motion, she unrolled the parchment and peered at a small, roughly eight-by-ten-inch charcoal drawing that took her breath away. She gently blew white powder from the rolled paper and stared at a depiction of a baby boy on some sort of cloth. The curved lines of the body were beautifully executed, and the cloth gently covered one of the baby’s legs. Each detail was finely drawn, and the baby’s rounded arms and face were distinct, giving him an ethereal look. Rose’s hands trembled as she wondered who the child was, and who sketched him. She thought of her own sketchbook upstairs filled with copies of pictures and scenes around Florence. This aged drawing was outstanding in its simplicity and yet so incredibly exquisite.
Rose meticulously peeled the sketch of the child away from a second, larger drawing. She held her breath as she stared at the next drawing, the face of a young boy, handsome with angular features. Is it the same person? His high cheekbones and prominent nose made him look like a member of the ruling class. The young man was depicted staring directly at her. It was surreal. Rose felt as if she were looking directly into the past at a man who had been hidden for perhaps generations. From the jaunty angle of his plumed hat to the confident expression, Rose was captivated. Who’s the boy? He looked to be around twelve years old, she guessed. Is it a portrait that this artist had completed?
Her breathing came short and fast as the enormity of the discovery struck her. All of her senses were alive. Carefully, she unfurled a third drawing, which was about the same size as the second one. It depicted intertwined hands, the side of a reclining figure on the left and a partial rendering of God surrounded by several figures on the right. A chill ran up her spine because she knew the scene intimately; yet, there was something different about it.
The drawings were fascinating in their intensity, and it was abundantly clear they had been in the wall for some time. Her hands trembled at the age and beauty of the work before her. The third drawing captured her imagination, and she thought about the beginning of time; she was surprised, scared and excited all at once. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reverently touched the edges to bring a sense of reality to this moment. It felt as if she were dreaming as she studied the images on the moldy paper. Running into the living room, she grabbed several books to secure the edges of the drawings so she could study them more and take pictures.
Who’s the artist? How long have these drawings been encased in the wall? Rose had so many questions. Taking a breath to calm herself, she concluded that someone had deliberately hidden the sketches long ago given the amount of dust and debris that had covered them. Could the drawings be related? She wondered if the baby was a depiction of Jesus Christ because it looked like he was wrapped in a cloth. Certainly, Florence was filled with paintings, sculptures and statues of the saint, but this baby had a different look. Perhaps more earthly than divine.
The second drawing seemed so portrait-like and almost out of place with the other two. The young boy’s face had an angular jaw, sharp nose and wide forehead. His eyes looked so real; it felt as if he could jump off the paper and into the room. The details of his hat and clothing suggested someone who lived in a different era, but which one?
Rose was mesmerized and for hours examined the three drawings with the intensity of a police detective at a murder scene looking for clues. The third drawing looked like a thoughtful study of The Creation of Adam, which she had just witnessed at the Sistine Chapel in Rome. That idea seemed so preposterous to her. Perhaps an artist had studied Michelangelo’s body of work and these were copies. Rose wondered if these drawings had been stolen and then hidden.
Rose paced the floor of her new kitchen pondering how the clasped hands fused God with Adam in a special way that seemed unbreakable. It was such an exquisite rendering that the spiritual message seemed irrefutable. She considered the quality of the paper along with its dusty and moldy edges, which added a level of authenticity worthy of further research on her part. This is so weird, she told herself, trying to come to terms with the contents of the historic papers in front of her.
Fear took over. Were they stolen? What if they belonged to a previous owner and he planned to come back for them? Would I be incriminated? Given the hiding place, the previous owners may not have known about them. Calming herself, she quickly went in search of something to hide the treasure. She wrapped one of her scarves around the drawings and gingerly placed them in a leather tote bag for protection. She opened the door of her new wardrobe and put the tote gently in a corner. Rose began pacing the floor, not sure who to call or what to do. She suddenly felt incredibly alone, but decided not to tell anyone about her discovery until she had figured out her options.
Rose’s mind raced. What century are they from? Was this house once owned by an aspiring artist like me who worked on copying this theme? Perhaps the answers could be determined by testing the age of the paper.
As she paced back and forth, she contemplated the current scholarly interpretation of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. In the Sistine Chapel, the two hands reached toward each other. Adam had always appeared somewhat relaxed, and many historians believed that this symbolized the moment that God infused Adam with life. But this drawing was different. The hands were clasped tightly, seeming to connect mankind with the very spirit of God. Perhaps the two worlds were closer than anyone realized. Rose’s head began to pound. She knew that she would need to consult someone with far greater knowledge than her own to decipher the meaning.
What should I do? thought Rose, wandering around her new home and finally sitting quietly on her new balcony. The city was lit up. Shivering slightly despite the summer breeze, Rose tried to formulate a plan to research and understand what she had found. She was excited to have discovered such beautiful drawings, and yet an inner voice warned her to proceed with caution.
A text message from Ben was a welcome diversion.
Hey. What’s up? I’m still writing. Kind of crazy but I couldn’t sleep. I miss you.
Me too. I’m sitting here on my new balcony looking at the stars.
B: I wish I were beside you.
I can’t wait to show you my new place. It’s heavenly over here.
B: Maybe I’ll hop on a plane again. New York is hot and I’ve thought about you way too much.
That would be lovely, but I can’t ask you to do that.
B: Yes, you can.
Okay, I’d love to see you again.
B: I am thinking of you on a balcony in the moonlight.
That’s sounds very romantic.
B: It sure does and far more interesting than Jeffersonian architecture. I’ve been working around the clock lately. Okay, night night sweetheart.
Night
Had Ben just called her his sweetheart? Rose felt like she was dreaming. It was Ben, her first love, and they had reconnected. A feeling of warmth spread through her. Charlottesville felt suddenly closer. With a smile, Rose calmed down about the drawings and decided that it was all going to be okay. And Rose thought about her mother and how much she adored Ben. He was part of the fabric of her life, and she decided that she was okay with the fact that he had been married and had a child. It was messy and complicated, but he had ended things and was clearly ready for a fresh start, which might include her. Excitement filled her being. This has been quite a day, Rose thought happily, as she put on her silk nightshirt and got ready for bed.
That night, curling up in her fabulous bedroom, Rose peered at the light pouring in from the balcony. This was her new home and her new life. The bed was soft and warm, yet she felt a bit overwhelmed.
Rose was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed of being in darkness and of chaos erupting. She felt frightened and alone. As she swirled into the night, she couldn’t breathe, and the world spun at an alarming rate. She screamed, and then out of the darkness a voice called to her, and she could see a strong hand reaching down from above to take hers. Rose grabbed it and heard the words, “Trust the Lord Jesus Christ.”
With the hand came light and a calmness. Rose awoke as the sun streamed through her window. The image in her dream, those clasped hands between Adam and God, pervaded her consciousness, and she believed that the meaning would be revealed.
Chapter 9
THE SUNSHINE DANCED ON the terra-cotta rooftops, captivating Rose as she sipped her morning coffee. It was surreal watching the city come alive from her new balcony with the spectacular view. A calmness descended upon her as she contemplated the beauty of her surroundings. Still, the past twenty-four hours crept into her mind as she tried to figure out what to do about her discovery.
Rose wanted to talk to someone she could trust for advice. Her brother, Jack, came to mind first. He was smart and she trusted him completely. On the other hand, Beatrice, who worked at the Vatican, could, in fact, be helpful, and Rose laughed aloud as she contemplated a conversation:
“Hi, Beatrice. Remember me? We met on Jess’s food tour.”
“Yes, sure, you were the art history teacher. How are you?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I found three old drawings last night hidden in the wall that the contractors cut open. Well, I think they, uh, contain a mystery. There’s a portrait of a baby, a young boy and, well, a scene from the Sistine Chapel. This may sound kind of odd, but the third drawing could be a preliminary study of the Creation of Adam. And I think this because I had a dream last night about the clasped hands between God and Adam. You know I’m passionate about Michelangelo, so I swear I didn’t make any of this up. Really, I’m not crazy because I have the drawings and they are clearly old. Would you like to see them?”
There was no rush to do anything, Rose decided. She needed to take her time and think through what was best. In the meantime, it made perfect sense to get on with her life and continue pursuing her art. She had never felt so energized and creative as she selected various spots in the city to draw.
Later that week, Rose ran into Lyon on her way to sketch in the Boboli Gardens. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
“Hi,” he said warmly.
“Hi,” she replied.
“I’ve been meaning to get in touch but have been out of town on business.”
“Got it. No worries. I’ve been settling into my life here. So far, so good.”
“Glad to hear it. I’d love to get together sometime,” he said casually.
“Sure,” she replied easily. “You know where to find me,” she shot back with a smile.
He returned the smile and their eyes met. “I sure do. It’s hard for a simple guy like me to ask out such a beautiful American girl.”
“Ahh,” said Rose sweetly. “I don’t buy it, Lyon. Nice try.” She laughed. “I don’t believe for a minute that you aren’t a professional at asking women out.”
“Me? That’s ridiculous.”
“I do believe that you’re blushing.”
He reached for her hand and grinned as she passed by him. “See you soon.”
“You can count on it, Rose,” he said with a chuckle.
***
It was a rainy Friday, so Rose headed to the Uffizi Gallery, which opened at ten. Her plan was to wander through it, looking at the myriad paintings for inspiration of her own. She would shoot Jack an email and try to catch him after work, which would put her about lunchtime.
That morning, Rose lost herself gazing at Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus painted around 1480 as she studied the lines of the Renaissance masterpiece. The painting, probably one of the most famous in the world, took her breath away with its mastery of color, form and shape. It depicted the goddess Venus standing at the shore on a large seashell after her birth, but she was portrayed fully grown. The size and grandeur of the painting were extraordinary, and the classic scene from Greek antiquity reminded her of both earthly and divine love. Rose could have gazed at the painting for hours, but her phone vibrated with an incoming text message.
Th
inking it was Jack, she found a quiet corner to see what he wanted.
Surprise! I’m here.
What? Ben?
B: I just got to Florence.
Really? Are you kidding me?
B: Nope. Where are you?
The Uffizi staring at the Birth of Venus. Where are you?
B: Standing in your apartment. Your realtor came by to check on your reno project, so he kindly let me in.
OMG. I’ll be there as fast as I can!
B: Good. Mind if I shower?
Rose paused. Perfect!
A thousand questions coursed through her brain. Had Ben actually hopped a plane to be with her? She wished she had put on some makeup or something this morning. Looking down at her flip-flops and jean shorts, she realized Ben would appreciate her casual attire. She wound her way through the burgeoning crowd to the exit. Fortunately, there wasn’t time to think about anything but the present and the fact that Ben was back in Florence and at her house.
As she walked, she pictured his handsome face, the dimple on his cheek and that ready smile. At least my apartment is habitable, she thought. Her palms sweaty and heart racing, she turned down a cobblestone path thinking that she should have worn sneakers so she could move faster.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly as she walked into her apartment. “So, you’re really here.”
“Hi,” he replied, getting up to greet her. “I was in the neighborhood.” He pulled her close to him, and Rose molded right to his muscular form as he kissed her passionately. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“So, I beat out Botticelli for the day, huh?”
They both laughed and flopped on the couch with their legs intertwined. “Oh, Ben, it was so amazing to see Venus rising in person. So many treasures, so little time!”
“You look happy and well,” he said, running his hand over her tanned legs. “Should I take it personally that you don’t seem to have missed me as much as I missed you?”
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