He escorted her into a beautiful one-floor sitting and guest room, which looked more African than Tuscan with white sofas, dark hardwood floors and a series of tribal masks lining the main wall. Colorful modern landscape paintings added an open and airy feel. As Rose gazed toward the masks, Lyon reminded her that his mother was born and raised in Namibia. It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to ask who the artist was, but she was exhausted. As soon as Lyon departed, Rose looked around, taking in her elegant surroundings, and asked herself how she got here. Suddenly, this new reality made her feel anxious and scared. She checked the lock on the door and made her way to the bathroom to take a shower.
Rose sat and relaxed, minutes from falling asleep. As she began to doze off, she thought about home, her friends, and the security she felt there. The memory of the going-away party in her honor made her teary-eyed. Her thoughts turned from home to BenThe big surprise that night was Ben. He showed up and offered to drive her to the airport the next morning. Why did she always think about him? He seemed to have this power over her that she couldn’t explain, not even to herself.
Chapter 13
ROSE AWOKE TO SUN streaming in the windows of her bedroom, casting a bright light on an abstract painting of yellows and oranges. The colors soothed her senses, and for a moment, she forgot where she was and looked around in confusion. Then, she recalled the series of events at the Vatican, the break-in, and felt suddenly relieved to be in Tuscany with Lyon and his family.
Rose quickly donned a sundress and sandals, ran a brush through her hair and headed outside to wander around. Checking her iPhone, she saw that Zoey had tried to reach her, but she decided a good espresso was her first order of the day. The call would have to wait.
The grass seemed to roll on forever on this property, punctuated by flowering trees and a shimmering kidney-shaped pool. Rose saw someone swimming laps and she inched closer, realizing it was Lyon. He waved her over and she obliged, smiling.
“Good morning, Rose. How’d you sleep?”
“Actually, surprisingly well.” She looked around at the dreamy countryside. “This setting is absolutely beautiful.”
“My parents love it here. My mother is in her studio and she said to drop in on her anytime.”
“Don’t tell me. Those beautiful landscape paintings in the guest cottage are hers.”
“That’s right. She also likes to sculpt objects from antiquity. Some of her artwork is for sale at a gallery near your place.”
“Aha! I thought I had seen something like this before. What’s the name of it?”
“Area Galleria Contemporare near the Ponte Vecchio.”
Rose eyed his athletic form, thinking he was way too good looking for her peace of mind. Rose turned away. She had always thought Ben was the love of her life, and suddenly she was here in Tuscany with Lyon, feeling a definite attraction. Lyon was far more worldly than her, but he seemed to enjoy sharing his experience rather than making judgments. She averted her gaze when he jumped out of the pool naked and threw on a towel. He led her to a sunroom off the main house.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“You read my mind.”
“I’ll give you a private tour of the vineyard later. My father has been up since sunrise. He can’t stay away. He loves every minute of the vintner’s life. We also have a tasting room open to private tours on the property.”
“I can’t wait to see everything,” said Rose, pouring an espresso from the pot on the side table, trying to avert her eyes from Lyon’s nakedness. She made small talk. “In the States, hard cider has become a whole phenomenon and people love it, especially the college kids. Same with craft beer.”
He seemed genuinely amused by the way she avoided his gaze.
“I think the cider idea is interesting and something I’d like to learn more about, but—” He looked down at his towel. “Let me do a quick change while you drink your coffee. I’ll be back down in a few minutes to join you for breakfast.”
Rose sipped her espresso and peeked in a large dining room with high ceilings, a mahogany table and stone fireplace. A silver bowl on the table sparkled in the morning light, as did the candlesticks. Lyon returned with his usual easygoing manner, making her feel comfortable in this lavish setting. He took his coffee black and they sat down at an airy table to a breakfast of eggs, crispy bacon and fruit. She cleared her throat.
“I hate to think about last night, but I do wonder how we should go about looking for who broke into my apartment.”
“I’m a step ahead of you. I hired a private investigator this morning to keep tabs on Mr. Klonadis. And your American friend?”
Rose cringed at the thought. “I really don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve known Ben my whole life; he’s not the type to hire criminals to break into my apartment. There’s absolutely no way.”
“In my opinion, there are only two people that know you found the drawings unless Ben has told others. He also attempted to steal them from you.”
“There’s more to the story,” said Rose, feeling suddenly ill. “He’s not like that.”
“I beg to differ. He was the one who brought in the professionals from Christie’s. Perhaps it was a setup the whole time.”
“I just can’t believe it,” said Rose, thinking that perhaps the fates had been telling her lies.
“Well, the good news is that the drawings are in safe hands at the Vatican and they paid you very well for them.”
“This all seems surreal. I’m going to check in with Zoey this afternoon and tell her how I met Beatrice. I’ll say that I found some historical drawings and she is going to let me observe her work to see if I want to pursue conservation of historical paintings, which fascinates me.”
“You can’t tell her about the money or the deal you made. It wouldn’t be prudent.”
“Got it. I won’t say a word.”
Rose pondered her agreement, thinking it was so strange to not tell anyone about her discovery or the impact that it had already made on her life.
“Well, in the meantime, I’d like you to meet my mother and let her show you her studio. I’ll probably duck out early because I have a few appointments in the city. Will you be okay here without me?”
“I’m doing well. I really appreciate your help.” She paused. “What about the investigation?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll inform you whenever I hear something.”
After breakfast, he led her down a flowered pathway to a clearing with a small wooden cottage surrounded by yellow wildflowers and lavender. The blue French door was ajar, so Lyon called for his mother. The vibrant woman who greeted them gave Rose a European welcome with a kiss on each cheek, telling Rose to call her by her first name, Faith. She wore no makeup and had thick, long gray hair that was tied loosely in a ponytail. Thanks to perfect bone structure and luminous coffee-colored skin, she still looked amazingly young and bohemian in linen, wide-legged striped pants and a white shirt. Once Lyon had excused himself, her radiant brown eyes locked on to Rose, who felt an instant connection.
“Rose, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Lyon has told us so many lovely things about your move here. I applaud your adventurous spirit to leave your home and family to live abroad. Your new home in Florence sounds marvelous despite the unfortunate events last night.”
“I can’t thank you enough for having me. It’s been a hectic few days and I appreciate the solitude here in your lovely home. I was admiring your landscapes this morning. They are bellisimo!” Rose laughed. “That’s the extent of my Italian.”
“Come in, my dear, and let me show you my work-space.”
Rose responded instantly to her warm and engaging manner. The studio looked worn and loved with paints everywhere and numerous half-finished canvases on the walls.
“Sometimes I work on
several ideas at once,” she explained. “I never know each day what is going to inspire me.”
“I love that blue painting,” said Rose, going over to take a closer look.
“Ahh!” she said. “I call that one Moon River. Isn’t that an old American song?”
“I think so.”
Something about the studio felt oddly comforting. Rose felt at ease with Faith, who went on to explain how she mixed colors, and they talked about brushstrokes.
“I have no formal training, but I can copy things very well. I just love to paint and draw. It’s good for my soul.”
“Then you are an artist.”
“Oh no,” said Rose. “I wouldn’t go that far. It makes me happy and I guess that’s what I came to Florence to explore.”
“Rose, dear, I’ve lived long enough to know one doesn’t leave their home unless they have a reason to do so.”
Rose stared at Faith’s Moon River, admiring how the blues swirled into gray abstract lines.
“My father died when I was in college and, well, I’ve been lost without him. He was my hero; he was born in Poland, so I feel at home in Europe.”
“And your mother?”
“Doris.” She thought for a minute. “There’s no better way to say it, but my mother, whom I call Doris, is difficult. She wanted to control my life and I wouldn’t let her.”
Faith nodded and peered at her thoughtfully. “That must have been hard on you, to lose your beloved father and have a mother who didn’t provide you with the nurturing that you needed.”
“After my dad died, I felt like there was no one to guide me anymore. Then, I became a teacher to help others, and I realized I needed a break from that too. I needed time away to find myself again.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve made a great decision. You need to know and love yourself first in life. That’s not so easy to do.” She laughed and gave her a hug. “Dear girl, you’ve just given me my inspiration for today’s work. I’m going to paint in pinks and reds and perhaps a bit of yellow. You do know Van Gogh considered yellow the color of love.”
“I knew that.”
Rose liked Faith’s easygoing manner. She could have stayed in her studio all day, but she didn’t want to overextend her welcome too much. Reluctantly, she made her way back to the guest cottage to call Zoey. A familiar voice was exactly what she needed.
“Rose! How are you? You have no idea how much I miss you!”
“I miss you too, but the renovations and traveling have kept me crazy busy.”
“And Ben!”
Rose gulped. “Yes, Ben. I can’t believe he came over and surprised me!”
“I ran into Doris, who was gushing about his visit. She thinks he’s very serious about you.”
“Really?” said Rose.
“Uh, you don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
“Oh no, um, I am.”
“Come on, girl. Something’s going on.”
“I’m in Tuscany right now with Lyon and his parents.”
Zoey screamed. “I knew it! I saw the way he looked at you. You’re one lucky girl.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m not sure about anything right now.”
“Well, you better get clarity soon because your mother made it sound like Ben was ready to propose.”
“Huh? It’s too soon.” Rose scratched her head. “That makes no sense. And it sounds like Doris is letting her fantasies get the better of her.”
“I don’t know, girl, but you’ve got a lot to figure out.”
“I sure do. Now tell me about Stan and your new promotion. I hope you got my card congratulating you on your success. You’ll do a fantastic job, better than I could have ever done.”
“Thanks! You know you’d be great at it too. I miss you and it’s only been a few weeks.”
“Me too,” said Rose, who missed Zoey more than she was willing to admit.
After she hung up, Rose’s thoughts drifted to Ben. Why would he act like he wanted to propose? She assumed he hated her for switching the drawings. Perhaps time would reveal his true intentions, but could she ever trust him again? There was no way of knowing what was on his mind, and she wondered why she still cared so much about what he thought.
Meanwhile, there was something special about Lyon, who was so supportive and easy to be around. She really liked his positive attitude, and it was all effortless, even with the drama surrounding the drawings she found. Sighing heavily, Rose hoped that she would gain some clarity before long. In the meantime, she pictured the clasped hands in the drawing and her dream.
Taking out her sketchpad, she spent the next few hours drawing the intertwined hands from memory and placing them in various relationships—mother and child, father and son. And she changed the colors of the hands to represent different nationalities and cultures.
The idea sparked her creative energy, and she lost all track of time. When Lyon appeared at her cottage door, she was on her hands and knees on the floor sketching rapidly as an idea began to take shape.
“Hi,” he said sweetly. “You’ve been busy!” He walked over and they kissed as if they always did so at the end of the day.
“I absolutely loved talking to your mother this morning. She insists that I call her Faith. I came back here and thought about the intertwined hands in the drawing. I decided that I could play off the beautiful message in my own work.” She looked up, rubbing the back of her neck. “What do you think?”
“I think they look terrific. You are very talented, Rose.”
“I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I’ve been entertained for hours,” she joked, standing.
“You’re definitely onto something.”
“I absolutely love to create.”
“Hmm, you might be having dinner with someone who shares your passion. How about a swim and we’ll visit with my parents?”
“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“Works for me.” He gave her an indulgent grin. “I’m sure my mother has extras in the pool house. No worries.”
***
The cool evening water felt sublime on her skin as she stared up at the cloudless sky. She knew she should ask Lyon if there was any news on the intruder but shied away from doing so, not wanting to jump back into the drama quite yet. They lingered in the pool until Rose’s skin started to shrivel. She got out and went back to the cottage to shower and get ready to meet Lyon’s father.
A tall, energetic man walked into the sunroom and immediately embraced her. Rose was caught off guard by his vibrant figure and thought Joseph looked like an older version of Lyon—handsome and charismatic with a firm handshake. Something about him reminded her of her father, too. Maybe it was his European background or his energetic presence. Nevertheless, she felt completely at ease. He had just come from the tasting room and he was excited about a new Chianti that they were about to bring to market.
“Everyone must come and try it.”
Faith heartily agreed, and they drove a tired-looking black sedan to a modern stone building on their property. Joseph told the story of how they had found out about the property ten years ago and had immediately fallen in love with Tuscany and the life here.
“It’s warm and the colors are so beautiful. Nothing like it in the world,” said Faith, who wore a gray linen tunic and white pants. Her hair was up in a messy bun.
“This is the part where he tells you about how if the wine has soul, you can taste it in a tenth of a second,” explained Lyon as Joseph pointed out the stone bench he had installed for Faith to watch the sunset after a day in the studio or on the tennis courts where Lyon’s sister, Katherine, loved to play and always tried to beat him. He shared how Lyon’s brother, Peter, was part of the family’s wine business.
“So, your siblings are named after famous Russian czars. What happened to you?” she j
oked.
“Smart mother. No pressure,” he shot back confidently.
“He’s always been quick,” said Faith. “Even as a little boy. It was always a challenge keeping up with him. He’s endlessly curious about everything . . . You are correct. Joseph taught a Russian literature class at Cambridge for a few years when we were young.” She winked at her husband. “By the way, Lyon designed this building and the new architecture that went along with this place.”
“So, you’re a realtor with a degree in architecture,” Rose said dryly.
“Mostly self-taught.”
The reference to architecture reminded Rose of Thomas Jefferson, who was also a self-taught architect and the foundation of Ben’s book. She quickly banished the thought from her mind, focusing instead on the interior of the wine-tasting room. The place was exquisite with mahogany wood beams on the ceiling, a wide stone counter for tastings and a mosaic-tile W in the center of the room.
“Very impressive,” said Rose as she surveyed the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Love the incredible Palladian windows.”
“You know, the original concept was from Venetian architect Andrea Palladio in the 16th century, but of course many of his ideas came from ancient Greece and Rome,” Lyon said.
“Thomas Jefferson used many of Palladio’s concepts to build Monticello in Charlottesville, Virginia.”
“Maybe you’ll take me there sometime to see it.”
“Sure,” said Rose automatically, trying to picture Lyon in her world.
“Come, everyone,” said Joseph, eagerly ushering the group to the counter where he had arranged for them to taste several red wines. “We are going to see which one is the favorite, and then I will know for sure that my newest Chianti is as good as I think it is.”
It was a little overwhelming to think about sampling four different red wines and picking out which one was the most flavorful. Joseph was beyond enthusiastic about wine tasting, explaining how one needed to use all the senses to understand good wine.
“You must get a sense of the depth of color first,” he said, holding his glass up to the light. “It’s a lighter shade, which tells you what kind of grape it could be.” He noted that the first glass they were tasting was clear and brilliant, which was a good sign. “I’ll tell you right off that this is a pinot noir.”
Sunrise in Florence Page 14