Sunrise in Florence

by Kathleen Reid

  “That sounds interesting, but I’ve just moved abroad a short time ago and I’ve been dealing with a broken engagement. It’s all been overwhelming. I haven’t had time to adjust to life in Italy yet, so moving again to Africa just doesn’t seem wise. I’m so sorry!”

  “I understand and I respect your decision,” he said. “What is it you would like to do in Florence?”

  “I really want to learn and grow as an artist. I’m not sure how much talent I have, but I do want to explore it.”

  “Aha!” he said. “I know just the person to help you. His name is Antonio Romano and he’s an excellent teacher, and a personal friend.”

  “Antonio Romano! I met him and his wife at a workshop two years ago when I was last in Florence. I tried to find them when I first arrived back here, but they moved, so I hit a dead end, so to speak.”

  “I can definitely be of assistance.” The cardinal smiled. “Antonio is a dear friend.”

  For the first time in weeks, Rose felt a sense of lightness in her being. “Oh! Seeing Antonio and his wife would be fantastic.” Rose beamed. “Yes, I would really appreciate any help you could give me.”

  “It would be my pleasure. I will write my letter of introduction and have you deliver it to Antonio yourself. The old-fashioned way is best in this situation, eh?”

  “Thank you, Cardinal. Your introduction would be a dream come true for me!”

  “Very good then,” he said kindly. “As I said when we first met, God has a plan for all of us.”

  He clasped both of her hands in his, and Rose felt renewed. She walked back to the laboratory, eager to share the news with Beatrice, who wholeheartedly approved of the idea.

  “I can’t think of anything more perfect for you right now. What an enriching life experience!”

  “I’m kind of nervous. It would be such a privilege to work with them, and I hope I can do it.”

  “You must try!”

  “Well, I certainly have plenty of free time.”

  “What about Lyon? You should get in touch with him when you get back to Florence. He was such a great guy.”

  “Oh, Beatrice, I can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think he ever wants to see me again!”

  Rose explained how Lyon had come over to her apartment minutes after Ben proposed and her mom and stepfather arrived. He had been really angry and surprised by the news.

  “Tell him the truth. That you picked the wrong guy. You have nothing to lose!”

  “How am I supposed to communicate with him? He told me never to contact him again.”

  “You’ll find a way. I’ve got a hunch that your paths will cross.”

  “Okay, enough about my personal life. Let’s talk about Michelangelo! What do you think the cardinal will do if you confirm the theory that he did father a son named Lorenzo who may have contributed in some way to the Sistine Chapel?”

  “Rose, have you not considered that maybe it was the supposed Lorenzo’s idea to have Adam and God’s hands touching, and not Michelangelo’s?”

  Rose gulped. “That couldn’t be!”

  “Why not?” Beatrice raised one eyebrow. “It’s certainly a consideration that the Vatican will have to take into account.”

  “It would cause a firestorm of media!”

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh, and I couldn’t bear to have anything distract from that image. Michelangelo can do no wrong!”

  “Right again.”

  It was hard to say goodbye to Beatrice and get on the train back to Florence. Rose felt scared and alone. She also dreaded the moment that her mother found out that she and Ben were not getting married. It was sure to be an ugly confrontation. But her father always taught her to “take the hard right over the easy wrong.” It was a belief that was embedded in her character.

  With a deep breath, Rose touched the cardinal’s letter in her tote bag, feeling really excited to connect with Antonio and, hopefully, have an opportunity to study under him.

  ***

  The tax receipt for the ring sale appeared in her inbox, and Rose felt a sense of finality with Ben. And then the dreaded call came from Doris.

  “You’re a fool,” Doris hissed into the phone. Gone was any attempt at being maternal. “Don’t you realize that this affects my life too?”

  Rose swallowed hard. “Doris, I can see why you’re upset, but Ben and I aren’t meant for each other. I’m sorry for any awkwardness this may cause you.”

  “It must have been something you did,” Doris barked.

  “You’re right. It was all me.”

  “He was a catch. I just knew you couldn’t keep him.”

  Rose looked at the phone in disgust. Was this woman really her mother? Maybe she was switched at birth into this life with this mean-spirited woman who taught her how not to behave. I made the right decision to move abroad. “Ciao, Mother,” she said, readily hanging up the phone.

  It was liberating to package up Ben’s computer and get it out of her apartment. As soon as she left it at the FedEx office around the corner, Rose used her Google maps to find the Romanos’ studio at the address the cardinal provided. It was nestled on a side street hidden from any tourist traffic. There wasn’t an actual sign on the window, just several Renaissance-looking canvases propped up on dark wooden tripods.

  The vaguely familiar scent of lavender layered with linseed oil ignited her excitement at being back in the presence of this couple. A dark-haired young man with glasses greeted her, and Rose explained that she was interested in seeing the Romanos, and asked if a schedule of classes was available. The young man graciously agreed to show her around while she waited for Antonio.

  The dark wood ceiling beams, white walls and the colorful front hall rug gave the space a cheerful vibe. Antonio appeared moments later, a short man with a shock of thick gray hair. They talked for a few minutes with Rose trying to explain that she had met him two years ago. The young man named Francesco who had greeted her helped interpret Rose’s introduction and explain what she wanted. Antonio seemed disinterested, pointing to a schedule of classes and mumbling something to Francesco in Italian.

  “He says there is a substantial waiting list; some people wait years to get a spot,” explained Francesco apologetically.

  Rose pulled out the cardinal’s letter of introduction, and upon seeing the seal, Antonio looked at her thoughtfully. He read the note, nodded and said in English, “Be here tomorrow morning at nine. You can fill out the necessary paperwork and give us the payment then.”

  “Thank you,” Rose exclaimed. “I’ll be here on time and ready to work.”

  Rose was so excited about the news that she found herself walking toward Lyon’s office, rehearsing what she would say to him. I agreed to marry Ben because we grew up together and he’s from my world. But you, on the other hand, were always so kind, free spirited and fun that our connection scared me. I adore your parents, and, well, will you please give me a second chance? Please. I know I blew it.

  She marched inside and decided she had nothing to lose by facing him and asking for forgiveness and another chance. Her heart pounded in her chest at the thought of seeing him again. But, as it turned out, Lyon was away on business and would be back in a couple of weeks. Rose sighed heavily, wondering if she should send him a text, but that didn’t feel right. She would wait for him to return, and hopefully they could talk then.

  ***

  Sleep proved elusive that night as Rose questioned her sanity in signing up to take classes with one of the leading artists in Florence. Who did she think she was? The Doris in her head echoed a litany of negative thoughts. I’m not good enough. I’m a complete fraud. I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life not forgiving Ben and getting married. And the one that ate away at her soul: I just knew you couldn’t keep him. Another “Doris Special” comment
that stung.

  Rose was so nervous the following morning that her hands shook as she put her things into a backpack; she added her trusty sketchpad, water, a power bar and a few of her brushes, reflecting on how the tables had turned and she was the student and no longer in charge. She pushed her fears aside as she checked her reflection in the mirror, added a little makeup for confidence, and made her way to the studio.

  There were five other students; two of them looked young, probably college age, and then there was an older gentleman and two other women closer to her age. Much to her surprise, in the center of the room was a striking, dark-haired model dressed in a flowing, voluminous red gown that looked like red paint cascading in a line from her body. It would be thrilling to capture the sensation of movement in the gown’s design. Francesco, the assistant, pointed Rose to a chair with a canvas and easel.

  Rose hadn’t taken formal classes since college, so she felt very awkward. The moment Antonio walked in the room, everyone began speaking torrents of Italian. Rose could understand very little of the conversation, the jokes, or pretty much everything for that matter.

  Her cheeks burned and a slow roll of anxiety crept up her spine until a tingling sensation filled her hands and feet. This was supposed to be her moment, the instant that her dream became a reality, and she hadn’t even thought of the language barrier.

  Antonio began explaining the project, pointing and gesturing, and she hadn’t a clue what he was telling them to do. Rose was frozen in her chair. Her eyes welled up with tears and she brushed them away.

  “Are you alright? Could I get you a glass of water?” whispered Francesco as he leaned over to help.

  “I don’t know what to do. He’s speaking too quickly.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said with compassion. “I can help you. Try to draw the model using the charcoal first, paying particular attention to the layers of the gown.”

  Picking up her charcoal, she began studying the lines of the woman’s dress, paying attention to the folds and patterns under the arms. As she observed the subject, instinct took over and she sketched the arm and the right hand.

  As she sketched, Rose remembered a spring banquet at Bellfield. She and Zoey had led the girls in a celebrity-themed project, making over fifteen life-size figures. They had instructed each girl to pick someone she admired, and they began the process of tracing or drawing a six-foot figure for the stage. Rose’s selection of Lady Diana surprised everyone, but she had always admired her. Her hands moved easily over the paper, and she completed the likeness quickly, then adding a jeweled crown on her head.

  “I can’t believe you just drew that, Miss Maning,” exclaimed one student. “That’s amazing! That looks professional.”

  The memory helped her relax, giving Rose the boost of confidence she needed to continue working on the drawing. As she studied the model, she lost herself in how to place the image on her canvas.

  Just as she was sketching a fold in the gown, Antonio came over and began fussing at her in Italian. Francesco translated. “Slow down and pay attention to the details. The lines in her hands, the contour of her ear.” Antonio spoke in a rush. “He says that you need to change the way you are looking at the subject and focus less on filling the blank canvas. Quality over quantity, to coin an American phrase.”

  Rose nodded, thinking that it was going to be a long day. Several hours later, she looked up to see some fellow students standing and some seated. The room was very quiet as Antonio walked around and evaluated their work. He came to stand beside her and studied the drawing.

  Maybe it wasn’t so bad that she didn’t understand all of Antonio’s critiques. She could make out the words “promise” and “good beginning,” which lodged in her mind. It occurred to her that she might need to hire a translator and study conversational Italian.

  And that is precisely what she did for the next few weeks. Rose signed up for Italian lessons at night and hired a translator to help her in the studio. Her days were long and hard, but she was challenged in a way that she had never been before, which was oddly satisfying. Rose’s sole purpose was to create and become fluent in Italian. Her main contact in the States remained Zoey, who emailed her regularly with updates about the school and local gossip.

  ***

  Fall arrived in a cacophony of color, and the days gradually became crisper. Rose’s life took on a familiar routine as she devoted every minute of her time to her craft. She started her days with a cup of coffee and muffin on the balcony as she watched the sun rise over the city. As she walked to the studio on a beautiful October morning, she ran into Francesco, who greeted her warmly.

  “Ciao,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. “Antonio has a surprise for everyone today!”

  “Oh, don’t tell me. He’s going to say something positive about my work?” she joked. “I’m not sure I can take much more constructive criticism.”

  “You’re very talented and a good student,” said Francesco. “No one in that studio puts in the hours that you do. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I used to tell my students something like that. Now I realize how ridiculous it sounds.”

  “Hopefully you don’t plan to spend another weekend in the studio. I’ve got a group going out tonight. Why don’t you join us?” He looked at her. “Come on, you need to get out.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She smiled. “So, what does Antonio have in store for us? Maybe he’ll let us use some colored paint.”

  Rose walked in the studio, dropped her backpack and looked up to see Lyon’s mother, Faith, leaning over a canvas. She was surprised, delighted and scared all at once.

  “Darling Rose,” said Faith, who appeared equally taken aback by the meeting. She walked over to embrace her, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Faith, how are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the guest artist today. Antonio wanted his students to take a break from all the detailed drawing and have a contemporary lesson for fun. How do you say—shake things up a little.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  Faith looked at Rose’s ring finger, apologized, then offered, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but Lyon said that you were getting married to someone in the States.”

  “Um, not anymore,” said Rose. “It was the shortest engagement on record.” They laughed awkwardly. “The only things I’m committed to right now are my artwork and my Italian.”

  “I see. Wise choice. You have a lot of talent.”

  Rose was dying to ask about Lyon, but Antonio walked in the room along with three other students who were eager to get started. Stepping to the front of the room, Faith introduced herself to the class, giving a lovely introduction on where she gained her inspiration and how and when she loved to paint contemporary landscapes. For Rose, she spoke a bit slower, and Rose considered it a moment of personal growth that she was able to understand most of what Faith said.

  The day, like her brushstrokes, flowed easily, and Rose found Faith’s instruction a breeze compared to what she had been doing in class these last few months. Painting bright colors really appealed to her artistic sensibility. It was definitely something to consider. She suddenly recalled the series of drawings that she began at Faith’s guest house that Lyon had really enjoyed. They were rolled up somewhere in her apartment, and Rose was determined to find them.

  At the end of class, Rose took a moment to thank Faith for a wonderful experience. She was a bit surprised when Faith asked, “How about we have a drink together? I’m staying tonight in the city.”

  “Oh, that would be lovely. When and where?”

  Francesco looked askance at her, and Rose felt horribly guilty that she had all but ignored his overtures of friendship these past few months.

  “There’s a little place around the corner called Le Vespe wh
ere we can grab a bite to eat. It’s very casual. I’m going to freshen up and you can meet me there in say an hour.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Very good then. I’ll see you in a bit. Ciao.”

  ***

  With a spring in her step, Rose raced home to get ready. She felt as if she were stepping out of a bubble of her own making. While she had always admired Michelangelo’s undeniable work ethic, sacrificing everything including his own personal hygiene for his craft, Rose wasn’t convinced that she was meant to be any kind of renowned artist. The hot shower felt heavenly, as did discarding her paint-stained, smelly art student uniform that she had adopted.

  From the inner dregs of her closet, she dug out a simple black dress and paired it with some black booties. Her hair was another matter entirely. It had grown long and unkempt, so Rose plowed a brush through her tangled mane, determined not to wear it in her usual braid. Looking in the mirror, Rose was pleased with her efforts to look presentable. Not to mention her secret hope that Faith could tell her how Lyon was doing. She willed herself not to get her hopes up because Faith might not be so forthcoming on his whereabouts.

  The restaurant was bustling with the Friday crowd at the bar, and Rose spied Faith cheerfully waving to her from a corner booth.

  “What a great class today!” Rose said, taking a seat across from her. “I’m glad Antonio gave us a break today to do something different. It was fun to paint with color and not focus on the drawing all day long.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed the class. We have so much to talk about!” exclaimed Faith.

  Moments later, the waiter served a carafe of Chianti along with some assorted cheeses and bread. Each tried the cheeses, sampling the goat with herbs and brie. Rose asked about the figs in the dish. Faith looked her in the eye and said, “Shall we get the elephant out of the room, so to speak?”