The Last Promise

by Richard Paul Evans

  Eliana remembered and grimaced slightly. “I remember him. He was the guy with fake hair, too much cologne and wandering hands.”

  “And too much money, I might add. Well, he’s newly single. And he noticed more than your art.”

  Eliana grinned incredulously. “Marsha . . .”

  “Don’t kill the messenger, Ellen. Besides, this is a good thing. You can get a lot of work out of it.”

  Just then the waiter walked up and refilled Eliana’s glass with ice water from a carafe. “Is everything okay, ladies?”

  Marsha pointed to her bread plate. “What are these?”

  He looked at the black pile of olives. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You didn’t want olives, did you? I’ll get you another salad.”

  “Don’t bother, I’ve already picked them all out.”

  The waiter held his hands out in surrender. “I’m sorry. Dessert’s on me.”

  Eliana smiled sympathetically. “Mine’s great, thank you.”

  The waiter smiled back at her as he took the bread plate and walked away.

  “These waiters are all ski bums. This one’s hit a few too many moguls, if you ask me.” She turned back. “Give Boyd a call, Ellen. He thinks you’re gorgeous. And he’s right, you know. If I had your figure, girl . . .”

  Eliana looked at the card but made no move toward it. “I don’t know.”

  “Listen, girl, divorce happens. I’ve had three myself. It’s not the end of the world. It’s time you got back on the field and put some points on the board.”

  “Points, huh?” Eliana glanced down at her watch. “I better get back over to the gallery.”

  “Oh, go on. I’ll get the check. I’m still going to have coffee. And I’ve got a dessert coming. I hope this guy doesn’t expect a big tip.”

  Eliana lifted the napkin from her lap and stood. “I appreciate you watching out for me, Marsha. I’m just not ready. I’ll come around someday.”

  Marsha’s cell phone rang over the last of her words. “Just a minute,” Marsha said. She dug through her handbag and pressed the receive button as she lifted her Nokia to her ear. “Hello. Oh, hi, Boyd. We were just talking about you. Ellen and I. Well, I’ll let you ask her.”

  Eliana shook her head emphatically.

  “No, you’ll have to wait, Boyd—she was just running off to the ladies’ room. Listen, hold on just a moment, my waiter’s here. No, don’t go, I need to talk to you. You can wait, honey, I’ll only be a second.”

  She looked up at Eliana, shaking her head. “Someday doesn’t always come, sweetie. I’ll see you before I go. I’m coming up to the gallery to talk with Carolyn about your next show.”

  “Ci vediamo,” Eliana said.

  “Whatever that means. Ciao.”

  Marsha lifted her cell phone. “I’m here, honey, talk to me.”

  Eliana slung her purse over her shoulder and walked to the curb. She waited for a passing car then crossed the street and walked the two blocks north to the gallery. The gallery was housed in a restored mining shack, narrow, rising three stories above the street. Its wood-paneled exterior was painted rust with orange-yellow trimming. A carved wooden sign that read “The Linton Gallery” hung from chains over its etched front door, blending in with the old town motif. The interior was crowded with art, Western bronzes and antiques, the rooms lit by rows of slim, black track lighting. Carolyn, the gallery’s owner, was seated on a leather couch in the foyer as Eliana entered.

  “Well, Ellen, you better get on back to your studio and start painting. You’re sold out.”

  “Everything sold?”

  “Everything and then some. This place was a zoo a half hour ago. There were a couple gentlemen who purchased the last two of your paintings and were very interested in buying one of the portraits you brought in to exhibit.”

  “Which portrait is it?”

  “The one of the man holding the book.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Oh, I told them. But between us, I think you should reconsider. You could always just paint another one, couldn’t you?”

  “Not of this one.” Her brow furrowed. “You didn’t promise them anything?”

  “No, of course not. But they were pretty insistent. They wanted to speak with you personally.”

  “They’re still here?”

  “One of them is. The other had to leave. I told them I expected you back any minute, so I think he went back to covet the portrait some more. It would be good for you to personally thank him anyway.”

  “All right.”

  Eliana walked to the back room. There was only one person there, a man, a little older than she. He was balding and broad-shouldered, and wearing a tweed jacket, Calvin Klein jeans and snakeskin boots. He stood looking at the portrait with his hands in his pockets. His back was to the door she entered from.

  “Hello, I’m Ellen.”

  The man turned and smiled broadly. He offered his hand. “You’re the artist. I’m Stan. It’s a pleasure.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “What a gift you have. You really have some beautiful pictures here. My partner and I bought a couple of them already. We would like to purchase this one as well, but the woman up front said it’s not for sale.”

  “Thank you, but no, it’s not.”

  “It’s a shame. If it’s about money, we’re willing to talk.”

  “No. I’m sorry.” She looked at him more closely.

  There was something familiar about him. “Have we met before?”

  “No. This is my first time in Utah. Besides, a pretty lady like you I definitely would remember.” He looked back at the painting. “Do you mind me asking what’s so special about this painting?”

  “It’s just personal.”

  He nodded again, then looked back at her. “Isn’t all art personal?”

  “Vero, I mean true. It’s a portrait of a friend of mine.” She paused. “It’s all I have left of him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He passed on?”

  “No. He’s just gone.”

  He took a step toward the painting. He gazed at it silently then spoke without turning back. “I think the real reason you won’t sell this painting is because it’s not really yours.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He turned back to her, pointing at the picture. “It belongs to him. You gave it to him.”

  For a moment she was dumbstruck. “How did you know that?”

  His smile widened and he turned and faced her head on. “Because, Eliana, he told me. He’s my brother.”

  “Your brother . . .”

  “Ross is my brother.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Well, he said he couldn’t come to you on account of a promise you made him make. The truth is I think he was just plain chicken—so he sent me to get you. But I guess he changed his mind.” He looked up over her shoulder.

  Eliana spun around. Ross stood behind her in the doorway. He looked at her, his face a mixture of anticipation and joy. “Ciao, bella.”

  “Ross!” She ran to him and threw her arms around him. They kissed. After a few minutes she pulled back to look at his face as tears streamed down her cheeks. “But you said there was nothing in America for you.”

  “That was true when I said it,” he said, smiling. He gently pushed her hair back from her face. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. As soon as I found out you had left Italy, I came.”

  He looked over at his brother, who was getting teary-eyed at the reunion. “Let me introduce you. Eliana, this is my—sentimental—big brother Stan.”

  Eliana looked at him.

  “Forgive me for having a little fun with you, but you’re all Ross has talked about for the last three months. I thought I deserved a little payback.”

  “Thank you for looking out for Ross.”

  “Actually it’s the other way around. But I’m glad you’re back together.”

  She turned back to Ross; her
voice softened. “But the promise . . .”

  Ross nodded. “The promise.” He looked into Eliana’s eyes and said, “Five years ago a woman asked me to leave her and I did. I’ve regretted it every day since then. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Besides you can’t very well promise not to love somebody.”

  “But you said love didn’t give second chances.”

  He thought about it and smiled. “Yeah, but what do I know about love? You said to have faith just one more time. You were right.”

  “Just hold me.” Ross pulled her back into himself and she was happier than she believed possible. “Promise me you’ll never leave me again.”

  Ross pulled her still tighter, pressing his wet cheek against hers, then whispered in her ear, “All right. But it’s my last promise.”

  Eliana sat back in her chair as if punctuating the story’s completion.

  “Just another girl’s story,” she said.

  “And living happily ever after?” I asked.

  Her smile answered me. “He really is sweet. I don’t know if you ever write from real experiences, but if you want it, it’s yours.”

  I thought about her offer. “Why would you want to share your story with the whole world?”

  She considered my question for a moment then replied softly, “There were days when I could have used such a story. Maybe there’s another woman out there, another Eliana, trapped and wondering if life has forgotten her. Afraid to love. Afraid to hope. Afraid of hope. If I knew where she was, I would put my arms around her and hold her and tell her that it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to scream. It’s even okay to pound the walls. But it’s never okay to lose hope.” She looked up at me. “But I don’t know where she is. Maybe your book will find her.”

  “Forse,” I said. Perhaps.

  I looked out at the children playing in the pool. “Is Alessio here?”

  “No, he’s with Anna. We bring him at least once a year to see his father and all his relatives.”

  “Do you see much of Maurizio?”

  “Actually we saw him yesterday. And we talk on the phone from time to time. I keep him updated on Alessio. He’s still usually on the road, though he does try to get back if he knows we’re coming. He’s changed. It’s funny how things go. He has more interest in Alessio now than he did before. And he’s very kind to me. Anyway, he has a new girlfriend. He’ll probably marry her in a couple of years.”

  “Thank you for sharing your story.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I sat back in my chair and thought. She had given me much to think about and my mind wrapped around her story like a sculptor’s hands around clay. It was about a half hour later when a man entered the pool area. He was about my height, slim, yet muscularly built, with dark, short hair. He was barefoot, wore an open shirt and swim trunks. From Eliana’s expression I immediately knew who it was. She waved to him. “Amore.”

  Ross smiled as he walked toward us. “Ciao, bella,” he said. When he was near her, he leaned over and kissed her.

  “Amore, this is Richard.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were piercing, yet kind. “Piacere.”

  He extended his hand to shake. As I took it, I noticed the scar on his wrist. I suppose I was looking for it.

  “It’s a pleasure,” I said.

  “Americano?”

  “Sì.”

  “Not getting too friendly with my girl?”

  “No, just keeping my eye on her for you.”

  “You and the rest of the men in here.” He sat down on the side of Eliana’s chair and put his arms around her waist, brushed her hair to one side and nuzzled her, kissing her neck. She laughed but didn’t stop him. “Richard’s a writer. I’ve been telling him our story.”

  He looked up at me. “The best part is that it’s just beginning.” He leaned over and kissed her once more, this time on the lips. “Are you about ready for lunch?”

  “Yes, darling. I just need to gather my things.”

  “Allow me,” Ross said.

  “He’s such a pushover,” she said to me. “Un momento, honey.” She found a pen and quickly scribbled something on a cocktail napkin, then handed it to me. “That’s our telephone number. If you need help getting around Florence, just call. I know all the English-speaking doctors and dentists in the city. I even know where you can buy bagels. We’ll be in Toscana until late August.”

  “Grazee.”

  She grinned at my pronunciation. “And I know some good Italian language schools.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Maybe we could all go out for dinner sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “I’d like my wife to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” She stood, holding hands with Ross. “Give us a call. Ciao.”

  “Ciao, Eliana.”

  Ross saluted me. “Arrivederci, Richard.”

  “Take care,” I said.

  Then they left, his arm around her waist, she leaning into him, the two of them flirting like honeymooners. It was obvious that he adored her, and nothing could have made me happier. Just another girl’s story. I smiled. Then I laughed. Then I gathered my things and went home to write.

  Visit Richard Paul Evans’s Web site for a tour of The Last Promise online.

  See pictures of Villa Rendola, Piazzale Michelangelo, the Arno, the villa’s garden and more. There are also Italian recipes from the book, including Eliana’s grape pie and spaghetti carbonara.

  You can also join Richard Paul Evans’s e-mail list for free reading group discussion guides, book updates, inspirational thoughts and special offers.

  Visit the author’s Web site now at: www.richardpaulevans.com

  Please send correspondence to Richard Paul Evans at: PO Box 1416 Salt Lake City, UT 84110

  One of the world’s most beloved authors returns with the story of a man who found everything he thought he was missing in the love he already had.

  Robert Harlan has three loves in his life: his wife, Allyson; his daughter, Carson; and his writing. As a sales rep for a small radio station, he has hopes of one day leaving it all behind for a successful writing career. When he is unexpectedly laid off from his job, Allyson encourages him to pursue his dream of writing. He writes a novel titled A Perfect Day based on the last few months Allyson and her father spent together as he died of cancer.

  The story becomes a huge success and Robert finds himself swept into a new world far from his wife and home. In time Robert loses track of the things he loves most . . . until he meets a stranger who begins telling him intimate details about his past, his present, and most important, the brevity of his future. Thinking that he has just months to live, Robert begins to discover the truth about himself: who he has become, what he has lost, and what it will take for him to find love again.

  Available now from Signet

  It’s Christmas night.

  Outside my hotel window the world is snow. All is still and white or on the way to becoming so. Only the streetlamps show sign of life, changing colors above barren streets that look more like tundra than asphalt. Even the rumbling, yellow snowplows that wake me from my thoughts cannot keep up with the storm.

  This snowstorm seems as relentless as any I’ve seen in Salt Lake City. Salt Lakers are particularly proud of their blizzards, and every native has a story of winter—stories that usually begin, You call this a storm? and grow in the telling like battle tales shared by graying war veterans. It’s a peculiar character flaw to those of us from cold climates that we feel superior to those who have the sense to live elsewhere.

  I remember a Christmas night, when I was a boy, that there was a great blizzard. My father was always through with Christmas weeks before it arrived, and by Christmas night he had already undressed our tree and dragged it out to the curb for the municipal pickup. A storm came that same night, chased by the plows, and the next morning the tree was buried beneath a five-foot snowbank. We forgot about the tree until April, when a thaw
revealed an evergreen branch poking free from the melting snow. It was the same Christmas that my mother left us.

  Tonight, from my seventh-story window, I see a man in a parka and a bellman’s cap shoveling the walk in front of the hotel’s entrance. The snow returns nearly as fast as he clears it. Salt Lake’s own Sisyphus.

  It’s a night to be home. A night to be gathered with loved ones around brick hearths and hot drinks warming the day’s memory. It is a night to bathe in the pleasant aftermath of the season’s joy. So why am I alone in a hotel when my wife, Allyson, and my daughter, Carson, are just minutes away?

  I see a car below. It moves slowly up Main Street, its headlights cutting through the darkness. The car slides helplessly from side to side, its wipers blurring, its wheels spinning, correcting, grasping, connecting, then slipping again. I imagine the driver of that car; blinded, afraid to stop, just as fearful to proceed. I empathize. Behind the wheel of my life I feel like that driver.

  I couldn’t tell you my first wrong step. I’m not sure that I could tell you what I’d do differently. My mind is a queue of questions. Most of them are about the stranger. Why did the stranger come to me? Why did he speak of hope when my future, or what’s left of it, looks as barren as the winter landscape? Some might think that my story began with the stranger. But in truth it began long before I met him, back on a balmy June day eight years ago when Allyson, not yet my wife, went home to Oregon to see her father. This is strangely ironic to me, because it all began on a perfect day. And here it ends on the worst of days.

  I should say begins to end. Because if the stranger is right—and I’ve learned that he’s always right—I have just six more days to live. Six days that I will live out alone, not because I want to, but because it’s the right thing to do. Perhaps my loneliness is my penance. I hope God will see it that way, because there is not enough time to heal two hearts. There is not enough time to make right one broken promise. There is only time to remember what once was and should still be.