by Karina Halle
“I will,” she says. “Ciao, ciao.”
“Ciao, ciao.”
Grace and I walk off toward the bustling plaza around the church, Chiesa di San Michele in Foro, one of the top sights in Lucca. Away from the shadows of the buildings, heat shimmers off the white tiles and perspiration tickles the back of my neck.
“You never told her you wrote under Robyn Grace,” I mention. “I take it that Grace Harper, your name, will be your pen name for your upcoming book?”
She nods, looking guilty. “Yes. I know the book isn’t out yet but … I didn’t … I wanted…”
“You wanted to be known by your future, not your past?”
“Something like that.” She glances at me. “What’s a gallery night?”
“Oh, sometimes I have these invite-only parties at the gallery. After hours. Sometimes to showcase new work, sometimes to have an excuse to drink around friends. I’m a hermit too, as you say, but it’s good for me to be social.”
She nods at that and then stops in her tracks once she realizes we’re walking toward the church. “Wow,” she whispers as she stares up at the white monolith that was built in the 1100s.
I’m so used to the church that I pay it no mind. “You know, you’re invited to the gallery night as well,” I tell her. “I’d be terribly hurt if you didn’t come with me. Of course, you’ll be with me at the concert the night before, so it depends whether you’re sick of me or not.”
Please don’t be sick of me.
It takes her a moment to tear her eyes away from the massive building. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she says feebly.
I almost laugh. “You? You pull out a new dress every day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but I am sure you have something. I won’t take no, Grace. You’re coming with me.”
She just nods and then slips me a quick glance. “Marika is very beautiful. How do you know her?”
“She is my ex-girlfriend,” I say matter-of-factly.
Her eyes go wide, lips pulling together to make an “O.”
“A couple years ago,” I go on. “She’s engaged now, as you saw.”
She mulls that over for a few moments. “You would have made a great couple. Both of you are so … you know…” She gives me the once-over and gestures with her hands.
I grin. “Grace. Are you trying to say I’m good looking?”
“Only if it doesn’t go to your head.”
“Too late.”
“So what happened?”
“Between us? It was nothing dramatic. Actually, we were pretty good together. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Why not?”
She seems awfully interested in my ex. Hopefully I won’t read too much into that.
“Because of Vanni, actually.”
She jerks her head back. “Really?”
I nod. “He didn’t like her. I never could figure out why, but he didn’t like her and he didn’t like me dating her. So I ended it.”
Grace continues to stare at me, processing that.
I go on. “Look, obviously I wasn’t head over heels in love with her if I gave her up that easily. If I was, I would have fought for her. But in the end, my son mattered more and I had a choice to make, and I chose to make him happy.”
“But you were happy with her…”
I shrug. “It’s the way things are sometimes.”
“Is he like that with all the women you date?”
I wipe the sweat off my brow. I can’t tell if the sun is getting hotter or if the questions are getting more intense. “To be honest with you, I don’t really date.”
Her mouth twists in surprise. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Is it?” I ask. “You’ve seen the way I live. Where would I find the time? Come on, let’s go to the gallery before it gets any hotter.”
We go toward the gallery which is around the corner from the church, and thankfully back in the cooler shade of the buildings.
The sign outside says Romano Gallery, and I push open the door.
There are a few tourists inside, looking at some of my sculptures and my father’s paintings (the gallery only carries our art), and I head over to the register where my employee, Carla, is working.
“Mr. Romano,” she says in a hushed voice, not wanting to alert the customers that the man who creates the art is on the premises. She thinks they’ll bug me, but actually they often end up actually buying the art. As is the case here, weeks can go by without a single purchase. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I just wanted to show a friend around,” I tell her in English, turning to smile at Grace.
She is a friend, isn’t she?
“Grace, this is Carla.”
“Ciao,” Grace says.
“Ciao,” Carla says warmly. She’s about twenty-five, with black hair that swoops over one side, and an undercut, plus a plethora of facial piercings. She intimidates some but she’s very soft-hearted. “And where are you from, Grace?”
“Edinburgh, Scotland,” Grace says, her accent becoming more apparent.
“Edinburgh,” Carla rhapsodizes with a smile. “I have been to the Fringe Festival twice already. I love it.”
“Oh, I actually took part in that one year,” Grace says. “Well, actually it was in university and my friend was in it. I just helped.”
I let Carla and Grace talk while I walk around the space, inspecting the pieces to make sure some child hasn’t been let loose in here and scribbled on my statues with crayons (that happened once), and checking to see if anything has sold. It hasn’t, but I’m not too worried. Or at least, I won’t be once I can create my next piece.
Perhaps it’s the pressure that’s causing my muse to stall.
“Is this your father’s?” Grace asks, appearing beside me.
I glance up at the painting hanging above a statue of an eagle that I made. “It is an original Sandro Romano.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly.
And it is. There is no denying that my father has the gift of interpreting beauty in the world. His paintings are often of flowers or the ocean, hyper realistic with pastel colors. This one is of a cove on the island of Elba. I’ve heard people say his work makes them feel like a baby, I guess because there’s something so pure, peaceful, and soothing about looking at them. His art makes people feel cradled and protected.
However, that’s not what I see when I look at them. I look at his talent and what he’s been able to do, and I realize that I will never be enough no matter how much art I create. He likes to remind me that I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for him. He doesn’t mean harm by it—he’s just a boastful man, and he aims to keep me humble.
I just think it works a little too well.
Even now, Grace is staring at the painting with awe, and I have this bitter pinch inside me, almost like jealousy. It doesn’t matter that I’ve caught her looking at my work with that same expression. I feel replaceable. Like my art is forgotten.
Or maybe I just want her to look at me that way.
Nine
Grace
Though I’d only been at Villa Rosa for a week, not having Vanni around for the last two days has been weird. It’s not just that I miss being around the kid, because he definitely keeps me on my toes, especially with his impromptu Italian lessons, it’s that being alone in the house with Claudio has made things … well, complicated.
There’s much irony in the situation. The house should feel bigger, emptier, but instead it feels smaller and more intimate, like there is no escape from each other. Every corner I turn, I find I’m running into him, and every time he sees me, he smiles as if I’m a Christmas present under a tree. He makes me feel wanted, which, considering my upbringing, is hard to come to terms with, and when I’m not finding moments to write, he’s by my side, asking me questions, becoming a constant in my days here.
Which brings me to the other irony, that he sent Vanni away so he could work with less distractions, but I�
��m the one who is more distracted now.
How can I not be?
I know my experience with men is quite limited compared to others. I am by no means a virgin, but I didn’t have my first boyfriend—or have sex—until I was in university, and since then there’s only been two relatively long-term relationships, both of which just sort of fizzled out. I know with my writer brain I can be spacey and forgetful, and I think the guys just expected more from me. Maybe it’s not in me to give, maybe it’s the way I’m built. Or maybe they weren’t the right guys.
Whatever I felt for them, sometimes I think it must have been love (but it’s over now, ha), but I never had that jolt. I never looked at them and had my heart skip, never had the kaleidoscope of butterflies unleashed in my belly.
With Claudio, I do.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I know that encouraging any feelings toward a man that is completely off-limits is a bad idea and I’ve done what I can to ignore it, but it’s getting to the point where it’s a battle. A battle against my body. I don’t want to lust over Jana’s ex-husband—but I do. I don’t want to feel this bubbly sensation, like my body is flowing with sweet champagne.
But I do.
And so, being around Claudio has gone from being this easy, comfortable thing, to being something heavy and weighted, strung tight as a piano wire.
Oh, who am I kidding? It was never easy around him to begin with. While his personality is charming and the way he moves through the world is so confident and effortless, from the beginning I’ve felt overwhelmed by this man. I feel like a shy young girl, blushing at the drop of a hat, looking up at him in quiet awe.
He intimidates me, the way he stares into my eyes, so bold, so unapologetic, so completely at ease with himself. It’s like he wants me in a way I can’t figure out. Sexually, yes. Maybe. I know how his gaze feels when his eyes linger too long on my chest, on my legs, on my lips. And maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it’s like he wants more from me.
Like you’re the art he needs to unearth.
I swallow that feeling down and focus my attention back on my work. Today I’m outside in the covered veranda, a tall glass of mineral water beside me garnished with a slice of lemon from a tree on the property, effervescent fizz emanating into the air. Dinner will be ready soon, though I’ve told Claudio he shouldn’t have to cook for just the two of us, that I’ll easily be satisfied with some wine and bread.
Last night Emilio came over, which was nice and a bit of a reprieve from the strange tension that’s brewing between me and Claudio. But tonight, Claudio’s insisted on cooking again.
At least my book is coming along—when I’m not being distracted. I’ve only written two chapters but those two chapters are symbols of the biggest hump I had to get over.
Of course, tonight I’ve stalled again, but it’s on purpose. I think, when it comes down to it, I’m a method writer, and my heroine is facing her mother’s death. I know what to pull from, I know what to write. I know exactly what she’s going through. Except there’s a block inside me, a wall that refuses to let the bad feelings out. I need to access them, and I know I can if I push, but I’m afraid.
“Am I interrupting?”
Claudio’s voice pulls me from the page and I instinctively hit the save icon.
I twist in my seat to look at him.
This evening he’s dressed in cream-colored pants and a black dress shirt, untucked, his collar open, showing a slice of bronze skin. His chiseled face is taken over by scruffy beard, the dimple in his chin barely visible. He calls it his “frustrated artist” beard, so I guess I won’t see him clean-shaven until he’s broken through.
He looks good with the beard. More rugged, slightly wild. Sometimes I imagine what his face would feel like on my skin, the roughness tickling between my legs.
Stop that.
“I was just finishing up,” I tell him, quickly snapping my laptop shut. “Is it time for dinner already?”
He nods, jamming his hands in his pants pockets and rocking back on his heels, watching as I get up and grab my laptop, cradling it under my arm.
“Stop,” he says quietly.
I halt, halfway between him and the veranda. “What?”
He holds out his palms as if he’s framing me. “I wish I could paint this.”
I look behind me. The veranda’s ochre pillars seem to glow in the evening sun, pink oleander framing the corners.
“It is very pretty,” I comment as I look back to him.
“You are very pretty,” he says, his voice husky and low, and the compliment makes me feel as if I’ve become unanchored from the ground. “I wish I could paint you. Here. Just as you are.”
Damn.
I smile awkwardly. “I bet you could.”
Paint me like one of your French girls…
He shakes his head, his hands dropping to his sides. “No. I couldn’t. I don’t possess the talent. I don’t even think my father does. Besides, he would color you all wrong. He would capture your softness, but he wouldn’t do justice to the rest of your colors. You are too vivid, too real.”
I feel the heat creeping up onto my chest, my cheeks. The tension between us keeps winding and winding, and I don’t know how to be free of it. I don’t know what to say.
“You are very beautiful,” he adds, and my stomach flips again. “You know that.”
I want to laugh, but his eyes are burning with sincerity. “I don’t know what I know.”
“This makes you uncomfortable?”
I shrug, my eyes focusing on the tops of his shoes.
“Is it the compliment?” His shoes start to move as he walks toward me. Stops just a couple of feet away. “Or is it because I said it?”
“Because I don’t believe it,” I admit, looking up at him. Actually, it’s both. It’s all of it.
“How can you think that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have a face like a lemon.” I grab my chin. “There’s too much of this.”
He bursts into laughter. “A lemon? Well, then you are lucky you are in Italy. We love lemons here.” He gestures with his head toward the villa. “Come on, we’ll have lemons with our dinner.”
He turns and starts walking, and it’s only then that I notice my legs are shaking, my knees feeling like water. What is this man doing to me? Does he even know?
Dinner is as intimate as you would imagine, just the two of us sitting on the patio. But Claudio switches from being enigmatic and intense to easy and charming, putting me at ease. At least, as much as I can be at ease when I’m in such close proximity to him.
When we’re done with the food, we linger over panna cotta with fresh plump raspberries, the perfect mix of creamy, sweet, and tart, and enjoy a glass of brandy-colored Amaro. Actually, Claudio seems to enjoy the Amaro—I find it horribly bitter and medicinal, but I have to admit I appreciate the buzz.
“So tell me,” Claudio says, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, facing the lawn, the sunset reflecting on his face. “I need some good news. What did you manage to write today?”
I sip the Amaro and make a face at the taste. “I finished a chapter. I should have started the next one but … I’m stalling.”
“Why are you stalling?”
I rub my finger around the rim of the glass, watching it, gathering my thoughts. “I don’t know,” I eventually say.
When I glance up, he’s staring at me calmly. “You do.”
He’s right.
“I guess … I have to access some emotions that I don’t want to face today.”
“Which emotions?”
I briefly suck my lip into my mouth. “Grief.”
“Grief.” He surveys me, his eyes roaming my face. “Tell me about Robyn.”
Just the sound of her name, and I feel the bottom drop out of my chest, my heart plunging into something cold. “What is there to say?” There is too much to say.
“How did she die?”
I think Claudi
o knows it makes me uncomfortable to talk about her, that it’s too raw, and yet he’s pressing the question anyway.
When I don’t say anything, he gives me a small smile. “You can talk to me, Grace.”
“Why do you want to talk about her?”
“Because she is important to you. And if she’s important to you, she’s important to me.”
I can’t help it. Tears start pricking my eyes. Ever since she died, I’ve had no one to talk to about her, no one who cared. My own mother tried but she didn’t understand. I think she may have thought we were lovers, but that wasn’t the case at all. We were just close in so many ways. People thought I needed to get over it.
“She was hit by a drunk driver on Christmas Eve,” I manage to say, my breath shaky but my tears under control. “They hit her and took off and she … she was left on the side of the road for hours until Jack found her. They had been fighting, something stupid, like what to make for Christmas dinner, and she had gone for a walk to clear her head and … Jack told me that he thought she went to see me. He called me, asking if she was there. When I told him I hadn’t heard from her, he went out on foot to look and…”
I take in a deep breath, trying so hard to hold it together.
“It’s okay to cry,” Claudio says softly.
I pinch my lips together, my chin quivering, and nod. I know it’s okay.
But I don’t want to cry now.
I gulp in another breath, and my heart slows. I swallow. “I just can’t stop thinking about her on the side of the road, for that long, all alone. People must have driven past her, the police said that she was in a snowbank and wouldn’t have been seen. She died there alone. Jack found her, called the ambulance, but there was nothing they could do. Her internal injuries were too much. And still I think … I think how could anything have been too much for her? She was so strong and bold and brash, she took on the world. Life was a ride to her, and she brought me along. And yet she died. It still doesn’t seem real.” I blink, looking down at my drink but not really seeing it. “How could this be real? How can this world go on without her? And how could she leave me here all alone?”