Of course, the painting depicted Anabella. How good it felt to know the name of his muse! He had been in exceptionally good spirits since the day he saw Anabella at the piazza. Tomorrow would be a week since he saw her, but he felt as if it had been only yesterday, since he’d replayed the moment in his mind over and over. As soon as he had arrived home after seeing the mysterious woman from his dreams, he had begun a new painting of her—the same painting he was now working on. He wanted to finish it tonight. Dante was hoping Anabella would come to the piazza again tomorrow so he could show her his latest painting.
Driving home that day, he had realized he had forgotten to ask the flower vendor how often Anabella and her mother came to the piazza to sell the roses. Dante sensed it wasn’t every week since he had never seen them before. Dante wondered how he had missed them in the past. He’d been going to the piazza to sell his work for a few months. He supposed he had been preoccupied, either talking to people who were interested in buying his paintings or, when it was slow, drawing the famous Tuscan landmarks. The visitors who came to the piazza loved seeing Dante and the other artists present at work. Dante never painted in the piazza as a few other artists did. It was a waste of time since the paintings would not dry in time for customers to take them home the same day. True, sometimes customers left a deposit and arranged to pick up the completed paintings at the artist’s home, but many lost interest when they learned the painting needed days to finish drying. He also didn’t like to have an audience while he did his more serious paintings. So he drew when he was in the piazza. Drawing also brought him more money than just his finished paintings. He mainly drew a few silly landscapes, and, if someone asked him to do a portrait, he obliged. Although he was good at drawing, painting was where his true passion lay.
His pulse quickened as he added the final brush stroke to his newest sunflower girl painting.
“Finalmente!” he uttered aloud to himself as he stood back and took in his latest creation.
The painting featured a dramatic sky in all its glorious colors—pink, orange, blue—as the sun was preparing to make its descent. Beneath the sky, in the background was Siena’s Piazza del Campo, but rather than being filled with the usual flurry of people, the square was empty with the exception of Anabella, who stood in the forefront of the painting. She was stepping into the piazza, her back facing the viewer of the painting, and her head was turned so that she was looking over her shoulder. Her smile invited the observer to follow her, as did her right hand, which was raised and held one single red rose. A few of the flower’s petals had fallen to the ground, leaving a trail in the woman’s wake.
Dante was certain this was his best painting of her. How could it not be? For now she was more than just a shadowy figure from his dreams. She was real. From the blush in her cheeks to the light that flickered in her eyes and even the veins in her hand that held out the rose, there was no doubt that the woman in this painting was alive, whereas his earlier paintings had depicted her with a paler complexion and a more ethereal quality.
Satisfied with the finished product, he dipped his paintbrush into some black paint and signed his name in the lower right-hand corner of the canvas: Galletti.
Yawning, he went to wash his hands in the bathroom. It was only now that he noticed how his back ached from the long hours spent painting. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since just before noon. Wiping his hands dry, he walked over to the small icebox in his room and pulled out the bowl of minestrone that Signora Fiorucci had given him earlier in the day. He heated it up in a small pan on the stove.
As he ate his soup, his thoughts wandered to his mother, who always cooked minestrone for him when the weather turned cold. Although Signora Fiorucci’s minestrone was good, it still didn’t measure up to his mother’s. As Dante’s gift was painting, his mother’s was cooking. How he missed her cooking. Dante had shown a passion for drawing when he was as young as four years old. He loved drawing the birds and insects he saw in the yard of his grandmother’s home, where he and his mother lived. Nonna Andreanna and his mother were the only family he’d had. He’d never met his grandfather, who had died of a stroke before Dante was born. The same went for his father, who had scorned his mother when she became pregnant at nineteen with his child. Wanting nothing to do with her, he quickly left town. So Dante had his mother’s surname rather than his father’s.
Dante had worked hard in high school to ensure he would receive a scholarship or else he wouldn’t have been able to afford to go to art school in Florence—even with the money he had saved while working as a bricklayer’s assistant. His mother cleaned the homes of wealthy elderly women, but her earnings were just enough to keep food on their table and to help Nonna Andreanna pay the bills. Then tragedy struck when Dante’s mother died when he was in his final year of art school. She had been killed by a drunken motorist as she walked home from work one evening.
Instead of staying in Florence, like so many other art students did once they completed their studies, Dante had returned to Siena to be near his grandmother. But within a year of his mother’s death, Nonna Andreanna had passed away. After losing her only daughter, the grief was too much for her to bear. She ate less and less every day, even though Dante did all he could to get her to eat. She became so weak that he had no choice but to hospitalize her. Within days of arriving at the hospital, she died, leaving Dante truly alone in the world.
In the past three years since his mother had died, Dante hadn’t been able to fill the deep void he’d felt—until he’d begun dreaming about Anabella. Whenever she had visited him in his dreams or had stared back at him from one of his paintings, he’d immediately felt comforted. And then on the day he’d first seen her, when their eyes had met, he’d felt as if the hole inside of him was beginning to close. He had acknowledged to himself that it was bizarre to feel this way about someone he’d only met in his dreams, but he couldn’t ignore the strong instincts telling him this woman would be part of his destiny. Who knew? Maybe it was as his friends had said—she was merely a source of inspiration for his work. But now that he’d seen she existed in the living world, there was no doubt in his mind that he must meet her and learn more about his stunning muse.
He glanced at his watch, a gift from his mother and Nonna Andreanna when he had been accepted to art school. It was almost nine o’clock. Though it was too early for bed, he was absolutely exhausted, and, if he wanted to get to the piazza early and stay throughout the day, he needed to get a good night’s rest. Pulling his shirt and trousers off, he collapsed on his bed, causing the loose headboard to shake. He hadn’t wanted to keep his grandmother’s house after she died. The memories were too painful to relive—even if they had been mostly happy ones. And his mother’s and grandmother’s ghosts would torment him, reminding him he no longer had the family he’d loved so much. So he had sold the house, relying on the money from its sale to help tide him over until he could begin to earn a more substantial living from his paintings. He rented the one-room apartment that made up his home. Although it was small, the almost constant aroma of fresh bread baking that entered his apartment from Signora Fiorucci’s shop made the space feel more inviting and like home, reminding him of all the wonderful foods his mother and Nonna had cooked.
Soon Dante was fast asleep. He dreamt of his mother, standing in front of her stove, giving him a taste of what she was cooking. But as he was about to place his lips on the wooden spoon, the vision of his mother disappeared and was replaced with Anabella. He reached out to touch her, but she took a step back and another as he followed her. As always, he was chasing her in his dreams. He awoke with a start, and his heart raced furiously; his forehead had broken out into a sweat. He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. This woman would be the death of him if he did not meet her soon.
Unable to sleep, Dante got up and did what he always did when insomnia took hold of him. He painted.
CHAPTER 4
Anabella
&nb
sp; Pienza, 1954
Anabella was running through the maze of rose bushes that sprawled across her mother’s property. Cioccolato was at her heels, barking and wagging his tail. Although she was now ten years old, she hadn’t tired yet of playing this game of chase with her dog. The late July sun was especially scorching today as the temperature soared to 100 degrees. But Anabella didn’t mind. Being outside was where she always longed to be—even on the days that it rained. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt less alone when she was engaging with the natural world all around her, whether it was running through the stunning roses on the farm, climbing the trees that formed a protective fortress around the perimeters of the nursery, or riding in her mother’s beat-up gray Fiat as Anabella stuck her head out the window to feel the breeze blowing through her hair and admire the beautiful Tuscan countryside.
As she ran, she saw in the distance Chiara carrying a huge straw basket. Chiara waved to her. Anabella waved back and quickened her pace. She was out of breath when she reached her.
“Vai piano! Vai piano! No need to rush, Anabella. I’m not going anywhere.” Chiara laughed as she placed her hands on either side of Anabella’s flushed cheeks and kissed her forehead.
“Ciao, Chiara. I was just happy to see you. What are you carrying in your basket?” Anabella strained her neck to peer inside the basket.
“I brought these for you. Sunflowers.” Chiara took out a bunch of sunflowers that had been clipped so they could fit into her basket. Every day on her drive to the nursery, Chiara passed an immense field of sunflowers. Today, she had felt a compelling urge to stop and clip a bunch. She knew Anabella would love them.
“I didn’t know you could take these.” Anabella looked confused as she took one of the sunflowers from Chiara’s grip and stared at it. They weren’t as pretty as her roses, but there was something striking about the sunflowers. Perhaps it was their bright yellow petals.
“Of course. I took them from a field that doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Anabella had seen sunflowers before, whenever she and Mamma drove into the village. She remembered being excited by the immense blanket of yellow that seemed to spread out forever in the horizon. Anabella had pointed at them and exclaimed, “Mamma, look how pretty!”
But her mother had screamed, “Don’t pay attention to those horrid flowers!”
Anabella had been shocked by her mother’s tone—for her mother had never yelled at her before. Tears had quickly slid down Anabella’s face as she sobbed softly. And that had been another first for Anabella—Mamma not comforting her when she was upset. Instead, her mother’s gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, but there was something in her eyes that terrified Anabella. After that day, she never mentioned the sunflowers again as they passed them on their way to town.
Chiara looked at Anabella, noticing her suddenly serious expression. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like them?”
“They’re nice. Grazie, Chiara.”
“You can keep them in a vase with water and place them on the windowsill of your room. Soon, you’ll be able to eat the seeds. Have you ever had sunflower seeds?”
“You can eat the seeds?” Anabella was stunned. Her face twisted up in disgust. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to eat any part of a flower, let alone its seeds.
Chiara laughed. “Si! That is another wonderful thing about sunflowers. These seeds will ripen, and then you can pull them off the flower’s bulb and eat them. They taste very good; you’ll see.”
Cioccolato was sniffing the remaining flowers in Chiara’s basket and began chewing on one of the petals.
“Ah! Cioccolato! These aren’t for you to eat.” Chiara laughed, gently admonishing him.
“He likes them, too!” Anabella smiled, petting Cioccolato’s head.
“Come, Anabella, let’s head back to the house. Your mother will be wondering where I am. We have a busy day in store for us.”
Anabella linked her arm through Chiara’s as they walked. When they approached the house, Chiara handed the basket of sunflowers to Anabella.
“These are all for me?”
“Of course. Remember what I told you: Keep them by the window, and, in a few weeks, be sure to try the seeds. But you’ll have to make sure Cioccolato doesn’t get to the flowers before the seeds ripen.”
Anabella laughed. Chiara took her leave as she went around the house to find Signora Ferraro.
Once inside her room, Anabella cleared the space on her windowsill that had three vases filled with roses. Each of the rooms in her house always contained fresh-cut roses from their gardens. Anabella loved inhaling the flowers’ sweet fragrance as she fell asleep at night. And when the weather began to change, bringing with it cool breezes in the early hours of dawn, the roses’ fragrance greeted her in the morning. She took an empty porcelain pitcher she kept on her dresser and filled it with water. It was rather large and would have no problem holding all of the sunflowers Chiara had given her. She loved how the pitcher’s turquoise color contrasted nicely with the yellow of the sunflowers.
After just a couple of days, Anabella noticed her sunflowers had dried up and wilted considerably. The seeds looked like they might be ready to pick. She got excited as she anticipated trying them. Anabella ran out of her room in search of Chiara, whom she asked to come to her room so Chiara could tell Anabella for certain if the seeds were ready to eat. But when she returned with Chiara they found her mother standing in front of her bedroom window. The porcelain pitcher holding the sunflowers was lying by Mamma’s feet, shattered in pieces, and the sunflowers were crushed as if they had been stomped on. Their dried petals were torn apart, and the sunflowers’ seeds were scattered all over the floor. A few had even landed on Anabella’s bed.
“Is everything all right, Signora Ferraro?” Chiara asked.
Signora Ferraro turned around, landing her steel gaze first on Chiara, then on Anabella, who quickly lowered her eyes. Anabella’s heart was pounding as she remembered the day in the car when her mother had screamed at her not to look at the sunflowers. But they were just flowers, just like their roses. What harm could there be in them?
“Why are these flowers here?” She looked from Anabella to Chiara as she pointed at the crushed flowers that lay strewn by her feet.
Anabella looked up at her mother, tears streaming down her face. But she could not open her mouth to speak. Chiara jumped in.
“I gave them to her, Signora Ferraro. I thought she would like them, especially now that their seeds can be eaten.”
“You were sorely mistaken, Chiara. We don’t like sunflowers. Do you see us growing any here on the farm?”
Chiara was momentarily stunned and perplexed. She couldn’t understand why Signora Ferraro was so irate over her daughter having sunflowers. Chiara remained silent until Signora Ferraro repeated her question in a shout.
“I asked you, do you see any sunflowers on this property?”
“No, no, signora,” Chiara said softly. She was angry at Signora Ferraro for destroying her daughter’s flowers and for the way she was now acting, but she fought to keep her tone even, not wanting to escalate the situation and further upset Anabella. She then added, “Mi dispiace, Signora Ferraro. It will not happen again.”
Signora Ferraro turned away from Chiara and Anabella, focusing her attention once more outside the window. Her expression quickly changed from angry to sad, and her eyes took on a faraway look. How strange! Chiara wondered why Signora Ferraro had such hatred for the sunflowers. Anabella, who still looked frightened, was staring at her mother, too.
“Let’s go outside, Anabella.” Chiara took Anabella by the hand and led her away quietly; when they passed Signora Ferraro, Chiara said, “I’ll ask one of the workers to come here and clean up the broken pitcher.”
Signora Ferraro seemed to almost jump at the sound of Chiara’s voice and said, “Grazie. I’m sorry I yelled at you, Chiara, but I cannot have those flowers anywhere near my child.”
“I understa
nd. I will see you in the gardens.”
When Anabella stepped outside, she broke free of Chiara’s grip and ran off.
“Anabella! Wait! Where are you going?” Chiara ran after her.
“Leave me alone! I want to be alone!” Anabella was crying, her tears clouding her vision. Cioccolato was napping against the trunk of a fig tree and quickly leapt up when he saw Anabella, racing to greet her. But Anabella pushed him hard with her hand, causing Cioccolato to whimper.
Chiara finally caught up to Anabella. She grabbed her by the arm. Anabella tried to push her away, but Chiara held on firmly.
“Let me go! Let me go! It’s because of you that Mamma yelled at me. You and those stupid sunflowers. I hate them!”
“Shhh! Shhh!” Chiara held Anabella close to her chest, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry, Anabella. I didn’t know your mother hated them. I would never have given them to you had I known that.” Chiara then remembered the grim expression that had passed over Anabella’s face when she’d shown her the sunflowers. Had Anabella been aware that her mother despised them?
“You knew that she didn’t like sunflowers, didn’t you?” Chiara gently asked.
Anabella kept her head pressed against Chiara’s chest. She nodded and began crying again.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Chiara asked in a gentle tone.
Anabella pulled away, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. She shrugged her shoulders, but remained silent. Chiara decided to let her question go unanswered, especially since Anabella had finally calmed down, and Chiara didn’t want to upset her more than she had already been today. Cioccolato walked over tentatively; concern filled his eyes. Slowly, he approached Anabella, his head lowered. When he reached her side, he nuzzled her hand with his wet nose. She wrapped her arm around his neck, and Cioccolato began licking her face, all too happy to be back in his mistress’s good graces.
The Sunflower Girl Page 3