The Artist's Love

by Z. L. Arkadie

  He groans. I’m sure some fiery words are swirling around in his head, but he knows better than to speak them. I’m already on edge, and deep down inside, I feel like taking the vase out of the box and cracking him over the head with it.

  We started spatting like this five miles into our drive to Gianfranco’s estate. As soon as I walked out on the porch to receive his company, Salvatore examined me from head to toe with a look of dissatisfaction. Then he said that he liked my red dress, but I would look better in it if I made my hair blond again. Then he said I looked extra skinny in the face and accused me of starving myself so that I could be thinner.

  “Americans think skinny is sexy, but in Italy, seeing the bones is not desirable,” he said.

  He aggravated me to my supposedly visible bones with that criticism, but it got me thinking. I was actually thinner when he and I met. The divorce, the stress, my dad’s death, and just trying to figure out what came next made me eat less and worry more. But he didn’t care so much about what size dress I wore then.

  Then Salvatore went on about how he’d almost lost a lot of money, and of course if I had loaned him the cash he needed, he wouldn’t have had to face such a crisis, but he overcame it. “I would pay you back, not steal from you as a criminal.”

  I rolled my eyes as I gazed out of the passenger side window, wondering why in the world I’d decided to call and ask if I could bring him.

  Luther, the butler, opens the door, and he looks at me as if we’ve never met. “Benvenuto al Castello di Guardi.”

  “Grazie,” I say.

  He sets his dreary gaze on Salvatore and asks for our invitation.

  I clench the flap of my purse, then remember something. “Sorry, I left it at home.”

  Luther swings his gaze to my face. I notice a slight wrinkling of his eyebrows.

  “What is your name?” he asks in English.

  As usual, once they realize I’m American, locals would rather speak English. I’m pretty sure the shift isn’t made out of respect—it’s to keep me from hacking up their language. Sometimes I don’t give them the opportunity to make that decision for me, but in this case, I do.

  “I’m Liza Patrick. Remember, I was here with the TV crew last week?” I lift the box in my hand. “I broke a vase, so I bought another one.”

  Luther raises an eyebrow at the box as though it’s a sack of manure. “One moment.” He closes the door.

  “You did not remember the invitation? How come?” Salvatore grouses.

  I look off at a patio with manicured shrubs surrounding a flower garden and pinch my lips together to keep from telling him to shut up—just shut the hell up right now!

  “It is fine, I guess,” he says.

  I turn to face him. What I see in his eyes, I don’t trust. My lips part to ask the question creeping through my mind, but the door opens.

  Luther says, “Sorry for the delay, Miss Patrick. Please follow me.”

  I’m already familiar with the layout of this castle. It’s so large that I can’t believe Gianfranco actually lives here. Normally estates like this are open for paid tours. Gianfranco’s an extremely famous artist. I’ve heard him described as a modern-day Pissarro meets Picasso yet with a touch of modern-day realism. And he lives here alone—no wife or children. It’s mighty strange.

  I think about the first time I saw Gianfranco, standing on the scaffold, toiling over his masterpiece, and then running into him at the bakery. The way our eyes connected… I wonder if there’s something going on between us. I glance at Salvatore. At the moment, he feels like a third leg attached to my butt.

  We pass a painting of a lion climbing a tree. The portrait succeeds in capturing our attention.

  Salvatore scoffs. “Famous artist?”

  Although his voice was low, I’m pretty sure Luther heard him, but the butler doesn’t flinch or look back to chastise him with a look.

  “Yes, Gianfranco’s very famous,” I say, feeling I must come to our host’s defense. I even repeat the bit about Gianfranco being hailed as a modern-day Pissarro meets Picasso with a touch of modern-day realism.

  Salvatore laughs bitterly. “This famous artist did not buy this castle with his paintings. He has inherited his wealth. He plays with paint and calls it success. And you silly people believe him.”

  I shake my head as we turn the corner. I’m ready to accuse Salvatore of being jealous, but why state the obvious? Not everybody can make a living this way, so I somewhat expect the jealousy. The fading daylight shining into the end of the hallway from the terrace steals my attention. Music is playing outside. The tune is pronounced but not so loud that you can’t hear voices chattering. We make it to the door, and Luther steps aside to let us pass.

  “Please enjoy your night,” he says.

  I turn to Luther and hand him the vase. “Could you please see that Gianfranco gets this?”

  He nods and takes it.

  Salvatore grunts and moves toward the terrace as though I’ve wasted his time by handing my silly gift to our silly host. At this point, I’m pretty sure I made a mistake by bringing him. Regardless, he’s my date, so I pick up my pace to walk by his side.

  Sleek servers in black tie suits walk around, carrying silver platters above their heads and serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres. There are at least ten people gathered on the terrace. All of them have slowed their conversations as Salvatore and I move deeper into the group.

  “Mama mia,” Salvatore says.

  I follow his gaze to a tall, thin woman with flowing dark hair. She too is wearing a red dress.

  “Really?” I say, deciding not to hold my tongue any longer.

  “Why do you say really?” he snaps, keeping his eyes glued to the woman.

  “Not too long ago, you said I was too skinny, and now here you are salivating over a woman who’s nearly half the size I am.”

  Salvatore turns to me with a scowl. I look him straight in the eyes, refusing to back down.

  “Scusami, Miss Patrick. Would you like champagne?” a server asks.

  Initially I’m taken aback that he knows my name, but then I realize that Gianfranco is likely meticulous when it comes to his dinners.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say charmingly, happily going along with the spirit of the evening. The server hands me the beautiful flute glass filled with champagne.

  “Signor?” he says to Salvatore.

  “I will have the red wine.” Salvatore stomps off toward the server who’s carrying what he wants.

  I watch him go, and right off, I notice what I saw in him. He walks with his shoulders squared like a man who owns his galaxy. He’s still staring at the other woman in red. She glances at me as soon as she notices that my date can’t take his eyes off her. I’m pretty sure she’s used to that.

  I check myself to see how I feel about it. Disrespected? No. Hurt? No. Heck, do I even care? Hell no. I wiggle my fingers at her, saying hello. She quickly turns back to the woman she’s speaking to, pretending she didn’t see me.

  Now that he’s no longer by my side, I feel as if I finally have enough elbow room to enjoy myself. I mean, hot damn, I’m attending a dinner at Gianfranco Guardi’s castle. I take inventory of who’s here with me. Of course there’s the woman in red who Salvatore can’t take his eyes off of—he’s already managed to find a way to stand close to her. An older gentleman who’s probably in his fifties has his arm around the waist of a pretty woman who looks to be in her twenties. They’re having a conversation with a very unique-looking woman wearing a peasant dress and a man dressed like a matador.

  There’s a black woman who’s just as tall and thin as the other woman in red and extremely beautiful. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that she’s a model. Great… Gianfranco is into models.

  So what Alessandro said can’t be true. The sexy artist isn’t into me—I’m not a model. I grumble under my breath.

  She just tossed her head back to laugh at something one of the handsome men she’s talking to said.
He’s standing very close to another handsome guy. One has on a white leather shirt and trendy drop-crotch pants, and the other is wearing a very fitted white-and-blue pinstripe suit. I’m not sure, but my instincts tell me that the two men are a couple.

  I gaze out toward the sunset. Standing very close together are a skinny young man in tapered jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater and a pretty young Asian woman wearing a beautiful tan A-line dress that’s nearly the same color as her skin. Wow, what style.

  I look more to the right and lock eyes with an elegant silver-haired woman with flawless porcelain skin. She has on an expensive emerald-green kimono. We smile at each other, then she saunters in my direction. I can’t help noticing she moves as if she’s used to people watching her. For some reason, I bounce on my toes, eagerly awaiting her arrival. Let the socializing begin!

  Once the woman reaches me, she extends her hand. “Ciao, darling. Penelope Hughes,” she says in an English accent and as though her name should ring a bell. “So you’re Liza Patrick, the tele host.”

  I grin big. My first recognition as a TV personality! “Yes, that would be me.”

  She lays a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, darling, I loved your show on Castello di Guardi. It was quite entertaining, you know.”

  “Why thank you,” I say, remembering that the fourteen-minute segment aired yesterday, along with a fourteen-minute segment on one of the oldest houses in the region.

  Her hand elegantly flops onto her chest. “You should stop by my manor. It would make an interesting tele program. Gianfranco and I are neighbors.”

  My posture perks up. “Is that so?”

  I gaze out beyond the terrace. There are number of grand manors nestled into the trees on the hillside. Before I can ask if we can see her estate from here, she says she’s a countess and runs down her lineage.

  I feel so alive. This is the first time someone of her stature has sought me out instead of the other way around. My eyes widen with appreciation as she connects her lineage by births and marriages. I feel just as victorious about her bloodline as Penelope Hughes does. Elsa was right. The interview with Gianfranco Guardi is opening doors.

  Penelope Hughes shifts her hand from her heart to her chin. “Now the lady from TV Ora wants to tour my manor—”

  I’m reeling, ready to cut her off and say look no further.

  “But you are far more entertaining than her.” She touches my arm and moves in closer, lowering her voice. “And we both know Gianfranco is not a lively subject. Darling, you worked miracles.”

  I chuckle, remembering how he switched from being so charming when I ran into him in the room with the painting to nearly mute during our interview. “Yes, but I’m so grateful he opened his home to my crew and me.”

  “Well, I’m sure you did not need to twist his arm.” She tosses her head back and chuckles.

  I chuckle tentatively, wondering what she meant by that. I’m about to tell her that we actually sent at least three letters to Gianfranco in the last year, asking if he would like for us to showcase Castello di Guardi on our show, but he never responded. Suddenly the owner of this magnificent estate arrives, stepping out onto the terrace. All eyes turn in his direction.

  “Welcome,” he says.

  I inhale slightly. Gianfranco looks flawless in a pair of black fitted slacks and a black short-sleeved polo shirt. Goodness, he wears his clothes extremely well. His gaze passes over his guests and at last stops on me. I clench my clutch purse.

  11

  Darling, you’re here,” the other woman in red says and gallops across the terrace to take his arm.

  I lower my head as my heart feels like it’s shrinking.

  Gianfranco holds out his arms as if he’s giving us a huge hug. “Everyone, please come in for dinner.”

  I just realized how sexy he sounds when he speaks English.

  Salvatore steps up beside me, and I have to stifle a groan. It felt so good to have him away from me. I watch Gianfranco turn into the hallway to lead us to the dining room. The woman in red is still by his side—she’s lucky.

  I can’t take my eyes off of Gianfranco’s form as he leads us down the hallway. I glance at Salvatore, and he looks worse than Oscar the Grouch. I’m sure walking behind the Marquis Guardi is killing him. I’m inclined to ask Salvatore if he’s okay, but I don’t really care. When we walked onto the terrace, the first thing he did was lose his mind over Gianfranco’s girlfriend. That shows how disrespectful he is, and I find it odd that a part of me still doesn’t care.

  We round the corner and enter the dining area. A long banquet table sits in the middle of the room, elegantly set with crystal glassware, fine porcelain, shimmering linens, centerpieces made of red roses, and the orange light of candles. My eyes gravitate toward the large arched windows, which run from the ceiling to the floor. As I noted in my piece on Castillo di Guardi, Gianfranco has done a great job of blending the old with modern touches.

  Among the fantastical stories about a ghost and the lone occupant of the six-hundred-year-old castle, rumors circulated about the upgrades Gianfranco has made in the last fifteen years after the estate was passed down to him. According to the land ledgers, lawsuits were even brought against him for not maintaining the property’s historical integrity, but people say his uncle Lorenzo Lombardi, who’s a judge, made all the legal issues disappear.

  None of that is true though. When I first became interested in the castle, I drove down to the municipal building to read the plans. Salvatore did everything by the book, and actually, his uncle made sure of it. Sometimes I think the Italians are more comfortable believing in rumors and make believe than the truth. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Gianfranco is probably grateful that our interview and tour helped dispel some of the gossip.

  Regardless, the great arched windows feature a clear view of the village at the base of the mountain and the red, orange, and purple sky that marks the end of sunset. Servers line up along all four sides of the table, each holding two bottles of wine—one red, one white.

  “Such formality, Gianfranco,” the black woman who looks like a model says. She’s clearly also American.

  “Yes, Juanita, I wanted a change for this dinner. I hope you all are satisfied.”

  Gianfranco and I connect eyes. I smile, letting him know that I am beyond satisfied.

  “And red roses?” Juanita bats her eyelashes. “When did you fall in love, Gianfranco?” Her coy grin is a clue that she’s joking.

  “He’s in love with me,” the woman in red declares.

  “In your dreams, Maria. In my dreams, in the dreams of all women except the one he’s made centerpieces of red roses for.” Juanita’s smirk lands on me, but for some reason, I look away bashfully. There’s no way I’m the red-rose woman.

  Maria swings her hair as though she’s rejecting everything Juanita said, then she pulls out the chair next to where Gianfranco stands.

  “Your seats have been pre-assigned. Look for your name on the table card,” Luther says.

  I didn’t even notice the omnipresent butler standing in front of the server at the head of the table. Then I notice that there are no settings at either end of the table. Apparently Gianfranco isn’t going to play king by sitting at the head of the table, and for some reason, I find that refreshing and sexy.

  I go from one place setting to the next, looking for my name. Everyone is expressing their excitement about where they’ve ended up, which is across the table from their mate. Where the other woman in red, Maria, once stood, I find my name card. I turn to Gianfranco, who’s right next to me.

  He bows graciously. “Thank you for the vase. It was very thoughtful of you.”

  I gulp nervously. “I hope it’s a sufficient replacement.”

  He gazes into my eyes. “It is.”

  I brush my cheek and glance away from him before I pass out. “Then you’re welcome.”

  Gianfranco claps. “Now please, sit.”

  We take our seats. Salvatore is directly ac
ross from me and is seated next to Maria, who’s glaring at me as though she can see herself strangling me a thousand times over.

  Gianfranco introduces Salvatore and me as his new guests, then he goes around the table, introducing the others. Sitting beside me is Juanita Smith, who was an international supermodel ten years ago. Penelope Hughes sits across from her. The really young guy, who’s probably in his early twenties, sits next to Juanita. His name is Chris Streeter, and sitting across from him is his wife, Annie Yee. They are American as well. Then there’s Raul Duarte sitting across from his wife, Lara Duarte—both are famous flamenco dancers. The Lorenzo Lombardi sits on the other side of Gianfranco, across from his wife, Gabriella, who doesn’t look so young close up. Last are Angelo Rossini and his boyfriend, Sergio Munoz. Both are racecar drivers.

  Lorenzo leans forward to look around Gianfranco. “You are the host from the show—what is it?”

  “Postcard Italy,” Gianfranco says before I can.

  “That is correct,” I say.

  Gianfranco and I beam at each other. Is time standing still? Have all the other guests faded into oblivion?

  “You make your living painting?” Salvatore says loudly enough to command everyone’s attention.

  I rip my gaze off Gianfranco and scowl at my rude date. “Yes. He is a very famous artist.”

  Gianfranco pats my shoulder, and electricity shoots through my body. “It is okay. Yes, I make my living as an artist.”

  “Look at the two of you, defending each other,” Juanita says and laughs.

  Maria shakes her head. I’m starting to realize that Juanita and Maria don’t like each other very much.

  “Then tonight, I will be your knight in shining armor,” Salvatore says to Maria.

  I roll my eyes. Good luck with that, you arrogant, self-satisfying prick.

  Maria smiles halfheartedly at Gianfranco—her expression begs him to notice her. “I would like that.”

  “And he looks rich, which is just your type,” Juanita says.

  Everyone except Maria and me chuckles.

  “Um, Liza, is it?” Gabriella asks.