My brush quivers in my hand and I don’t reply until I have a steady grip on it again.
‘Maybe another time,’ I reply, my cheeks flushing.
‘So, given we’ve established that we need to work on those nightmares, do you want me to sleep with you tonight?’
Yes. Yes, I do.
‘I’m trying to work here,’ I murmur, determined not to lose focus on the definition of his torso. His arresting gaze makes it difficult to concentrate on anything other than what he’s just asked me. I press the wooden end of my brush to my mouth and bite down on it. ‘I should tell you that … I’ve never …’ I hesitate. I don’t know how he’ll react to this.
He looks at me curiously. ‘You’ve never?’ he asks, unsure of what I mean. But then he raises his eyebrows.
‘Well, I was kind of busy, you know, dealing with cancer and stuff,’ I say, trying not to make the discussion any more awkward than it needs to be. Heat pricks my cheeks.
‘Oh,’ is his only reply, as a pensive look crosses his face.
‘Problem?’ I ask.
‘Nope. Just unexpected. I thought you were just waiting for the right time.’
‘I am.’ I chew my lip and wait for his response.
He clears his throat. ‘So, uh, how will I know you’re ready?’
‘You’ll know,’ I say quietly. I try to hold back a smile. ‘Just so you know though, I think I’m almost ready.’
His smile sweeps over me slowly, nudging my heart to beat faster. As difficult as it is, I tear my eyes away from him and focus on dipping my brush into water, carefully manipulating the saturation of the pigment, and gradually I move into the natural rhythm of painting that once felt so distant. Luca occupies the time by fiddling with the loose threads of his shirt and playing with his phone. Sometime later, the last of the vibrant hues of yellow come to life on my sheet. I sit in that space, soaking in what it feels like to be whole again. This painting is so much more than a dreamy picture of the guy I’m falling in love with against one of the prettiest backdrops I’ve ever seen. It’s a mirror of emotions reflecting back at me.
Luca moves behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder. ‘You sure you want to go back to nannying? You should show your work to Clara.’
‘Maybe.’ I shrug.
‘You’re holding yourself back.’
‘I want to make sure this isn’t temporary. And maybe I’m not ready to call myself an artist yet.’
‘But that’s what you are.’
‘I thought I was. I thought I was a lot of things. Now, I’m not so sure.’
‘Your ability to paint like this, it’s not temporary. You know that, right?’
‘I’m just being cautious.’
‘Let it go, Mia. Lean into life without letting the ten per cent hold you back. It’s what you deserve.’
‘You think that’s what I’m doing?’
‘I know that’s what you’re doing. You’re keeping yourself small, because you’re afraid that what happened in the past might happen in your future. You need to trust a little more.’
I take some time to consider Luca’s words.
He places his hand on my cheek, so I have to look at him. He guides my legs over his, and whispers, ‘Painter girl, I think you’re incredible.’ He holds my face in his hands. ‘There’s so much light radiating from you now. There’s no more room for dark pictures. I think you’ve moved beyond all of that.’
I nod, contemplating the likelihood of Luca knowing me better than I know myself.
‘If you look at the work you’ve been doing since you arrived in Florence—what’s it like?’
I take a deep breath because this is the instant I admit it to the world. And if I say it out loud, then it becomes the truth. And when it becomes the truth, then it might just mean I’ve healed one part of my broken self.
‘I think it might be my best work ever.’
ELEVEN
The next afternoon, when I return to the Balduccis’ after my morning shift, Massimo flings open the front door before I have the chance to knock. He glances at the bags of art supplies I’ve brought with me. ‘Mia! Are you ready for our surprise?’ he asks, wide-eyed with anticipation.
‘Oh, am I ready for it? Are you ready for it?’ I ask, scooping him up in my arms, tickling him before he escapes outside with his brother.
‘Looks like you have two excited boys on your hands,’ says Clara. ‘They haven’t stopped talking about you since this morning.’
‘I’m so glad; it’s nice to see them so happy,’ I reply, pleased to hear about how eager they are.
Clara nods and quietly replies, ‘Yes, it certainly is.’ She says goodbye and I round up the boys.
‘Okay, artists, have you got any smocks you can wear?’
‘Yes! We’ll go get them!’ They almost bowl each other over in a race to get inside.
I’m sharpening the last of our pencils when the boys come bounding towards me.
‘All right, so this is what we’re going to do. I want you to pick something to draw, anything you can see from where you’re sitting.’
Massimo chooses his ride-on Ferrari, and Alessandro chooses the olive tree. I sit in between them both and gently place my hand over Alessandro’s as I bring the tree to life with a series of pencil strokes. He sits still and silently, while Massimo peers over my shoulder. ‘Now for a Ferrari for Massimo.’
‘Wow, Mia, you’re like a real Botticelli,’ he says.
I laugh and tickle him under the chin. ‘Not quite, but thank you. Now it’s time for the fun part—the painting.’ I place the watercolours on the table with a dish of water. I show them how to use the paints and the boys quietly get to work, their tongues poking out of their mouths in concentration. ‘These ones are just for practice. The rest of our paintings are going to be for our art exhibition for your mum. How does that sound?’
Their faces light up and Massimo tells me it sounds great.
‘Did Botticelli paint like this?’ asks Alessandro.
‘Well, not quite, you’re painting in watercolour, but he used tempera for a lot of his paintings. Do you know what that is?’
They both shake their heads. ‘It’s a paint made using the yolk of an egg,’ I say.
‘You mean the yellow part?’ asks Massimo.
‘That’s right! He would mix it with coloured powders called pigment. Many painters used it during the Renaissance. That was a busy time for artists. Your mum would know all about it. You should ask her sometime.’
I leave the twins outside while I set up the ironing board inside beside a window overlooking the garden so I can keep an eye on them.
Half an hour later Alessandro bursts through the door, a bundle of enthusiasm as he shows me his painting. I switch off the iron and meet him at the kitchen table, where I pull out a chair. ‘Tell me about your picture. How does it make you feel?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s my family. That’s Daddy playing soccer,’ he says, pointing to a man with short dark hair, who is kicking a ball. I try to mask my reaction when I notice that the lady in the picture, who is no doubt Clara, has a downturned smile.
‘Mummy doesn’t look very happy.’
His innocent green eyes blink at me. I wrap my arm around his tiny waist, pulling him onto my lap. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because she’s gone,’ he replies, but I have little time to probe him further as Massimo bursts through the doors, triumphantly holding his painting of his red Ferrari.
‘I love it! You did such a great job, Massimo. Botticelli would be extremely proud of you!’
The boys’ laughter peals across the room. I hand them a couple of extra sheets of paper and encourage them to do some more painting while I head upstairs to put away their clothes. On opening their wardrobe, a pile of clothes comes tumbling down from the top shelf along with a rectangular pink box. As I pick up the loose lid and go to place it on the box, I notice a bundle of soft, pink items wrapped in tissue paper. Baby clothes. Pink blankets. A
velveteen rattle with a bunny.
‘Look, Mia! We’re done!’ says Alessandro, suddenly in the room with me and proudly holding up his work.
Massimo gasps. Alessandro looks at him, then at me, and then at the box. His eyes widen like saucers as his little mouth lets out a huff of breath.
‘What’s wrong?’
Massimo points to the box.
‘It’s okay, I’m just putting it back now. Is it a secret that your mum’s having a baby?’ I ask, smiling. ‘That’s wonderful, boys.’
Alessandro shakes his head. Massimo is biting his lower lip. I take a closer look at the items in the box. The clothes have been worn. And then I suddenly understand who is gone and who she has taken with her.
‘Baby isn’t here anymore?’
Alessandro nods, his eyes on the floor.
‘It’s our fault,’ says Massimo.
‘Oh, sweetheart, it’s not your fault. Sometimes God just needs more angels.’ Beyond the pristine demeanour, the enormous house and the enviable career, here lies the reason behind Clara’s sadness and the vagueness I recognise in her, the one that comes with living in your body but not being fully present.
I place the box on the top shelf before asking one more question.
‘What was her name?’
‘Isabella.’
Once Clara returns home in the evening, the boys race down the stairs to greet her, artwork in hand. She rests her briefcase on the kitchen table and lowers herself into a chair. Alessandro waves his painting in her face.
‘Let’s see what you have here,’ she says. She holds it out in front of her and studies it carefully. As she comes to recognise herself in her son’s painting, she flinches. Alessandro takes a magnet to place it in prime position on the fridge.
‘Oh, it’s too special for the fridge, darling. Why don’t you let me have it and I’ll take it to work with me?’
‘And mine?’ asks Massimo.
‘Yours, too, sweetheart,’ she replies. Clara notices me standing on the staircase then, and appears somewhat embarrassed. ‘Mia, how was your afternoon?’
‘It was great. Can I help you with anything else before I go?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, that will be all, thank you for all your effort. I can tell the boys are growing fond of you already. See you tomorrow.’
By the time I pass the officina, it’s already closed. Disappointment washes over me at the thought of having to wait until tomorrow to see Luca. But minutes later, my phone rings, and it’s him.
His smooth voice carries over the line. ‘So you survived your afternoon shift at the Balduccis’?’
‘I’m actually having a lot of fun with them. How was your afternoon?’
‘I had to go to Siena to pick up some spare parts for the officina. I’ll be leaving soon.’
This definitely means I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him again. ‘Oh,’ I reply, unsuccessfully hiding my disappointment.
Is this how love messes around with your head?
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘I wanted to see you again tonight, bella Mia,’ he says.
‘Me, too.’ I sigh.
TWELVE
‘Painter girl, I’ve got a surprise for you today,’ says Luca. We’re outside the officina, where almost every day for the past two weeks I’ve been meeting Luca during my afternoon break, unless he finishes early, in which case he waits for me outside the Balduccis’ front gate. Today we both have a day off. I trail behind him as he pulls up the roller door of the officina and leads me into the garage.
‘I thought this might make getting around a little easier for you,’ he says, lifting a cotton sheet off a vintage bicycle. A bunch of pink roses spills from the wicker basket at the front of the bike.
‘Oh my goodness! Really?’ I reach for the flowers and bring them up to my face. The floral scent mixes with the smell of grease and petrol as the soft petals tickle my nose.
A smile stretches across his face. ‘Yeah those, too.’ He laughs. ‘Hey, I thought we could go somewhere special today.’
‘You know, you said that yesterday. And the day before that,’ I tease, as my hands glide over the peach-coloured metal of my unexpected gift.
‘The Val d’Orcia. You up for a ride?’
‘Totally! Although I haven’t ridden a bike in years.’
‘Me either. Not this kind, anyway. Look at what you’re doing to me,’ he says.
Silvio pokes his head in and drops a woven basket at the door. ‘Have fun, amoretti!’ he calls, before darting back to the bar.
‘A picnic as well?’
‘Just trying to step it up, painter girl.’ He grabs the basket and places it in the boot of the car. Then he reaches for his bike and pauses before he lifts it onto the car’s rack. ‘You should blush like that more often. The colour suits you.’
He fixes our bikes onto the rack, and when he stops to wipe his brow, he catches me admiring him with a pensive gaze.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘You’re looking at me like that again.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re falling for me just as hard as I’m falling for you.’
I brush my hands over the loose strands of my hair as I try to find the right words.
‘It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything. Your eyes are doing all the talking, and they’re making things very clear.’ He opens the car door for me and waves his hand. ‘Signorina, once you’ve finished blushing, do let me know whether you’d like the roof open or closed,’ he says with a smile so radiant my heart starts pounding against my chest.
‘Open, please.’
We venture through Chianti, past vineyards and sweeping hills that blur as we pass them by while the warm Tuscan sun works on giving us the kind of sun-kissed glow that stamps the memories of summer onto our skin. Here the landscape spans from south of Siena to Mount Amiata, and when it flattens out Luca parks the car on the side of the road and we ride our bikes through the scenic villages of our timeless surroundings. Eventually, we stop near a stream, parking our bikes and setting up a picnic spot under the shade of a leafy tree. After lunch, and a little too much prosecco, I flick off my shoes and sit on the bank of the stream, picking wildflowers, while the cool water tickles my feet. Luca lies beside me, looking completely relaxed as usual. He must be rubbing off on me, because I can’t help feeling the same way.
‘It’s like time stands still whenever I’m with you. I love not having to be preoccupied with time,’ I say, slipping my fingers through his.
‘You don’t have to be preoccupied with time, Mia,’ he replies.
I start to pick the petals off the tiny purple flower in my hands. He rolls over so he’s facing me and props himself up on his elbow. He lifts up his glasses and looks me in the eyes. ‘I don’t think you’re as scared of dying as you think you are.’
I keep picking at the flower until all that’s left is the stem. And then I start on another. Luca has an uncanny way of getting into my head. I sit up and try to wriggle away from him, not in the mood for this kind of confrontation.
‘Why did you come here, Mia?’
My muscles tense as I look away uncomfortably. I don’t want to answer him.
‘I don’t know,’ I say eventually with a sigh. I look up at the sky and watch as a cloud resembling a dolphin morphs into a hummingbird.
‘Why did you come here?’ he asks again, his tone firm.
‘I told you, I don’t know,’ I reply hotly, as I swallow past the enormous lump that’s formed in my throat.
‘Close your eyes.’ He takes my hand in his and places it on my chest. ‘I know that this is difficult for you.’
‘Then why can’t you just let it go?’
He leans in close and whispers, ‘Trust me,’ as his warm lips brush my ear. Gradually, my irritation fades and my body softens at his closeness. ‘I want you to see it for yourself.’
‘See what for
myself?’ I ask, searching his eyes for answers.
‘That you’re not as broken as you think. It wouldn’t have been easy for you to come here on your own after everything you’ve been through. But you did.’
I take a deep breath and think back to how hard I had to fight to get here, how I left my mum and dad after everything I’d put them through.
‘There was no joy in my life, and I didn’t know how to find it again. I thought that by coming here I could show myself that I could learn how to not be so scared of dying. I just knew that I wanted to feel happy and fulfilled again. I felt like a completely different person after the cancer. I felt … really, really empty.’
‘Do you still feel that way?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t. Since I got here, and met you and started painting again, I feel full. Fuller than I’ve ever felt before.’
‘So there it is.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not broken, Mia. In all of this, you have a choice. You can choose to embrace the life you are creating for yourself now. Or you can continue to use that figure of ten per cent as the thing that torments you day and night. If you put off your happiness for the day you get a hundred per cent survival rate, you’ll never be truly free and happy.’
In many ways, Luca’s right. I have been gripping tightly to my past. ‘You make letting go of all that fear sound so easy.’
‘Mia, if you didn’t have to think about the ten per cent, what would you be doing? How would you be living your life?’
‘I’d learn to scuba dive. I’d study art and make new friends, and I wouldn’t be scared that I would start studying and not be able to finish. I’d share my work without worrying about whether other people would see the sadness in my strokes.’
‘What else?’
I bite my lip. ‘That’s it. What makes you think there’s something else?’
‘Because Stella told me you’re still having nightmares.’
‘Not as often as before.’
‘What’s scaring you?’
‘I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s just drop it.’
‘Why?’
I feel into that tender place for the words. ‘Because I don’t want to think about the fact that I could be responsible for hurting the people around me, Luca—the people who love me and care about me.’
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