The Artist's Love (Her Perfect Man Contemporary Romance)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  “Okay so, again, what part of the sky has fallen?”

  I sigh and look in her eyes. “My brother called me yesterday.”

  I tell her everything that happened, from hearing about John’s arrest to me walking out on Salvatore at the restaurant. She silently shakes her head, seemingly disturbed.

  “It’s me, Elsa. I pick the wrong men, and on top of that, I’m turning out to be just like my selfish mother. You know who raised me during my formidable years? Cora May, my nanny. And my mom fired her when I was eleven because I accidentally called Cora my mother in front of her,” I say so fast that my head is spinning.

  She puts her hand on mine. “I am very sorry, Liza.”

  I look away, biting down on my back teeth. “And John… I killed my father by marrying him.”

  “No,” she says quickly. I turn to face her, and she’s waving her finger at me. “You cannot take the blame for what that man has done. People are people, and life holds no guarantees.”

  I look at her, confused.

  “What I am saying is, there are all sorts of people in this world. Many are good, many are bad, but for the most part, we are all both good and bad. And we will cross paths with the bad ones—we must. The numbers support it. If those bad people hurt you or the ones you love, then it is not your fault as much as a lesson. You grow, and you don’t go back for more.”

  “But I went back for more.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “You are not with him now.”

  “He left me, remember?”

  Elsa shakes her head. “That is not how I remember it. He tried to steal your inheritance, and when you heard about it, you left him. That was your choice.”

  My eyebrows furrow. I guess she’s right.

  Elsa continues studying me, then lets out a sharp sigh. “We will talk more later. First…” She hands me the folded sheet of paper she showed me earlier.

  I take it and unfold the sheet. On it is scribbled a telephone number and address. I look at Elsa, my eyes narrowed.

  “That is Gianfranco Guardi’s telephone number and address.”

  “The Gianfranco Guardi? The famous artist with the most beautiful estate in this part of the country? The Gianfranco Guardi who has said no seven times to our request for a tour and interview?”

  “He also said no to TV Ora.”

  “How did you get him to say yes?” I ask.

  “The butler called this morning to say he’ll do it.”

  My grin grows, and I sit back victoriously in my seat. “Talk about the light at the end of the tunnel!”

  Elsa follows in kind. “Yes. What you said.” She nods at me. “Call. Now.”

  “Right now?” I’m a little panicked.

  If we get this interview signed, sealed, and delivered, then my “street cred” will go up. Gianfranco Guardi says yes, and everyone will follow. The Guardi estate is still a mystery to most people. It was bought by the “infamous” painter Francesco Guardi and has been handed down through the generations. Rumors say that Francesco’s spirit still haunts the halls, and that’s why Gianfranco, the current owner, rarely lets anyone in. I’ve heard that he hosts dinners, but they’re only for his close friends and colleagues, of which I am neither.

  “Yes. Now.”

  I bop my head giddily as I pick up the phone and dial the number.

  7

  I hang up the phone and look at Elsa with wide eyes.

  “What?” she asks, sitting on the edge of her seat.

  I nod incessantly. “I can do the interview, but it has to be today in…” I check my watch. “Three hours.”

  Elsa scratches her head, then looks from me to Aiden as though she’s deliberating. “Okay. I will watch the baby. Now go. Go quickly.” She shoos me away.

  The crew and I have been driving for an hour to the Guardi estate, and now we’re making our way up an unpaved road. The ride is bumpy, and we’re all trying to keep anything from falling on our heads and killing us before we can nail the interview of a lifetime.

  My phone rings. I consider not answering it, but it might be Gianfranco calling to change his mind. In that case, should I answer it? Getting all the way up to the estate only to watch Arianna Pacheco of TV Ora and her crew doing my interview would be embarrassing.

  “Are you going to answer?” Michael, the sound technician, says.

  I think he’s tired of hearing my phone ring. I fish it out of my purse and look at the screen. It’s Salvatore.

  I take one deep, cleansing sigh. “Pronto.”

  “Ciao, bella!” he sings as if nothing contentious occurred between us last night.

  “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  The van shakes violently after striking a hole. Lupo, the cameraman, raises a hand to steady the equipment stacked to the side of me.

  “Easy,” Lupo says to Virgil, the driver and light technician.

  “I know, I know,” Virgil says, navigating the production truck around a hairpin turn.

  I place my phone back to my ear. “So what do you want?”

  “I was just calling to say hello and see how you were doing?”

  The van swings through another tight turn.

  “I’m better,” I snap.

  He pauses. “I want to see you.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I want to shout that I’m not giving him any money, but I don’t want the other guys to hear me. I would be too embarrassed.

  “I am sorry to hear about your husband. I was, as they say, selfish.”

  The truck hits another hole, and we fly out of our seats.

  “Cazzo!” Lupo yells.

  “Provo a fare del mio megilo!” Virgil barks back, saying he’s trying his best.

  “Is all okay?” Salvatore asks.

  “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later.” I hang up before he can say another word.

  Michael and Lupo watch me as if they expect me to give them the rundown. My crew of men is a nosy bunch—nosier than women in most cases.

  “There is trouble in paradise?” Lupo asks.

  I scrunch my face and groan.

  “Look on the bright side. Virgil might kill us, and we will soon go to heaven.”

  We hit something else and pop out of our seats again, and Michael and Lupo yell at Virgil. The van peels around the corner, nearly cresting the top of the hillside, and finally the road levels out.

  I finish reading over my questions as we pull into the driveway of Gianfranco’s estate. It looks like a castle, although not as intimidating. The sun clings to its gray stone façade. I step out of the van and onto the cobblestone driveway, which is a light tan.

  Virgil has already come around to the back, and he, Lupo, Michael, and the three assistants who followed us in a separate car unload the equipment. The other crew members complain about how fast Virgil was driving on the way up.

  I look across the grounds. They are… I don’t know how to describe it… complex. Overwhelmingly, I’m struck by intrigue. “Where do you want us to take this?” Virgil asks, standing in the front of the van. His arms are full of equipment, and he patiently awaits my instructions.

  “Liza?” Lupo says, now standing next to Virgil. His body is also strapped with equipment.

  “Yes.” I snap out of my daze and look at the large, muted red wooden doors. “This way.”

  I scurry toward the front doors and rap on one with the large metal knocker in the form of a crest. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach as my crew and I wait for someone to answer. I turn toward Michael and Virgil and shrug.

  I have no idea what to expect. I mean, the estate is too large for only one man. Does Gianfranco even accept guests at the front door? I’m about to suggest we go around to the back when the sound of a large latch rattles from the inside. With every passing second, the warmth I felt when arriving turns ever so mildly into an abundant chill.

  The door creaks open.

  “Yes?” says a man who looks like Lurch from The Addams Family.

>   I gulp nervously. “We’re from TV Adesso… for the interview.”

  He looks us over curiously. “Right this way,” he says in an English accent.

  I smirk at the idea of an Italian castle with an English butler. However, as soon as I step into the entryway and my eyes adjust to the opulence, I wipe that smirk right off my lips.

  We follow his tall and stately figure down a wide hallway with marble floors and portraits of men from the past hanging on the walls. He ushers us into a large and bright room off to the right. It’s clear to me why we’re in this room. The beautiful woodwork, elegant furnishings, and lavish silk window coverings add prominence to the room. The almost two-story windows accented with brilliant stained glass allow the sun to dance around the room. It’s traditionally decorated, but I’m struck by a feeling of warmth. If, as the rumors say, Francesco Guardi’s ghost haunts this castle, then he must be a friendly ghost.

  “So this is a lovely room. I guess we can do the sit-down interview in here,” I say to the butler.

  His mundane expression doesn’t change. “I guess.”

  “So…”

  “Signor Guardi will join you soon,” he says.

  I nod. “Grazie.”

  He backs into the hallway, leaving us alone. The crew and I stand in the middle of the room, looking at each other. Like me, they probably can’t believe we’re here. This interview with Gianfranco Guardi is biggest in my career as the host and producer of my own show.

  We get the interview spot set up by the large windows and patiently await Gianfranco’s entrance. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass, and we’re still waiting. More time passes. Now Virgil is moving around the room, picking up things he probably shouldn’t touch. I’m too incensed to ask if he can please cool it before he breaks something. Finally, he sits with a huge sigh, allowing his body to fall loosely into the plush furniture. Only his arm flaps against the table next to the chair, making it rock, and the vase on top of it crashes to the floor.

  The room turns so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  Virgil looks at me with wide eyes.

  I sigh and propel myself out of my chair. “I’ll go find someone to help with this.”

  I step out of the room and wander down different halls. I feel as if I’m walking through a museum. The stone floor is a labyrinth of shapes forming a pathway. Off to my left is another hall.

  I come to a large passage on my right and walk down it until I reach a room with the same magnificence of the one I just left. I’m captivated by a large painting on the wall—it must be ten or twelve feet tall, and several feet wide. A man sits atop a ladder, about halfway up the canvas, studying it. In one hand he’s holding a paintbrush, and the other clutches the step of a ladder. He’s wearing blue, paint-stained jeans and a white T-shirt. The light coming in from the window illuminates the muscles across a portion of his back and arms. His profile makes him look angelic and rather youthful, yet his posture and other features strike me as those of a beautiful and mature man. The room smells of paint. After I shake off the effect the man has on me, I’m awestricken by the vision of light, color, form, and shadow on the art before me.

  “Excuse me?” My body leans forward, only half committed to entering the room without his blessing.

  His head turns fiercely, and my body reclines. Suddenly his hardened eyes soften like a flower opening to the sun. He turns his upper body in my direction, and now I can see his chest clearly defined, and completely complementing the rest of his form.

  “You must be…”

  I gulp nervously. “Liza, Liza Patrick.”

  My feet walk me into the room without his or my permission. I’m squinting because the light from the window is somewhat blinding.

  “Oh, yes.” He dances down the scaffold.

  My heart thumps in anticipation of standing face to face with him. His feet reach the floor. He turns and approaches. I’m overwhelmed by a warm wave of emotion I’ve never felt before.

  “I’m Gianfranco Guardi.” He holds his hand out for me.

  I complete the handshake, dazed.

  “Well,” he says, “what do you think?”

  “I’m sorry.” I place my hand over my chest. “I mean, to what are you referring?” I’m still distracted by his brilliant green eyes with orange flecks.

  “You are the first, and only, to see it. So. What do you think?”

  “The painting?”

  “Si.”

  “It’s…” I let my gaze caress the canvas. “It’s beautiful.”

  He folds his arms. “How so?”

  I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer. Our interview was supposed to start over an hour ago, then I find him in this room, standing on a scaffold, studying his painting without even thinking about joining us in the room his butler stuffed us in.

  “Um, you do know that I’m supposed to interview you and you’re supposed to take my crew and me on a tour of your estate?”

  He studies me with furrowed brows.

  Suddenly, I’m struck by a thought. “Unless it was a prank.” Fucking TV Ora. By the look on his face, I’m positive they set us up.

  Gianfranco shakes his head. “It's not a prank. We will start the interview.”

  I sigh with relief. “Good.” I sigh again. “Also, I broke one of your vases.” I figure I should take the blame.

  “Okay. But what do you do think of my work?” He furrows his brows.

  With the way he’s looking at me, I can hardly breathe. “I’m stuck by your beauty.” I look to my side before taking a breath and looking back at him. “I mean, I’m struck by its beauty. Are you finished with it?”

  He looks at it, then he redirects his brilliant eyes back to me. Again, my heart skips a beat.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  I spin around and see the butler behind me, wearing a grimace.

  I thumb toward the door like a child who’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I broke a vase. I was trying to find you.”

  “As you can see, I am not in here.”

  “All is well, Luther,” Gianfranco says. “Please show Miss Patrick back to the room. I will make myself ready for the interview.”

  “This way,” Luther says. He still sounds pissed to have found me here.

  I don’t hesitate to follow, nor do I look back, although I think I can feel Gianfranco’s eyes on me.

  When I make it back to the room, my crew looks far more relaxed. Everyone is drinking a beverage in a sweaty glass and eating cheese and crackers.

  I look at the floor where the vase once lay in pieces.

  “He picked it up,” Michael says.

  Lupo throws up his hands. “So where have you been?”

  I walk across the room to pick my sheet of questions up off the chair. “Let’s get ready. He’s on the way.”

  Everyone puts their snacks and drinks down to ready the cameras, lights, and portable audio drone that Michael uses to capture voices on the go. Gianfranco walks into the room just in time. He’s changed from what looked to be his play clothing into a suit appropriate for a movie star on the red carpet. His presence steals the attention in the room.

  “Shall we begin?” he asks, looking around at my crew and me.

  I shift on my feet. “We’re ready for the tour.”

  I’m waiting to see that wonderful smile and inviting gaze he showed me a while ago, but now he can hardly look me in the eyes.

  He says, “Then we should start.”

  As we go from room to room, I think he’s pretty impressed that I know the history of his castle and relatives, but he doesn’t really say more than “ah, I see” or “that is nice.” In the garden door, our hands accidentally touch, and he pulls away from me as if I have the cooties. I have no idea what happened to the charming man I met earlier. I want him back. He would be a far better interviewee than the one I have.

  An hour later, we’re finally back where we started.

  “Is that it?” he asks.
>
  I smile to try to make him feel comfortable and point at the area where Virgil has positioned the key light, fill light, and spotlight around the two chairs where Gianfranco and I will sit. “Could you please join me for a wrap-up interview?”

  “That is fine.” He walks to the chair, sits, and two assistants, Raphael and Pablo, gets him mic’d up.

  I think for a second. Have I ever experienced a man like this before? I mentally search through the relatively small catalog of men I’ve had in my life.

  “Liza?” Michael says.

  I snap out of my head. “Yes.”

  “We must also get you mic’d.”

  “Oh, right.” I get a grip and rush over to sit next to Gianfranco. I have to remember that it’s my job to make my subject comfortable. “Are you ready, Signor Guardi?” I ask with a smile.

  “Please call me Gianfranco.”

  I tilt my head, taken by surprise. I’ve been calling him Signor Guardi during the entire tour, and now he wants me to call him Gianfranco? That’s strange.

  “Okay,” I say. “Gianfranco, this won’t take long.”

  He smiles tightly.

  “We’ll begin filming in thirty seconds,” Lupo says.

  I tear my eyes away from Gianfranco’s captivating gaze. “Thank you.”

  Gianfranco’s knees nearly touch mine. I catch him looking at my knees, protruding from the hem of my skirt.

  I shift ever so slightly and look at Lupo. “Are you ready?”

  He nods and flips the switch on the light. “Action.”

  I take a deep breath in preparation for looking into Gianfranco’s eyes. I look and am disarmed by what I see. This, I know I’ve never seen. Not with any guy. Not with my dad, my brother, and certainly not with John or Salvatore. I feel as if I’m seeing Gianfranco’s soul, unbridled and without any constraints. I feel open, almost ashamed. But his welcoming gaze presses on and ever-so-gently inward. Closing myself off from such a gracious and unsolicited gift would be rude.

  I steady myself. “So, Signor Guardi.”

  He lifts a hand. “Gianfranco.”

  I look nervously at my interview notes and back at him. “Gianfranco. Thank you for hosting us today.”