She was barely presentable—long painter’s coat, rolled-up khakis, T-shirt, long hair in a ponytail, and paint-splattered canvas shoes—but the delivery guy wouldn’t care, and she didn’t either.
She almost smiled when she saw him—Italian, fantastic bone structure, tall, muscular, mid-thirties, a hundred-watt smile, and deep brown eyes that told a story. She immediately knew he was an old soul, and he reminded her of Watin. She could trust this guy.
“Miss Orsini, I’m Gabriele.”
“Come in. Just set the packages on the shelf.”
He turned and looked at her, shaking his head. “If they go upstairs, that’s where I’ll take them.”
She didn’t want a stranger in her living space. “This is fine.”
He didn’t insist, simply set the packages down where she indicated. “Your street is on my route, so I’ll be doing most of your deliveries. I also run errands if you need something dropped off. Or,” he glanced around, “if you need heavy equipment or furniture moved, I’ll do whatever the customer requires.”
“I don’t have anything right now, but it’s good to know.” She moved toward the door. “Until next time, Gabriele. Thank you.” The message was clear. It was time for him to go.
Now she had food and paint, she didn’t need anything else.
For the next three days, she barely slept. On the fourth day, she needed more paint. She filled out the form and placed the order. Four hours later he showed up at her back door with the paint, a smile, and a daisy.
“Thank you,” she said, sniffing the flower.
“I thought it might make you smile.”
Several days later she needed canvas, fruit, and fresh bread. She considered going out and getting what she needed, but it required dressing, and if she saw one of her students it could get very awkward. So she placed an order, and a few hours later, Gabriele stood at her back door.
“Do you mind bringing the box of paint into the studio?”
“Not a bit.” He followed her in and stopped at a portrait of Thomas and the girls. “Who are these people?”
“Thomas Jefferson and his daughters Patsy and Polly.”
“Thomas Jefferson? The third president of the United States?”
She nodded.
“It looks like they were right here sitting for you. This painting is amazing. The colors, the detail. It’s in France, right?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I recognized the gate. I’ve seen something similar in Paris.”
“Well, you’re very observant.”
He smiled and sort of ducked his head. “I try to be. So can I take this fruit upstairs? Or do you plan to eat it now?”
“It’s for later,” she said. “But you can go ahead and leave it on the counter in the kitchen.”
She returned to her painting. When Gabriele came back down, he was tucking his phone into his pocket. “Do you have another pickup?” she asked.
“Si. Down the street. What would I do without a phone?” He stopped in front of another painting. “Who’s this guy?”
“Alexander Hamilton.”
“The dude on the American ten-dollar bill who died in a duel?”
She tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out that way. It was more of a snort. “You either know your American history or your American money.”
“Little bit of both. Goodbye, Miss Orsini. I’ll let myself out.”
“Gabriele.” He stopped and looked back at her.
“Call me Sophia. It looks like we’ll be seeing each other regularly. Actually, you’re the only person I do see.”
“Anytime, Sophia.” He gave her his killer smile again and left through the back door.
As the weeks passed, the weather changed, the finished paintings filled up more and more space, and she and Gabriele spent more time together, eating lunch at the corner restaurant, sharing gelato in the afternoon, or going to Sunday Mass. He told her about his girlfriend and his interest in wine. He never asked her personal questions, and all she offered about herself was her passion for painting.
One day during the second week in December, he came in and found her on the floor crying beneath a painting of her and Pete sitting at a large table surrounded by a group of smiling people.
Gabriele sat down next to her and put his arm around her. “Madonna, what happened? Are you hurt? Talk to me?”
She swiped at her tear-streaked face. “You’re the only person I’ve talked to in months.” Her voice cracked as she continued crying. “I’ve put everyone off. I missed my American Thanksgiving. Christmas is around the corner, and I miss my family. I miss the people…I love.”
Gabriele pointed at the painting. “Are those the people in the painting?”
“Yes,” she said, taking in big gasps of air, her chest heaving as she sobbed.
“I haven’t seen this one before. When did you paint it?”
“Just…now,” she said between gasps.
He chuckled. “You’re good, but not that good.”
“I-I started it yesterday and j-just finished.”
“Which means you haven’t eaten or slept in twenty-four hours.”
“T-thirty s-six.”
He grabbed a box of tissues off the worktable and used one to dry her face. “You know that’s not good for you.”
“I-I know. But this picture flashed in my mind, and I-I had to paint it. I j-just now signed it.”
He brushed her hair back off her face and tucked it behind her ears. “So did you drop to the floor in exhaustion?”
“N-No. I looked at it and saw what I’d painted.”
He smiled. “I thought you normally looked at what you painted.”
She smacked his arm. “This was different.” She grabbed a tissue from the box and wiped her face. “I was in a painter’s zone. It’s never happened to me before. My hand developed a mind of its own, and I wasn’t really aware of what I was painting. Then my hand just quit. The brush dropped to the floor. I stepped back and got a good look. When I saw what I’d painted, I collapsed.”
“It’s incredible. The lighting in the vineyard is amazing. The pasta, cheese, vegetables, and bread on the table look real enough to eat. The grapes look juicy, and I can taste the wine in the glasses. I guess since you’re in a wedding gown, it’s your wedding feast. So who’s the lucky groom? It certainly isn’t the redheaded fellow you’ve been painting for months. Whoever it is, I’m jealous.”
“It’s the wedding feast I never had. The one I always wanted. The two people on my left are my parents. They’re dead now.”
“You look exactly like your mother, Madonna. She’s stunning.”
“People often asked me if we were sisters. I loved her so much. We were always together. Something happened to her when I was born, and she could never have more children. So she doted on me. I always confided in her. She had such high expectations for me to go to college and graduate school and be successful in a career I loved.” Sophia blew her nose. “I disappointed her.”
“How could anybody be disappointed in you? You’re talented, loving, and bellissimo inside and out. If your mother was alive today, she’d be so proud of you.”
“I shouldn’t have pressured Pete—he’s the guy in the painting. I pressured him to elope, and everything went to hell from there. I just wanted to be with him. I couldn’t stand it. It was like that from the first day I met him.”
She wiped her face, and sniffled. “We were so much alike—our dreams, goals, the very core of who we were as individuals and as a couple. We grew up in the same Italian Catholic neighborhood in the city. I didn’t care about anything but him.”
“How old were you?
“Sixteen when we met. Just turned seventeen when we had sex for the first time. It was almost a spiritual experience, like we were joining souls and becoming one being. I’ve never had a feeling like it since.” She smiled at Gabriele. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“No, it sounds like you were very much
in love. So what about this guy? Where is he now?”
“I’m not sure. But he never remarried, and he still loves me, or he did a few months ago. And I’m still in love with him. I never truly stopped.”
“Then why are you sitting here on the floor? Call him. There’s a wedding feast waiting to happen.”
“He thinks I’m dead.”
A laugh rumbled through Gabriele. “Then he’ll have the surprise of a lifetime when he hears your voice.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Here, you can use my phone.”
She waved it away. “No, not right now. And I don’t know how to reach him anyway. After the holidays, I’ll track him down. Maybe we can meet in London. He said he was in and out of there every few weeks. The city would be neutral territory. Or maybe we could meet in Scotland. I want to go by my late grandfather’s law office anyway, so that might be a good place to meet.”
“Don’t wait. L’ amore chiama.”
“If love is calling, I know I shouldn’t wait, but I will. I need a week at a spa and several weeks at the gym, and my hair needs to be cut and colored, and my nails—”
“A man in love doesn’t care about any of those things.”
“Maybe not, but I do. He hasn’t seen me…I mean, seen me undressed…in twenty years.”
“Men don’t care. He’ll want you just as you are.”
Sophia’s heart lifted. “I’m glad you said that. But I’m still going to do it my way. A month or two won’t make any difference.”
“If you need any help, I know a great personal trainer who’ll be glad to get you in shape.”
“I might need him.” She stood, picked up the brush, and placed it on the work table. “I don’t know what I would have done without you these past few months. But now that you’ve listened to me and dried my tears, what can I do for you? Do you want me to paint your portrait or your girlfriend’s?”
“Leave a good review. That’s enough.”
“I’ve already written five.”
His eyes twinkled. “Madonna, a business can never have too many good reviews.”
“I know I’m just a customer, but you’ve been a good friend to me since the first day you came to my door.”
“It’s been an honor and a pleasure to come here and watch your paintings and you come alive.” He studied her for a moment and then said, “May I give you a hug? I think you need one.”
She didn’t wait for him but threw her arms around his neck. “God, do I. Thank you, Gabriele.” She lingered in his arms, it felt so good to be held. Then she straightened and followed him to the back door. “Until next time.”
He kissed her cheeks. “You’re amazing. And I can’t wait to see how different your life will be this time next year.”
She smiled. “I can’t either.”
47
Florence, Italy—Sophia
Two days later, Gabriele knocked on Sophia’s back door right on time with her delivery. When she opened it, she gasped, “Jack Mallory!”
He wrapped her in his arms and swung her around. “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”
When he set her down, she looked at him, then Gabriele, then back at Jack. She was flabbergasted. “How long have you known I was here?”
Jack scratched his nose, stared at the floor, glanced around the room, all the while Gabriele leaned against the work bench with his arms folded, smiling.
Jack scratched the back of his neck. “Well, it’s like this. Your initials disappeared from the dining room window shortly after we returned. I looked in General Mallory’s journal and discovered you’d drowned. If the entry hadn’t mentioned Mr. MacKlenna and Mr. Digby, I might have believed it, but with those two as witnesses, it didn’t smell right. There was no way to find out if you’d come back without calling and I didn’t want to do that. I figured if you wanted us to know you’d reach out.”
Her head jerked, and she glared at Gabriele. “You know him? You tricked me? How could you? We’re friends.” She dropped onto an extra painting stool in the storeroom, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m speechless.” Gabriele started to move toward her, but she held up her hand, palm out. “You have some explaining to do.”
“Don’t blame Gabe,” Jack said.
She shot Jack a look, her nostrils flaring. “Shhh!”
Gabriele crossed his arms, uncrossed them, put his hands on his hips, dropped them to his sides, then finally gave up and shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s like this, Madonna. I emigrated from Italy a few years before I met Jack’s wife in New York City in the year 1909.”
Sophia’s jaw dropped. “You’re a—”
“Traveler? Yes, I am. We had quite an adventure. At the end of it, Jack asked me if I wanted to go home with them. I said yes. After a couple of years getting acclimated, Elliott Fraser sent me here to manage the company’s vineyards in Tuscany, and I love it. I’ve never been happier.”
“So you don’t really work for a delivery service?”
Gabriele shook his head. “When Jack called and described the situation, he said to use my imagination and find a way to check in on you regularly. But I didn’t want to impose. It was best to let you take the lead and decide how much interaction you wanted.”
She gave Jack a hard look. “So why are you here now? I’ve been back for months.”
“Gabe said it was time to let you know we knew you were back, and it was time to let Pete know you’re here.”
She gasped, her heart pounding. “You told him?”
Shock jumped in Jack’s eyes. “No! The news has to come from you, not me.”
“Then if it’s up to me, I’m not ready.”
“We’re not here to push you, only to press Pete’s case in his absence.” Jack walked to the door leading to the studio. “And while you’re thinking about it, can I take a look in there?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” She followed him into the studio.
“Holy shit!” Jack walked around the room, studying all the paintings. “Gabe said you were in a painting frenzy. I asked for pictures, but he wouldn’t send any. He said nobody could see them until you were ready. They’re amazing. Are you having an exhibition?”
“I’d like to, but I decided to finish the collection before I send out inquiries. I’d like to do something in America.”
Jack’s eyes twinkled. “I have an idea that will stand the art world on its head.” He continued looking at the paintings. “I can’t say anything yet but hold off on sending out inquiries. You won’t need to. I got this under control.”
She looked at him curiously, her head to one side. “Give me a hint?”
“Nope, but first there’s a trip I’d like to arrange. Are you available next week?”
“I guess,” she said.
“Good, pack warm clothes. Gabe will make all the arrangements and have a plane here to get you. He’ll travel with you, too.”
“I don’t want to cause a problem with his girlfriend.”
Jack waved his hand. “If Gabe ever settles down with one woman—hell, I’ll even give him two women—it would shock the entire family.”
Sophia frowned at Gabe. “So I guess we’ll spend our travel time finding out what else you lied about.”
“I figured if you believed I had a girlfriend you wouldn’t feel pressured or threatened.”
“Gabriele, I learned within a week that you are completely full of it. But I love you anyway.”
His chest rose and fell in a long sigh. “I was afraid you’d hate me when you learned the truth.”
She shook her head. “I could never hate you. Get mad, yes, but never hate you.”
The relief in his voice sounded real when he said, “Lying to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I did it for Pete, and now he owes me.” Gabriele winked at her. “Payback’s hell.”
“You need to get back to the winery,” Jack said. “According to Meredith, you no longer have an excuse to delay the reports you owe her.”
Gabriele snapp
ed his fingers. “Damn.” He and Jack did a fist bump. “Catch you later, bro. You too, Madonna.”
Jack made a face. “Wait. What’s this Madonna crap?”
“I’m a nineteenth-century Italian, remember?”
“So it wouldn’t be appropriate if I called her that?”
Gabriele rolled his eyes. “Ciao, caro.”
Sophia kissed his cheeks. “Call me tomorrow.”
After Gabriele left, Sophia said, “Come upstairs. I’ll open a bottle of wine and show you my art collection.”
“I’ll have to get Elliott on the phone. He told me if I got to see a da Vinci, he better be on the phone to enjoy the experience vicariously.”
She squeezed his hand. “When did you last see Pete?”
“He left for Australia shortly after we returned. I’ve seen him on video conference calls, but I haven’t talked to him. Elliott, Gabe, and I are the only ones who know you came back, and none of us have told him.”
She led the way to the kitchen and picked out a perfect wine to drink while viewing a one-of-a-kind art collection. “Pete would know the truth if he googled Jefferson.”
“Maybe. But he’s not the type to rub salt in an open wound. He won’t look.” She presented the bottle, label side up, for Jack’s approval. “Excellent choice. A Montgomery Winery chardonnay. Meredith would be pleased.”
“My local shop ordered this for me, and it’s been selling out since the owner first stocked a couple of bottles.” Sophia opened it and poured two glasses. “Here’s to da Vinci.” They clinked glasses. “Are you going to call Elliott?”
“Damn.” Jack punched in a number on his phone and put it on speaker, but the call went to voicemail. “You missed it, Elliott. I’m about to see a da Vinci.”
Sophia sipped her wine. “Should we wait?”
“Hell no. He lost out. So…open Sesame.”
She pushed the lever to open the wall. The lights came on, revealing the paintings.
“I’m speechless.”
“I’m sure that’s a first.” They walked toward the collection in a surreal stillness.
“Where did the sixth one come from?”
She picked up the remote and punched a button to activate the audio system. The sounds of a Mozart symphony quickly filled the room. “I’m surprised your spy didn’t tell you when it arrived. I went crazy and cried all afternoon.”
The Pearl Brooch Page 60