“I’m finishing the San Giovanni Crisostomo altarpiece.”

“Another Bellini? You’re going to make quite a name for yourself.”

“I already have.”

Gabriel’s last restoration, Bellini’s San Zaccaria altarpiece, had ignited a sensation in the art world and set the standard against which all future Bellini restorations would be judged.

“Isn’t Tiepolo’s firm handling the Crisostomo project?”

Gabriel nodded. “I’m working exclusively for Francesco now, more or less.”

“He can’t afford you.”

“I like working in Venice, Julian. He pays me enough to make ends meet. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly living the way I did when I was doing my apprenticeship with Umberto.”

“From what I hear, you’ve been a busy boy lately. According to the rumor mill, they nearly took the San Zaccaria altarpiece away from you because you left Venice on a personal matter.”

“You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Julian.”

“Oh, really. I also hear that you’re shacked up in a palazzo in Cannaregio with a lovely young woman named Chiara.”

The sharp look, delivered over the rim of a wineglass, confirmed for Isherwood that the rumors of Gabriel’s romantic entanglement were true.

“Does the child have a last name?”

“Her family name is Zolli, and she’s not a child.”

“Is it true her father is the chief rabbi of Venice?”

“He’s the only rabbi in Venice. It’s not exactly a thriving community. The war ended that.”

“Does she know about your other line of work?”

“She’s Office, Julian.”

“Just promise me you’re not going to break this girl’s heart like all the others,” Isherwood said. “My God, the women you’ve let slip through your fingers. I still have the most marvelous fantasies about that creature Jacqueline Delacroix.”

Gabriel leaned forward across the table, his face suddenly quite serious. “I’m going to marry her, Julian.”

“And Leah?” Isherwood asked gently. “What are you planning to do about Leah?”

“I have to tell her. I’m going to see her tomorrow morning.”

“Will she understand?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure, but I owe it to her.”

“God forgive me for saying this, but you owe it to yourself. It’s time you got on with your life. I don’t need to remind you that you’re not a boy of twenty-five anymore.”

“You’re not the one who has to look her in the eye and tell her that you’re in love with another woman.”

“Forgive my impertinence. It’s the burgundy talking—and the Rubens. Want some company? I’ll drive you down.”

“No,” said Gabriel. “I need to go alone.”

The first course arrived. Isherwood tucked into his bisque. Gabriel speared a piece of lettuce.

“What kind of fee did you have in mind for the Rubens cleaning?”

“Off the top of my head? Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand pounds.”