He led me to the parapet; stone balustrades at the end of the park guarding a steep drop over a deep, rocky ravine; trees dipping fronded branches over a slatted bench.

‘Do you recognise it, Edie?’

‘How could I? I’ve never been here before.’

‘Go and stand by the balustrade,’ Joe said. ‘No, this way a bit, over there, by that lamp post. Stand with your hands on the stone and lean forward a little, now turn your head to the left, like you’re looking back at me. Smile. That’s it. That’s perfect.’

He raised his phone high and then came over to show me the photograph he’d taken.

‘Recognise it now?’

I did.

The photograph was a recreation of the painting of Anna I’d found in the wardrobe at the villa. I was posing in the same position as she had, in exactly the same spot, under the trees, beside the balustrade. The hairs on my arm stood on end.

It was an odd sensation, knowing that my mother-in-law had been standing exactly where I was now when she was less than half my age. Time had passed, years and years and years, but the stone would have felt as warm beneath the palms of her hands as it was beneath mine. The view would have been the same, or very similar; the breeze would have whispered through the leaves of the trees in the gardens in the same gentle, unobtrusive manner; she’d have heard the starlings’ chatter and smelled the same smells. The years collapsed away. I lost track of where Anna ended and I began.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes. Yeah, I just…’ I tailed off. I felt a pang of sadness for Anna and as I didn’t enjoy feeling any kind of sympathy towards her, I shook it off.

We made our way back downhill and returned to the piazza at the front of the Duomo. The sun was lower in the sky now, the shops were reopening and the square was busy again.

Joe and I ate slices of pizza at a pavement café. We watched the pigeons and the tourists on the Montalbano trail. I was sipping espresso affogato from a teaspoon when a shadow fell across our table; I looked up to see Valentina Barsi standing nervously a few feet away from us, clutching her bag to her chest, balancing it against her pregnancy. Francesco was a few feet behind his mother, eating a hot dog that was oozing mustard and ketchup, trying to catch the overspill in a paper napkin he held in the palm of his free hand.

‘Joe?’ Valentina spoke anxiously.

Joe jumped to his feet so quickly that the chair fell over behind him. He and Valentina greeted one another the traditional way, a kiss on each cheek, and then he invited the two of them to join us.