Suddenly, she was crying, tears coming fast and hot. She told herself to get a grip, but she knew why she was crying and she could not stop.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around so fast she almost lost her balance.

“Scusi,” said an elderly nun all in white, face soft, expression kind, almost as if she had come to life from the painting. “Stai bene?”

“Oh, yes…fine…” Alex stuttered. She managed to thank the woman, then headed out of the chapel fast. Perhaps, she thought, this was an omen that she too needed to perform good works. But she was, in a way, wasn’t she?

23

I opened the door to my hotel room and stopped, hit by an intense smell of tobacco, and saw the newspaper article I had propped on the mantel along with the mug shot of Peruggia, both lying on the floor. I didn’t move for a moment, taking in the small space. There weren’t many places to hide—the bathroom, under the bed? I checked both, then set the article back in place and wedged the photo deeper into the mirror’s frame. I made sure the window was closed, which it was, so it hadn’t been a breeze that sent those things to the floor.

Had someone been in here? The maid?

But the bed hadn’t been made, and a towel still draped over the tub where I had left it in the morning. I went back to the window, opened it, and peered into the alley, dark and quiet. No one but Spider-Man could scale this wall. Even as a teenager who had scrambled over walls and chain-link fences, I’d never have been able to climb something this steep. I closed the window and locked it, tried to shrug off the queasy feeling of invasion, told myself things fell down all the time.

I finally relaxed enough to eat the slice of pizza I’d bought from a street vendor, washed it down with lukewarm Pellegrino, and thought about my three hours at the library. I got out the notes I’d made, fearing I would not remember as it had been hard to concentrate, Alexandra’s kiss loitering in my mind and on my lips, my mind doing somersaults: she likes me, she likes me not. But she must like me, she kissed me! Then why the sudden need to leave? Again. Regrets? Embarrassment? I didn’t know and had to stop thinking about her. I had not come to Florence looking for romance. In fact, I wanted a break from it. I thought about my last relationship, the ombudsman of my university, a supersmart redhead whom I’d met when I’d gone for advice about a difficult student. I came away with her phone number and six months of really great dinners, sex, overnights, and conversation. I ended it when she suggested we consider living together. Six months, then goodbye, my usual pattern.

I looked back at my notes, forced myself to forget about Kathy the ombudsman, Amanda the food writer, Terri the poet—and Alexandra! I needed to concentrate.