“I’m taking Alessio into Florence for school clothes.”

“Va bene.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.” He lowered the paper. “Thank you. What time will you be home?”

“I’ll be back around dinnertime. I have dinner all made; I just need to heat it up when I get back.”

“Okay. Shut my door on the way out.”

“Ciao.”

He went back to his paper. Fifteen minutes later Luca knocked on Maurizio’s door, then pushed it open. “Ciao, Maurizio.”

Maurizio looked up.

“Ciao, Luca. What’s going on?”

“I have the report from the lab.” He stepped into the den and handed the papers to Maurizio. Maurizio studied them, then looked up. “We did well. Almost twenty-five percent premium. Five percent better than last year.”

“Our total volume is nearly one hundred and thirty tons. That is five tons more than the last harvest.”

“I’ll drink to that.” He handed back the papers. “Anything else?”

“I just heard from Steinco. The new bottling machine will be delivered tomorrow.”

“Very good. What time?”

“In the morning.”

“Call me when they arrive with it. I’ll come down and meet them with you.”

Luca walked away but lingered near the door. His brow furrowed. “Maurizio, I have a concern.”

“Cosa?”

“You trust me to look over your things while you are gone.”

“I trust you implicitly.”

He swayed nervously from foot to foot. “This American, he is family of Eliana’s?”

“No, he’s only a tenant. Why?”

“Perhaps she just misses her country.”

“What are you saying?”

“He is often with her.”

Maurizio tensed. “How often?”

“Maurizio, Eliana is a friend. I don’t mean to make something of nothing.”

“Just tell me what you know.”

“The night of the vendemmia, when Alessio had the asthma attack . . .”

“Yes, when Eliana was gone . . .” His face reddened.

“She was with him?”

“Yes.”

Maurizio was quiet, his mind sorting through the evening. “What else do you know?”

Luca was breathing heavy. He was now wondering if he had done the right thing. “Last week I walked in on them . . .”

The blood drained from Maurizio’s face. “In bed?”

“No, no. Eliana was painting him.”

“She’s painting his picture?”

“. . . and they were kissing.”

Maurizio looked straight ahead, emotionless, but his thoughts grew both angry and panicked.

“Thank you, Luca. You are a loyal friend.”

“I hope so, Maurizio. To you and Eliana.”

He walked away, leaving Maurizio alone with his jealousy. Maurizio’s imagination raged, producing a vivid cinema of his wife and her lover’s liaisons—their touching, kissing and lovemaking, their whispered plotting of betrayal—and his imaginings became his reality. He had to know everything about their affair.

He climbed the stairs to Eliana’s studio and saw the portrait for himself, and it validated every thought he had. He considered putting his foot through the picture but restrained himself: there were answers to be had first.

He went to their bedroom and foraged through Eliana’s drawers for letters, jewelry, new lingerie—any clues of their relationship. He found nothing but a necklace that he vaguely remembered giving to her himself. He went to her computer and pulled up her e-mail, but found it password protected. He tried for nearly an hour guessing at what she might have used as a password, but without success.