“Sdegno d’amante poco dura.” The anger of lovers lasts a short time.

—Italian Proverb

Ross found Eliana sitting at a small round table near the back of the café, nervously twisting a napkin into rope, a cup of coffee in front of her. She seemed to him fragile and beautiful, like a porcelain figurine.

She saw him enter and followed him with her wet eyes until he stood by her and pulled out a chair to sit across from her. They were both unsure where to begin. Ross took a deep breath. “Maybe I should just tell you what I’m thinking.”

She nodded.

“You broke my heart,” he said. “You broke my heart and then you deserted me without an explanation. I think I could have handled anything, except not knowing if I would ever see you again.” He closed his eyes, trying to stop the emotion that was beginning to surface. “Not knowing if you still cared about me.”

She touched the corner of one of her eyes to wipe at a tear.

“And then, just when I’m starting to get used to the idea that you are really gone, you return. If you’re trying to torture me, you’re pretty damn good at it.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“What did you mean to do?”

“I don’t know,” she blurted. A couple at a nearby table glanced over at her. She repeated, softer, “I don’t know.”

“I must have called you twenty times.”

“I couldn’t talk to you. Maurizio is home all the time now.”

“In three weeks time you haven’t had five minutes to talk to me?”

“The thing is . . . ,” she answered, again attracting the attention of those around her. She stopped, took a deep breath, then continued in a softer voice, “The thing is, it’s not five minutes. I talk to you for a minute and I would have felt it for a week.” She looked into his eyes and her voice rose unchecked. “Do you really believe that I haven’t thought of you every minute since you left? You’re all I think about. Do you know how much it hurts every time you call? I’m a mess for the rest of the day. All twenty-three times. Yes, I counted them. I held my phone and cried and wanted to hear your voice so badly that I shook. I cry myself to sleep every night and all I want is to be held by you.”

Ross looked down, covering his eyes with his hand. When he looked back up, his voice was soft. “Why didn’t you just pick up the phone?”

“I was confused and afraid. Maurizio was threatening me. Somehow he found out about us. He told me that you were a murderer. I thought he was crazy, but he shoved these in front of me.” She reached into her coat and brought out the newspaper articles. She set them on the table in front of Ross. “Is it true?”

At first he didn’t respond; then he pushed the papers back toward her. “Why do you ask? You have it in black and white.”