“Anything?” she asked desperately.

“I’m sorry, signorina.”

“But you must have some record of him.”

“No, Ross was an abusivo.”

“An abusivo?”

“It means that he did not have a permit from the Comune to work here. He helped out Francesca, one of our tour guides. They had an arrangement. I think she must have his cell phone number.”

Eliana frowned. “I’ve tried that.”

“I was sad to see Ross go. I liked him. Maybe Francesca can help you. She is here; would you like me to ask?”

Eliana nodded.

Patrizia left the room. She returned a few minutes later. “If you can wait for twenty minutes, Francesca will speak with you. She is leading a tour right now.”

“I’ll wait. Grazie.”

“I was just leaving. You can wait in here if you like. Please shut the door behind you when you go.”

“Grazie.”

The woman finished gathering her things. “Buona fortuna.”

Eliana breathed in deeply. There was hope. Ross had mentioned Francesca. They were close. This woman would know something about his whereabouts. Wouldn’t she? She paced the quiet office until a half hour later there was a light knock and the door opened. Francesca walked in.

“I am Francesca,” she said in coarse English.

Eliana spoke back in Italian. “Buona sera. I am Eliana Ferrini. I am looking for a friend of mine.”

“Sì. Ross.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“No, signorina. Ross left Florence yesterday.”

“Did he tell you where he might be going?”

She shook her head. “Only that he was leaving Italy for good. He gave me the key to his scooter.”

“That’s all he said?”

“Sì.”

Eliana looked away. A lump rose in her throat. The woman watched her. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

Eliana looked up.

“You’re the reason he left. He said you might come looking for him someday.”

At this she bowed her head, fighting back the sadness welling up inside. Francesca watched her for a moment, then excused herself. “I am very sorry, signorina. For both of us.” Then, as if on second thought, she touched Eliana’s shoulder. “Have hope. Love sees to itself.”

Eliana stopped in the ladies’ room on the way out and washed her face; then she walked out to the courtyard, lonely in the burgeoning crowd, oblivious to the bustle of the cortile, out to the walkway overlooking the Arno. She could see below to the grass where she and Ross had lain together. Where they had spent that wonderful night entangled in each other’s arms and warmth and dreams. Where they had witnessed a dawning of a new day unlike any other. She remembered the hope that had filled her then, and it seemed impossible that he was really gone.

A brisk, autumn wind swept down the Lungarni, down the stone terraces toward the river, where it rippled the water in thin, white-edged plates. Winter was coming to Florence. Soon the lush countryside would be barren, the sensuality of the city and her people cloaked beneath thick coats and mufflers.