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.

Eliana pulled her cloak tightly around herself even though her coldness was more than an autumn chill. She had suffered enough in the last week, but somehow this loss hurt most of all. For this hurt would haunt her the rest of her life. The one man she loved—the man who had taught her how to be loved—had disappeared like a drop of rain in the ocean. And the last promise she had asked him to make was to never find her again.

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 39

“Non si conosce il bene se non quando s’è perso.” You don’t know the worth of something until it is gone.

—Italian Proverb

Anna sat on the large roller suitcase in the center of the Florence train station, like a rock in the middle of a stream, a torrent of travelers flowing around her. Alessio played within the reach of her voice, energized by the motion of the station. Each time the train departure board changed, the letters flipping like decks of cards, he would shout and point. Eliana suddenly emerged from the bustle holding a ticket in her hand.

“The next train to Rome is in fifteen minutes. We’re on track nine.” She choked on the words. Fifteen minutes was not enough time to say all she felt for Anna. Anna stood and hugged her.