“I’ve wondered about that.” She disdainfully speared another olive, adding it to the pile. “So how’s the adjustment back to American life? Everything getting back to normal?”

“I’m not sure that I know what normal is anymore. It seems that everyone is in a hurry all the time.”

“That’s what we Americans do best.”

She sighed. “Not this one.”

“Good. Artists shouldn’t be in a hurry. Are you going to stay in Vernal?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty small. I guess we’ll see.”

“There’s plenty of nice places available in Park City. I’ve got an ex who’s a real estate agent up here. Bad husband but good agent. Give me the word and I’ll tell him you’re looking.”

“I’m not sure if Park City is right for us.”

“Well, Park City certainly loves you. You’ve got to be pleased with how things are going.”

“I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Let me tell you, this kind of response for a first showing is extraordinary. I talked to Carolyn on the way up. She said there are only a couple paintings that haven’t sold yet. I’m not surprised. Tuscany is so haute right now.” She took a fork of lettuce and dipped it into a small cup of Italian dressing. “Taking nothing from your talent, of course.”

“Toscana seems to be all the rage back here.”

“I told you you’d do well. I knew it the moment I saw your first painting. I do think we should play up your countess title. It’s much more exciting owning something done by nobility.”

Eliana shook her head. “No.”

Marsha raised one eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

Marsha sighed, then conceded with a flourish of her free hand. “You’re too humble, Ellen. You’ve got to learn to flaunt. It’s marketing. But either way, things are going to just keep happening for you. That reminds me. I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you. Do you know Boyd McCann?”

“No.”

Marsha reached into her purse and brought out a business card. She laid it on the table in front of Eliana. The card was burnt umber, with a large palm leaf in gold foil embossed with the name Boyd McCann and Associates.

“You met him last week.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, he’s a big Salt Lake City interior designer. Does all the Deer Valley, Walker Lane crowd. Only deals with the filthy rich, Hollywood ski bums, my kind of filth. He left me his card the other night. He wants you to do some private commissions.”

“Really?”

“Oh, it gets better. Are you sure you don’t remember him? He was that forty-something guy at the reception, the one with the cute butt and the Mercedes-Benz ragtop?”

Eliana remembered and grimaced slightly. “I remember him. He was the guy with fake hair, too much cologne and wandering hands.”