“Thank you.”

“You know, I thought you were Italian.”

“Most people do. My husband is. I’m American. We’ve lived here for six years.”

Something inside of Ross stiffened at the word husband . Up to this point he hadn’t really known if she was married. There had been no sign of another man. Even the landlady had only spoken of the woman and child. Of course she is, he thought, and he didn’t know why it should even matter to him.

She wiped her eyes again, then folded the Kleenex. “I need to stay here with Alessio tonight. If you’d like to take the car back, we’ll take a taxi home.”

“No, I’ll take a cab. There’s a stand out front.”

“It might be hard finding a taxi this time of night. Or morning. What time is it?”

Ross looked down at his watch. “It’s almost two. But I have my cell phone; I can call a taxi. Besides I’d probably just get lost on the way back anyway.”

She looked at him gratefully. “Can I at least give you some cab money?”

“No.”

She sighed. “You’re a real saint. Thank you.”

“I’m no saint. But you’re welcome all the same.” He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the keys. “You’ll need these. Your car’s parked in the lot across the street, near the bus stop on the end of the row, you can’t miss it.”

She took the keys from him, touching his hand as she did, and for a moment she looked at him, as if she wanted, or needed, to say something, but realized that she just didn’t want him to go. She brushed the hair back from her face.

“I better get back to my son.”

“You have a place to sleep here?” Ross asked.

“They brought in a cot.” Her eyebrows lowered in concern. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

He smiled. “It’s no problem. I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

“Okay. Ciao, ciao. Good night, Ross.” She turned and walked back to the ICU. Ross watched her disappear behind the emergency room doors then went out to find a cab.

CHAPTER 10

“L’amore è un erba spontanea, non una pianta da giardino.” Love is a spontaneous grass, not a plant cultivated in the garden.

—Nievo

There were no tours for Ross the next day, which, in light of the night’s events, he was glad for. He slept in until ten then drove to the Uffizi. Francesca was leading a tour, and he accompanied her from the room of the Flemish Renaissance painters to the second corridor, then wandered off alone.

His thoughts were on the previous night and his meeting of Eliana. A voice had been added to the woman he had admired from afar. In the throes of crisis we see either the best or the worst in each other, and he liked what he’d seen. There was something honest about her personality that made her even more beautiful to him.