“It’s just the hand we were dealt, I guess. God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes. You don’t?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t. But I don’t think God’s doing all the giving either.” Ross looked toward the kitchen door. “He’s a brave little boy, isn’t he?”

She looked up. “Yes, he is. He’s a great little boy.” She set her spoon to the side of the range then went to the refrigerator and brought out a package of buffalo mozzarella and a bowl of tomatoes.

“I’m making Caprese salad. I hope you like tomatoes.”

“I do. Here, I’ll help.”

Ross took a knife and began slicing tomatoes while she opened the package of mozzarella over the sink, letting the white milk drain from it.

“Does buffalo mozzarella really come from buffaloes?” Ross asked.

“That’s what they say.”

“Have you ever seen a buffalo in Italy?”

“No. But I’ve never seen one in the U.S. either.”

“I’d like to see someone milk a buffalo.”

Eliana laughed, then took a knife from a drawer. “Here, the blade on that one’s dull. Use this one.”

“Thank you.”

“Prego.”

Ross cut the last of the tomatoes, leaving them on the cutting board. “Anything else?”

“No, I’m just about done.”

Ross went to the sink and washed his hands. “You have a really nice place here.”

“Thank you.”

“I approve of your choice of art. Especially the oil paintings. I have some by the same artist in my place. She’s really gifted.”

Eliana hid her pleasure at his comment. “How do you know the artist is a she?”

“I don’t really know. It just feels like it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how you can usually tell if a book was written by a man or a woman? It’s the same thing. I guess it’s a little like handwriting analysis. I tried to make out the signature but couldn’t. Whoever the artist is, he or she has a remarkable touch. I mean to ask Anna about the pictures when she returns from holiday.”

“I know the artist,” Eliana said.

“You do?”

“Quite well, actually. And yes, she’s female.”

“At least I’m right half the time. What is she like?”

“You tell me. Analyze the handwriting.”

“All right.” Ross walked over to one of Eliana’s paintings. “First, I think she’s older. Definitely older, maybe in her late sixties, seventies.”

Eliana looked up with an amused smile. “Why is that?”

“The depth of feeling. Sometimes someone young has that, but it’s rare. It usually takes a lifetime to acquire. Either that or a hard life.” He looked back at her. “Am I right?”

She went back to slicing the mozzarella. “I’ll tell you when you’re done. Continue.”

“Okay. This is between us, right?”

“I won’t tell a soul.”

“I think she’s a little repressed. She’s afraid to say all that she feels, so she limits her palette.”

Eliana cocked her head. “Interesting.”

Ross looked back at her. “And, wherever she is, I think she’s lonely.”