At this Eliana stopped cutting. “Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s how I feel when I look at her pictures. There’s a sort of quiet, beautiful desolation to them. If that makes sense.”

Eliana was silent.

Ross walked back to the counter. “So how’d I do?” She arranged the tomatoes with the cheese on the plate. “I think you’ve pretty much got her figured out. She’s not old—though she would tell you that she feels it.”

“I’d like to meet her someday.”

Eliana drizzled a thin layer of olive oil over the salad then sprinkled it with basil. “I can arrange it.”

“I’d like to ask her something. There’s a picture in my place of a field of sunflowers. It’s my favorite of the four in my apartment. But if you look carefully, one of the flowers isn’t following the sun. I wanted to ask her about it.”

You noticed, she thought. She turned the stove off, then opened the oven and looked inside, then shut it again. “What do you do, Ross? Where do you work?”

“I work as a tour guide at the Uffizi.”

His answer surprised her. “Really. So you’re not just an armchair art critic.”

“No, art is my life.”

“The Uffizi. That’s impressive. You must have some pretty major credentials. That’s not an easy job to get.”

“No credentials, just dumb luck. I got in through the back door.”

She stepped back from the pan. “Would you watch this for a minute? I need to check on Alessio. He already ate, but he wanted to say hello.”

“Sure. Should I stir it?”

“Yes. But gently.”

She left the room and returned a few minutes later. “Darn, he fell asleep. He’s been asking about you all day.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s pretty hungry for male companionship.” She looked into the pot then took the spoon from him. “This is ready for the rest of the ingredients. You can help me here. I mixed them together in that bowl. Go ahead and pour them in while I stir.”

“Got it.”

He poured the mixture while she continued stirring everything together for a minute longer. Then she poured the steaming pasta into a glazed ceramic bowl that was on the counter next to the stove. “Would you mind grabbing that bowl of spinach from the counter?”

“Sure. And where are your wineglasses?”

“In the cupboard next to the stove. The far side.” They brought everything over to the table. “Why don’t you sit there,” she said, motioning to the seat across from her. “The Batman glass is Alessio’s. You don’t have to use it. Unless you want to.”

She untied her apron, then folded it and laid it on the counter. She took Ross’s plate and ladled a large serving of pasta onto it, then did her own. “Primo piatto. The second course is in the oven. You do eat meat, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I baked cinghiale in umido. It’s wild boar meat marinated in red wine and garlic.”