“For just the three of you?”

“It’s far more than we need.” She looked down at his plate. “What else can I get for you?”

“Nothing. Everything was perfect.”

“Thank you. There’s dessert, but if you’d like to wait I’ll give you the nickel tour of the place.”

“I’d like that.”

He stood up and went for her chair, but she had stood up before he could help her. She only noticed afterward and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while.”

She led him upstairs through the arched stairwell door. She grasped the handle on the first door they came to. She said softly, “This is Alessio’s room.”

“If he’s sleeping, we don’t need to go inside.”

“I need to check on him anyway.”

She opened the door slowly. Alessio was asleep. The room was lit by a small nightlight. Ross could see that the walls were covered with posters of soccer players from Team Italy and the Fiorentina. In the corner of the room was a net with several soccer balls, and even the wooden bed knobs were painted to look like soccer balls. Eliana listened to Alessio for a moment then closed the door behind them.

“I take it he likes soccer?”

“All Italian boys like soccer. But it’s his father’s thing, really. He gave him the posters. In America every father wants his son to be a baseball or football hero—same thing here, just a different sport. Alessio wants to be good. He wants his father to be proud of him.”

Two doors down she stopped at the doorway. “I probably shouldn’t show you this.”

“Ah, skeletons.”

She looked at him then opened the door to her art studio and stepped inside the darkened room. He followed her in. She flipped on the light switch. There were pictures and canvases scattered around the room and an unfinished landscape on the easel. After a moment he said, “Well, you’re not seventy.”

“That’s about the only thing you got wrong.”

“So you are repressed?”

“Definitely.”

“And lonely?”

She looked at him and smiled sadly but didn’t answer. Ross wondered how anyone so beautiful could be alone.

“I have some dessert wine. Vin santo. Or perhaps you would like some coffee?” she said, changing the subject.

“I’d love some coffee.”

They went downstairs. While Eliana went to the kitchen, Ross sat on a leather sofa in front of a glass-topped table. Eliana came in with the coffee and two small porcelain plates on which was pastry cake, white with confectioners’ sugar. She set the plates on the table and sat down on the floor across from him, her legs crossed.

“I almost forgot the dessert.”

Ross cut the cake with his fork. “I love millefoglie. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Sì. You know a lot about Italy for only being here a couple weeks.”

“I’ve been here for six months. I just train-hopped for a while.” He tasted the dessert. “You made this?”

“No. The cake I bought. There’s a pasticceria near Piazza Gavinana that makes great pastries. I always buy our birthday cakes there.”