As her laughter softened Ross looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly one.

“I can’t believe it’s so late. Il tempo vola. Can you say that in Italian?”

“Yes, time flies.”

“I better get out before you throw me out.” Ross climbed to his feet then offered her his hand. Then he grabbed the glasses from the table. “Let me help you clean up the kitchen.”

“No, it’s too late. I’ll clean up in the morning.”

“It’s okay, really. I can help.”

“I forget that you American men are well trained. But thank you, no. This was my treat.”

“Whatever you say.”

He left their glasses in the kitchen and they walked to the front of the house and stood just outside the threshold. The courtyard was luminous blue, lit by the crescent moon that peeked over the western wall of the villa like a voyeur. There was a curious, powerful energy between them. Ross felt awkward, like a boy on the doorstep of his first date.

“Thank you for dinner. It was the best meal I’ve had since I came to Italy.”

“You’re just being kind.”

“I think it was. Of course good company makes a meal better.”

Her eyes shone.

“And thank you for showing me your artwork. I’m obviously very impressed.” As he looked at her, Ross suddenly thought she had the most perfect lips he had ever seen. “And for the cookies the other night. They’re just about gone already.”

“Thank you again for helping us.” She began fondling a single strand of hair over her forehead.

He looked into her face, their eyes locked and an unspoken conversation played back and forth in the moonlight. Then Ross put out his hand. “Well, good night.”

His hand was soft, she thought, strong, but soft. “Good night, Ross. Sleep well.”

Then he turned and walked from her. She stepped back inside her own apartment then turned to watch him. As he began to vanish in the darkness of the corridor, something in her could not let him leave without knowing when she’d see him again. She called after him, “Ross.”

He turned, his face split by shadow. “Yes?”

“Could I paint you?”

“Paint me?”

She pulled again at the strand. “I mean a portrait of you.”

“I’ve never modeled before.”

“That doesn’t matter. If a bowl of fruit can do it, how hard could it be?”

He smiled. “When would you like to start?”

She didn’t want to seem too eager. “I’m just finishing up the painting I’m working on. Maybe we could start Thursday evening.”

“Thursday’s fine.”

“What time do you get off work?”

“I have a late tour Thursday afternoon. I should be home around seven.”

“Would eight be too soon?”

“No, eight works.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, Eliana.”

“Buona notte, Ross.”

Ross walked slowly back to his apartment. Her door closed softly behind him. The evening had turned out perfectly. She was different than he had expected. More vulnerable, perhaps. He felt as if he had finally found a friend.