CHAPTER 12

“Il tempo di solito è bello quando si fa l’amore.” The weather is always fair when people are in love.

—Italian Proverb

It rained the next day: a summer storm that turned the skies above Florence gray and dampened the Tuscan countryside. Eliana gazed out her studio window lost in her thoughts, watching the water trickle down the pane, the rain splash and pool in the corners of the stone courtyard, the geraniums dance from the fall of the drops. She did not mind the sudden cloud-burst. Even if it meant that Alessio was stuck inside all day and the customary whining from boredom would soon begin. There were only blue skies where she was—replaying the tape of the previous night in her mind. She felt a lightness of being that she hadn’t felt in some time. Whether something had been taken from her or added, she wasn’t sure. But she felt different.

The evening had been almost like a confessional. For she had bared her soul and he had listened. He seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts. But, like a confessional, there was a screen there, if only his eyes, and she knew nothing about the man behind it.

Still she liked what she knew. He was kind. He was good-looking; not like the posters of seminude male models plastered around the city—he was attractive in a different way. He seemed confident, yet still somehow vulnerable—if that were possible—and, at the least, he clearly wasn’t arrogant. He was masculine without being “macho.”

She worked quickly to finish the painting that occupied her easel. It had now lost importance to her, as she was anticipating her next project with her new model. Alessio slept in and she painted for more than two hours, until he walked into her studio rubbing his eyes. He was wearing briefs and socks and a Batman cape.

“I’m hungry, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Go in the pantry and get yourself a plum cake. I’ll be down in a few minutes and I’ll make you some oatmeal.”

“Okay.”

He stumbled off. She put the last touches on the section she was painting then put her brushes away and went downstairs to make breakfast.

Around noon Eliana was sorting laundry, sitting on the floor next to the washing machine, when she heard the front door open. Manuela walked in, singing to herself. She shook her umbrella off outside then stowed it in the corner.

“Ciao, Eliana. It’s me.”

“Ciao, Manuela. How are you feeling?”

“Meglio.” Better. “But I don’t like rain.”

“Neither does Alessio. He’s up in his room playing Nintendo.”

Manuela hung up her coat and went off to find him. A few minutes later the front door opened again.

“Ciao, amore.”

Eliana jumped a little. Maurizio stood above her.

“You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing home?”

“I had to come back to Florence.”

“Will you be home for a while?”