“Thank you.”

“So what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

Ross sensed that he was showing off his English.

“La dolce vita.”

Maurizio laughed. “The sweet life. That is rich. You look a little too wet for that.”

“I got caught in the rain.”

“Where in the States are you from?”

“Minnesota.”

“Minnesota,” he said knowingly. “Minneapolis or St. Paul?”

“Just outside Minneapolis.”

“I have been there. Once in the winter. It was too cold for my blood. Below zero Fahrenheit, I think.” He stopped and examined his cigar as if it had suddenly interrupted their conversation. He looked back up at Ross. “My wife told me that you drove her and my son to the hospital the other evening. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You plan to live in Italy for a while?”

“For a while.”

“Well, good luck. See you around.”

“Likewise.” Ross turned and Maurizio brought the cigar back to his mouth as he watched Ross cross the courtyard to his apartment. He wondered what the American was really doing in his country.

CHAPTER 13

“Vita privata, vita beata.” Hidden life, happy life.

—Italian Proverb

Ross woke early the next morning and went running. He ran to the end of the Rendola vineyards, then down to Impruneta’s Grande Piazza, once around the square and then back, covering almost five and a half miles in all.

The clouds had vanished with the night winds, and the morning was bright and fresh and already warm enough to make him sweat. He had stopped during his run to visit with an old man with two canes, one in each hand, who was slowly walking down the street and had hailed him with “Today’s my sixtieth wedding anniversary.”

“Auguri,” Ross said. Best wishes. “Congratulazioni.”

“Seems like only yesterday we were married,” the man said thoughtfully, wiping his forehead with his arm, then added, “and you know how awful yesterday was.”

Ross laughed, wished him well and started off again.

On the way back he removed his shirt. He was wearing only his shorts and shoes when he returned to the villa. Eliana watched him cross the courtyard from her studio. She opened her window.

“Hey.”

He stopped, looked up at her, shielding his eyes with his hand from the morning sun. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and leaning partially from the window. He smiled. “Good morning.”

“Buon giorno, signore. Are we still on for tonight?”

“If it’s still good for you. I don’t want to steal you from your husband.”

“Maurizio’s already gone. He left early this morning. I saw you talking to him.”

“He was friendly.”

“I told you you’d like him.”

Ross didn’t comment. “Eight o’clock, then?”

“Yes. Eight.” She waved. “Ciao.” She disappeared back inside the window.

The bells of Arnolfo’s Tower rung the noon hour. Ross had just left the Uffizi with a small group and was standing in the cortile when Francesca caught up with him. She was out of breath and rested her hand on his arm.