“Not much to tell.”

“Right. You move to a foreign country—alone—plan to stay forever and you don’t have a story?”

Ross grinned. “Maybe a little one. What do you want to know?”

“To begin with, what did you do in the States?”

“I was . . .” He started to turn toward her as he spoke.

“No, don’t move.”

“Sorry. Is this where I was?”

“Your shoulder was back a little more. There.”

“Okay. I was the art director for an advertising agency in Minneapolis.”

“You left that position to be a tour guide?”

“You make that sound so stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s not why I left. I had a”—he stumbled on the sentence—“a falling-out with my partners. Besides, I was getting burned out on the caffeine-buzz lifestyle of the advertising world. The other night when you were telling me why you didn’t sell your paintings, I kept thinking that I wish I had had that kind of integrity. I got into art design because I loved art and I thought I could make a good living from it. I was successful, I made a lot of money, won a few awards, but after five years in the business I felt like a prostitute, selling myself to deadlines, the latest graphic fad or the client’s whim. Art by committee. I felt like I was losing my soul. And your theory’s right. It lost its joy. So I understand how you feel and I respect you for that. That’s also why your work is so brilliant. It’s honest. It’s an irony you’re going to have to deal with someday, because people will want to buy your pictures for the very reason you don’t want to sell them. It’s because they want to have back that part of themselves that they sold.”

At that moment she was glad to have the canvas to hide behind. His understanding meant more to her than he could have ever imagined. Maurizio just thought that she was a fool for not making more money from her work.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “So what else do you want to know?”

She returned to her drawing. “Do you have family? Any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a brother.”

“He lives in Minneapolis?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not close?”

“We’re very close, actually.” Ross frowned. “At least we were. I haven’t heard from him in more than three years. I tried to find him just before I came to Italy, but I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. So am I. I miss him.”

“How about your parents? Are they in Minnesota too?”

“My parents died in a car accident when I was twelve. My brother, Stan, and I were raised by our aunt.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been, losing both parents at that age. When my father died I thought my world was over. And I was eighteen.”

“We survive. Somehow. I turned to art. Stan turned to drugs.”

Eliana suddenly stood, walked over to him and adjusted the light. She moved calmly, with a natural grace that was pleasant for Ross to watch. But it was more than that. There was something honest about her movements, something indefinable that made him trust her—that made him feel as if he could tell her anything. In fact he just had told her something. She was only the second person he had ever told about Stan. She smoothed the shirt above his shoulder then sat down again.