“You doing okay?”

“Yes.”

He stood, walked over near her. “May I see?”

She held up her hand. “No. It’s bad luck.”

“You artists are all mad.”

“È vero.” It’s true. Her eyes darted away from him as if she was suddenly embarrassed. “Speaking of crazy, I want to apologize for the other night.”

“For what?”

“My tongue was too loose. I’m sorry for dumping all of that on you.”

“For the record, I really enjoyed myself the other night. A little honesty is refreshing.”

“I think you’re just being polite. My husband says that American women talk too much. In this case he’s right. But it just felt so good to talk to an adult in English.”

“It was fine. Really.”

She took a sip from her glass, emptying it. “Thank you. Let me know when you’re ready to start again.”

“Just a minute.” He stretched again. Then he sat back down. “Okay. Is this right?”

“Scoot back a little . . . to your right a little more . . . no, your other right. Perfetto.”

She looked at him for a moment then raised her pencil to the canvas. “So I realized that every time I asked you about yourself you changed the subject.”

“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.”