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.

“Is that spotlight too hot?”

“A little.”

“You’re sweating. Don’t sweat.”

“I’m sorry.”

She started drawing again. As she traced the outer lines of his face, she thought again what nice features he had. She felt a little guilty in the pleasure she experienced in drawing him, as if she had run her hand across his face. “Have you ever been married?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Near misses?”

“I was engaged once. Four years ago.”

“What happened?”

Again he hesitated. “It didn’t work out.”

Eliana wondered what that meant, but from his demeanor she decided that it was best left alone for now.

“Your hand looks kind of awkward like that. Let’s try something different. Put your one hand on your knee, like this. Move the book over.” She demonstrated, Ross obeyed. “That’s good. Now turn your other hand this way a little, so your palm’s up.”

He paused momentarily then slowly turned his hand. For the first time she noticed the thick scar that ran diagonally across his wrist. She flinched when she saw it but said nothing. Ross’s gaze did not leave her, and she tried to act as if she hadn’t seen it, which, as the silence grew, became only all the more obvious.

“It was a hard time,” Ross said.

“I’m sorry.”

They were both quiet for a moment; then Ross spoke. “So what was the last portrait you did?”

“I haven’t done any for a while. My last was a portrait of an elderly Italian man I took a picture of in a piazza. He was just sitting there reading a newspaper. My mother-in-law liked it, so I gave it to her.”

“What’s it like having an Italian mother-in-law?”

“You don’t want to get me started on that.”

“Are they as close to their sons as they say?”

“Butter on toast isn’t that close. She has a key to our apartment, which kind of says it all. I once came home and found her ironing Maurizio’s underwear. She tore into me for neglecting her son and grandson.”

“That’s awful. How do you deal with that?”

“At first I just did my best to ignore it. But she had a stroke about three years ago and she doesn’t leave Siena anymore. Maurizio has another sister who lives with her and takes care of her.”