“Okay, all bombs to the bath,” Eliana said. “And wipe your hands on the napkin, not your shirt.”

“Can I take a shower?”

“Whatever. Call me when you’re done.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Story.”

“Good night, Alessio.”

Alessio ran up the stairs. Eliana followed him up with her gaze then looked back at Ross.

“Thank you for doing that.”

“For doing what?”

“Playing with my son. It means a lot to him. He doesn’t have a lot of friends out here and doesn’t get to play much.”

“It was my pleasure. He said the other kids tease him sometimes. What’s a lumaca?”

Eliana frowned. “Did someone call him that?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “It’s a snail, no, it’s a”—she had a momentary lapse of English—“it’s a slug.”

“Children can be pretty mean.”

“What makes it harder for Alessio is that the Italian children say Americans can’t play soccer. Come to think of it so does his father. He forgets that Alessio is listening.”

“Do the children think of him as an American? He has an Italian last name, he speaks perfect Italian.”

“They still do. They know I’m American.” She stood up, collecting the plates from the table.

“If it makes him feel any better, tell him that Italians can’t play basketball.”

“Unfortunately neither can he,” she said from the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, grazie.”

She came back into the room. “I finished the backdrop of the portrait this morning. Do you want to fit in a session?”

“Sure.”

“I need to get Alessio to bed first.”

“I’ll meet you in your studio in, what, half an hour?”

“Great. Just let yourself in.”

When Ross returned, Eliana was already upstairs in her studio waiting for him. An Andrea Bocelli CD played softly in the background. The lighting was already set, the spotlight focused on the empty chair, the room lights dimmed. The smell of oil paints wafted through the room. Eliana was touching up a few spots in the background and she looked up as he entered. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He stepped inside. “Is Alessio asleep?”

“I hope so. He was still talking about your soccer match when I put him in bed.”

“He’s a good little kid.” Ross sat down in his chair, positioning himself the best he could remember. “Is this close?”

“Come forward a little. There. Now turn a little to the right.”

“I was wondering, is it dangerous for Alessio to participate in sports with his asthma?”

“There’s always a risk. Sports can provoke asthma, especially sports with a lot of running.”

“Like soccer.”