Though he never spoke of it, she knew that Ross was attracted to her. It’s not hard for a woman to tell. She knew by the way he smiled in her presence, by the inaudible cues when she moved in certain ways, when she brushed up against him, accidentally or sometimes not. She caught him staring at her a few times, though he turned away as if embarrassed. It was intoxicating to feel desirable again—especially to a man she found so desirable.

Sometimes, as she painted him, she found herself just staring, gathering the hues and light on his body and then unable to translate them to the canvas—as if she were trying to speak a language she didn’t understand. He was gorgeous. Gorgeous and thoughtful and interesting. Why wasn’t he married? Why had he come so close to marriage only to have it derailed? Something had happened. Something profound enough to keep him from talking about it. And though she wanted to know what it was, a part of her didn’t. His mysterious past held its own pleasure for her, as she came to know him slowly, in the same way she painted him. One stroke at a time.

CHAPTER 17

“Anna, Eliana’s sister-in-law, is back from holiday. We had the most interesting dialogue in the garden, though I likely contributed less than a dozen words to the whole of it. How often the most serious of discussions begin with the lightness of simple pleasantries . . .”

—Ross Story’s diary

Ross spent the next few days mostly downtown, either at the Uffizi or nearby, keeping his distance from Rendola while Anna settled back in. He didn’t know what effect her return would have on his relationship with Eliana. She was, after all, Maurizio’s sister.

He came home from work late Tuesday afternoon, made himself a sandwich and, as twilight fell, went outside to the garden to relax with a new novel he had bought that morning. He didn’t see Anna sitting outside on the garden bench as he came around a tall hedge of laurel.

“Buona sera, Signor Story.”

Ross turned around. “Oh. Salve, Anna. Welcome home.”

“Grazie. How are things?”

“Good.”

“With the apartment?”

“All is good.”

She patted the empty space on the bench next to her. “Here, sit with me.”

Ross accepted her invitation. He leaned back on the bench, his arms across the back of it. For a moment the two of them just looked out over the vineyards.

“Looks like storm clouds in the west,” Anna said. “Rain by morning. Pretty though.”

“Sì.”

“How could anyone look at that and doubt there’s a God?” she said. “God’s an artist, I think. The world is His canvas. Our most clever, our Leonardos and our Michelangelos, make only copies of what He already did.” A wind blew across the land, over them, as if in confirmation.

“So how was your vacation, Anna?”

“It was wonderful. Seems the older I get the more drawn I feel to the sea.”