“So fidelity in marriage isn’t important to Maurizio.”

“No, it doesn’t matter if he cheats. If I were to cheat, that would be something very different.”

“A double standard.”

“Big double standard.” Then she added, “Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I believe there are some things a man and a woman should only share with each other.”

“So how do you get by?”

She finished her wine then set down the glass. “I raise a little boy. And I paint.”

“And you do both of them very well.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. She checked her watch. “We better go. I’m sure Manuela has a feast prepared.” As they walked toward the stair, Ross slipped his arm around her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She said, “If you’re not busy this afternoon, we could get further on the painting.”

“I’m all yours.”

She smiled at the thought of that possibility.

“So how many sessions do we have left anyway?” Ross asked.

“I don’t know, five or six.” She looked over at him. “Are you getting tired of them?”

“No.”

“Good. But no more serious talk tonight. Or we’ll never get done.”

Then the two of them walked together back to the villa.

CHAPTER 19

“Il rumore d’un bacio non e cosi forte come quello del cannone, ma la sua eco dura molti piu lungo.”

The sound of a kiss is not as strong as that of a cannon, but its echo endures much longer.

—Italian Proverb

“I suppose I had my first real Italian lessons today.”

—Ross Story’s diary

Manuela was gone for the day and Alessio was asleep in his bedroom. The windows of the studio were open, though not as much as they would have been just a week earlier. The air was now laced with a coolness—a harbinger of fall’s approach. Ross was in his chair. She had been painting for more than an hour and their conversation had been light. Ross was feeling more like a bowl of fruit than usual.

Suddenly he said, “Dorian Gray.”

She looked over from around the easel.

“What?”

“The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Did you ever read it?”

“A long time ago. When I was in high school. Why?”

“I just suddenly remembered it, sitting here having my portrait painted.”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. After a prolonged moment she said, “Doesn’t he end up killing the artist who painted his portrait?”

“I think you’re right.”

Pause.

“We can talk about something else.”

“Are you tired from this morning?”

“I’m a little sore.”

“I’m surprised, the way you’re always exercising.”

“Grape harvesting takes different muscles, I guess. Trying to keep up with those old men just about did me in.”

“I told you. And you should have used gloves. Now your hands are purple.”

“Sorry.” He stretched then apologized for moving. “Would you tell me the truth if I asked you something?”

She groaned. “I don’t know how much more honesty I can stand today.”