“You take, you take,” she insists, and I accept happily, tearing immediately into one with my teeth, chewing gratefully, the sweet dough a melting taste of sugar and vanilla. The woman nods approvingly as my greedy fingers close around another to take with me. “Bella regazza grande,” she beams, and my rudimentary Italian allows me to translate this as “beautiful big girl”.

When I open the door, I find myself standing in front of the formal gardens, underneath a pergola covered in a riotous cloud of red bougainvillea and yellow jasmine; the tiny star-like flowers nodding below the sun, the scent heavy and intoxicating.

“Bea!” Leo and Filomena are sitting at the long, rough pine table stretched beneath the pergola with cups of coffee and a plate of figs between them. Leo gets to his feet and kisses me on each cheek. Filomena stays seated, smiling up at me from beneath the brim of a large straw hat.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks as I sit down and take a tentative sip of the coffee, the black, bitter taste a shock to my system. I’m not sure if I like it or not.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply. “A bit too well. Sorry I’m so late.”

Filomena shrugs, slowly, luxuriantly. “Late for what?” she asks.

“Time runs rather differently around here,” Leo says, leaning back and winking at me over the top of his cup. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”

“But you have missed the others,” Filomena puts in. “They tend to have breakfast together before they go out to work.”

“What others?” I ask, puzzled. “What work?”

“No one has told you?” Filomena asks.

“Told me what?” I’m starting to feel a little silly.

“About the artists, of course.”

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

“The artists?” I repeat, startled.

“Didn’t you know?” Hero appears, throwing herself into the seat beside me and reaching out for one of the figs.

“It’s my fault,” Leo says, his expression not quite contrite. “I didn’t mention it to your parents because I thought they might not like it, exactly.”

Filomena scoffs. “What is there to like or not like? It is not their business.”

“Well, it is if they’re sending their daughter here to our care, love,” Leo points out mildly. Filomena rolls her eyes.

“So,” I say, “you have artists staying with you?”

“We do,” Filomena agrees, taking another sip of her coffee.

“Filomena is a very talented sculptress,” Leo says proudly, his gaze lingering on her lovely face. “We opened up the house to some of her friends. It seems the environment is conducive to producing work.”

“How many artists are staying here at the moment?” I ask.