“What is it that makes you look like that, Bea?” she asks. “You are like Saint Cecilia in ecstasy.”

The others chuckle. I don’t understand the reference, but the sentiment is clear enough.

“It’s just so beautiful.” I try to find the words. “Sitting underneath the bougainvillea and all the stars, eating this food and being with you. It’s … it’s … almost too much. If I wasn’t seeing it myself I wouldn’t believe such a place was real.”

Klaus nods. “I understand,” he says. “It is why it is the perfect place to make art. It is a thrill, yes, for all the senses. As if you are seeing everything in brighter colours.”

He is right, of course, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of what it might be like to be an artist, just a little of what they are doing here. And the feeling is delicious.

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the lull that follows the impassioned argument, where conversation breaks down into quieter, more intimate chat, Leo turns to Ben. “I was going to ask you how the painting was going, my boy,” he says. “But I hear it met with a slight mishap.”

“I suppose you could call it that,” Ben says dryly, his eyes meeting mine.

I give him the slightest grimace. “I was very sorry to hear about the painting,” Filomena commiserates. “I know you were excited about it.”

“Such is life,” Ben says. I am a little surprised; I had more than half expected him to throw the blame at my feet. He turns to my uncle and Filomena. “I am sorry for the delay, though.”

“The painting was for you, Uncle?” I ask.

Leo waves his hand airily. “It’s of no matter, my boy,” he says. “Take your time.”

Ben shakes his head. “I’ll finish it within the month.” I feel a pang of guilt then. I hadn’t realized the painting was a commission of sorts.

Filomena has been watching quietly, and I feel her eyes on my face now. “It is our great pleasure to host you, Ben,” she says slowly. “We have never needed anything in return.”

“Of course not,” my uncle puts in briskly, sounding a little offended by the very idea.

“However.” Filomena lifts a finger. “There is perhaps a favour you could do for us, if you would be so kind?”

“Anything,” Ben says earnestly, leaning forward.

“You could teach Bea to paint.” Filomena’s expression is demure, but I think I see a glimmer of something – mischief, perhaps – in her eyes.

“Teach me to paint?” I exclaim. Of all the things I imagined doing in Italy, it isn’t this. I can’t quite keep the dismay out of my voice and Ben looks equally horrified.