"Adam . . ."
Antonella appeared at the foot of the stone staircase. She was wearing a navy blue linen dress that hugged her slender figure. Approaching, she kissed him on both cheeks.
"Nice hat."
"All the rage this season, or didn't you know?"
She smiled. "I'm surprised."
"Me too. I wasn't sure I had the right place."
She glanced around her. "Umberto thinks it's good for business. He says it's—how do you say?—enigmatic. The rest is not like this. Come, I'll show you. Do you have time?"
"I'm not disturbing you?"
She dismissed the question with a wag of the hand.
Adam thanked the receptionist as he passed by. "Don't mention it, sir," she replied sweetly, keen to win favor with Antonella.
She wasn't the only one.
The cutters and seamstresses toiling in the run of rooms upstairs all greeted her warmly. It didn't surprise him that she was liked, but she seemed to command a respect way beyond her years. The reason became clear when she pushed open yet another door.
"And this is where I work," she announced. "It's very messy."
Two windows, half-shuttered against the sunlight, overlooked the courtyard. There was a desk, some low bookcases, as well as a large workbench that filled the center of the room. She was right. Every available surface was loaded with clutter: piles of sketches, samples of cloth and leather, pots of pens and brushes, empty cups and overflowing ashtrays.
"I want to say it's not normally like this."
The only remotely clear area was an architect's drawing board against the wall, and maybe only then because it offered an angled surface. There was a half-finished drawing taped to it, a color sketch of a leather handbag. It was quite unlike any other handbag Adam had ever seen.
"It's our new thing. Umberto wants us to do accessories—bags, belts, scarves, maybe even shoes."
The walls were papered with more sketches, dresses mostly. They had loose, flowing lines, and all were cut from the distinctive cloths that were clearly the hallmark of the company: bold geometric designs in vivid colors. They were the same dresses Adam had witnessed taking life next door.
"Does Umberto do anything around here?" he asked.
"Umberto is a genius. I am only his hands." There was no trace of false modesty in her words. "I would introduce you but he's not here now."
"Out with the Americans?"
"Ah, you've spoken to my grandmother. Then you will know that she does not approve of what I do."
"Has she seen it for herself?"
Antonella seemed amused by the idea. "She thinks all fashion is trivial, which of course it is. But she doesn't understand that it can also bring pleasure." She picked up some material from the workbench. "Here."
Only when he took it from her did he realize it was a piece of suede, as soft as silk.
"Imagine that against your skin," she said. "Imagine a skirt made of it."
"That might be asking a bit too much."
She laughed and took the suede from him. "When are you moving in—to the villa, I mean?"
"She told you?"
"Of course."
"Tomorrow."
"You don't have to."
He hesitated. "You think it's a bad idea?"
"I think I haven't seen my grandmother so alive for a long time. But it doesn't mean you have to, just because she asked. She can be very ...prepotente."
"Overbearing?"
"I don't know the word, but it sounds right."
"I want to," said Adam. "It's good for work, I'm near the garden, the library's right there. . . ."
"And is this work?"
She reached for his copy of The Divine Comedy, which he'd abandoned on the work bench.
"No," he lied, "just never read it before."
It was her idea that they sneak off for lunch. Beneath the trees in a small piazza around the corner, they shared a carafe of Chianti and a thick slab of bistecca alla fiorentina done with a light hand.
The restaurant owner fussed around Antonella as if she were a long-lost daughter.
Adam filled her in on Harry's predicament, which had brought him down into town at short notice.
"When does he arrive?"
"God knows. Maybe never. As soon as he gets his hands on the money, anything could happen."
"But you want him to come or you would have told him not to."
"I suppose," he said, surprised that it was so apparent to her.
Her own brother, Edoardo, sounded like an altogether different character—levelheaded, responsible and reliable. "I don't know where he gets it, but he is proof that two negatives can make a positive."
"And you?" asked Adam.
"Me? Oh, I'm not easy."
"What's your worst characteristic?" asked the Chianti.
She thought on it. "My temper."
"Really? I don't see it."
"Pray you never do."
Adam laughed.
"So?" she asked. "Quid pro quo—your worst characteristic."
"An uncompromising sense of justice. It gets me into all kinds of scrapes."
"Very funny."
"Jealousy."
"Jealousy?"
"Yes."
"Of what?"
"I don't know. Everything. Other people's success. My girlfriend's old boyfriends. It's very mean-spirited of me, I know." "You have a girlfriend?"
There was a satisfying note of forced indifference in the question. It suggested that the answer mattered to her. He was glad to be able to say, "Not anymore."
"What happened?"
"I'm not quite sure."
He tried his best to explain, though, raking over the dead embers of his relationship with Gloria.
When he was done, Antonella said, "I don't like the sound of her."
"I should hope not. I've painted the blackest picture I can."
The couple at the next table turned and stared when she laughed.
Have you finished?
Yes.
So, Doctor, your prognosis?
Your reactions seem fine. Your leg muscles are still very weak, though, from lack of use. You really shouldn't move around unassisted. There's a danger you'll fall.
And the pain?
The tablets I gave you before should help.
They did.
You've finished them already?
Something a bit stronger might be better.
I'm not sure that's ... advisable.
My son is coming to dinner this evening, to finalize the details of the party. You did get an invitation, didn't you?
Yes, Signora, and my wife replied promptly. We are always honored to be invited.
Call me a foolish old woman, Doctor, but I wish to be on my feet when I greet Maurizio at the door this evening. And as I say, the pain can be really quite unbearable at times.
I understand.
It shall be our secret. I wouldn't want to worry anyone. I'll return this afternoon with something a little more... appropriate. Cheer up, Doctor. At Christmas your patient was at death's door, and now she's on her feet.