All I Believe (Firsts and Forever, #10)(35)

“Hello, Mr. Caravetti,” Luca said, beaming at the man. “I’d like you to meet my friend Nico.”

The gallery owner greeted me warmly, then introduced me to his dog by saying with an unmistakable New York accent, “Please say hello to Diego Rivera.”

I shook the Chihuahua’s tiny paw and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Diego Rivera. I thought you’d be taller.”

We settled in around a small table at the back of the gallery, and Mr. Caravetti served us tea spiked with a generous amount of brandy while the dog curled up in a wicker basket and chewed a sock. The conversation soon turned to art. I couldn’t contribute much to the discussion, but I loved watching Luca talk. He became incredibly animated, gesturing with his hands, his eyes alight. He caught me watching him at one point, and when Mr. Caravetti went to retrieve something from his office, Luca leaned over and kissed me, then said, “This must be so boring for you. I’m sorry.”

“Not at all! I love how passionate you are.”

“I love talking to Mr. Caravetti. He’s been in this business for over half a century, but he’s never lost that enthusiasm.”

The little old man (and the Chihuahua) returned a few moments later. He carefully handed Luca an unframed canvas and said, “This is the artist I was telling you about, Ignacio Mondelvano. He’s from Barcelona, but he’s been spending a few months in Rome. That’s how I heard about him, he came to the attention of an old friend of mine. You should look him up next time you’re home.”

“I will,” Luca said. “This is absolutely extraordinary.”

“Mondelvano is gay. You can probably guess from that composition,” Mr. Caravetti said. “He’s single and quite handsome, so I was going to set you up on a date, Luciano. I see now though that your love life needs no help from me.” He grinned at me as he said that.

When Luca handed me the painting, I drew in my breath and murmured, “Oh wow.” It depicted two men dancing and made me think of the 1920s. It was impressionistic, the dancers depicted with a few bold lines. But even without a lot of detail, it suggested graceful movement and a sense of time and place. Even more striking was the emotion it conveyed. The way one dancer held the other said everything about the love and intimacy between them. I wasn’t sure how the artist had accomplished all of that with so few brushstrokes.

“Do you really like it?” Luca asked me.

“I love it. It’s absolutely perfect,” I said softly, still staring at the painting.

“Is it for sale, Mr. Caravetti?” Luca asked.

“For you, yes. I’m going to acquire more of this artist’s work. He’s really something special, I think.”

“I agree.”

We visited for another hour or so before Luca told his friend we had to go. I shook his hand at the door and scratched the dog behind his ears, then said, “Mr. Caravetti, I’d like to introduce you to my grandmother. Something tells me you two would hit it off. She’s throwing a party tomorrow night at eight, at the Hotel Conchiglia. Can you make it?”

“What type of party is it?” he wanted to know. “Will it be a bunch of old people sitting around talking about their hip replacements? I don’t like those types of parties.”

“It’s actually a singles mixer with people of all ages. A gay dance troupe from Catania will be performing, and possibly a mime, but I hope not. Knowing Nana, it’ll be big and wild and will spiral out of control, so the police will probably show up at some point.”

His brown eyes lit up and he said, “Now that sounds like a party! Count me in!”

After we said our goodbyes, we hailed a cab and I gave the driver the address of the bank where Fiona worked. Once we were settled into the backseat, I turned to Luca and asked, “Is it weird that I just tried to set your friend up with my grandmother? I probably should have asked you first.”


“I think it’s sweet. They live half a world apart, so I’m not sure what they’ll do if they hit it off. But hey, maybe Nana and Ollie can have a torrid summer fling or something.”

I grinned and said, “His name’s Ollie? That’s so cute.”

“It’s short for Olivio.” He was holding the small, framed painting, which had been wrapped in brown craft paper and tied with string, and he put it in my lap and said, “Happy Wednesday, by the way.”

I put aside the little gift box I was holding with Nana’s tile and carefully held the package by its edges as I turned to him. “You’re not actually giving this to me, are you?”

“I am.”

“It must have been so expensive! I can’t accept it.”

“It was actually a very good price.”

“Compared to the eighteen million dollar paintings you’re used to?”

He said, “Most of my clients don’t spend eighteen million dollars on a single painting.”

“Still.”

“I want you to have it,” he told me. “I loved the way your face lit up when you saw it. It clearly spoke to you, so it needed to belong to you.”

“This is the best gift I’ve ever received.” I gently hugged the parcel to my chest.

“If that artist’s career takes off like it should, you can probably sell it in a few years and pay down your student loans,” he said, dropping his gaze and tracing the cuff of my shorts with a fingertip.