These Tangled Vines(46)

Lillian bristled at the underlying suggestion that Freddie had “left” her. “He has work to do,” she explained. “He’s writing a book, and he needs to do some research.”

“Is he published?”

“Not yet, but we’re hopeful that this will be his debut novel. When he gets an agent, everything will be easier, financially. Then we can start a family.”

Caterina considered this for a moment. “So you are the breadwinner?”

Lillian cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose, for now, but I don’t mind. I enjoy working. Especially here.” She smiled.

“But you want to have a family, sì? ”

“Yes, very much so.”

Caterina dipped a large ceramic bowl into the hot, soapy water. “You must tell us the name of your husband’s book so that we can buy it when it’s published.”

“Fingers crossed,” she replied.

Caterina passed the bowl to Lillian, and she set it on the worktable behind her. “Your husband must be very creative,” Caterina continued, as she scoured an iron skillet in the sink. “There is something about artistic men that is very appealing, don’t you agree?”

“Sì ,” Lillian replied.

“Anton is an artist,” Caterina casually mentioned. “Did you know?”

Lillian remembered how enraptured he had seemed when she mentioned that she wished she had a paintbrush to capture the clouds. “No, I didn’t. What sort of artist is he?”

“He paints with oils. He’s very good.”

Lillian chuckled softly. “I’m both surprised and not surprised.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he seems to have an artistic soul.” It was there in the way he spoke about wine and pleasure and a deeper meaning to everything.

Later, Lillian and Caterina returned to the dinner table to drink some grappa with the men. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, Caterina pounced on the opportunity to change the subject.

“Anton, I told Lillian about your art.”

Everyone fell silent. Anton sat back in his chair and inclined his head, scolding her a little with his tone. “Cat . . .”

“I couldn’t help myself!” she replied defensively. “It just slipped out.”

“Is it supposed to be a secret?” Lillian asked, innocently.

Domenico slapped the table with his hand. “That has been my question since the day I met this man. Why won’t you show anyone your paintings, Anton? They’re very good. They deserve to be seen and enjoyed.”

“I don’t paint for other people,” he replied. “I just do it for myself.”

“What do you paint?” Lillian asked, sipping her grappa.

“Nothing, really,” Anton replied.

“He paints Tuscany,” Domenico told her, flat out. “This man sees everything with fresh eyes. He has a very unique style. Maybe it’s because he’s British . . . I don’t know.”

Lillian sat forward and rested her chin on her hand. An enchanted smile came to her lips. “I should have guessed.”

He sat forward as well. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve noticed how you study the clouds and the mountains and the trees. It’s as if you can’t wait to put it all on canvas. I didn’t understand it before, but now I do. And today, when I said that I wished I had a paintbrush . . .”

“Yes.”

A breeze through the open window caused the candle flames to dance on the table. No one spoke, and Lillian felt the heat of the grappa moving pleasurably through her bloodstream.

Domenico spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Take her to your studio, Anton. Otherwise, she’ll lie awake all night wondering if we’re just humoring you, overselling your talent because you’re the boss.” He turned to Lillian. “For all you know, maybe he paints like a three-year-old.”

Lillian sat back and laughed. “I doubt that.”

Domenico waved a hand through the air. “Take her, Anton.”

Francesco agreed. “Yes, Anton. Take her upstairs. Show her a picture or two. What harm could come from it?”

Anton’s gaze never veered from hers. “All right, Lillian. Let’s go. But promise you’ll be kind.”

She smiled at him. “I always am.”

They stood up from the table. Anton said, “You might as well all come. I know you’re dying to see what she thinks.”

“I am, actually,” Domenico said as he rose and followed them out of the room while Caterina blew out the candles.

Anton led the way through the house and across an outdoor stone courtyard that resembled a monks’ cloister. They reentered the villa on the opposite side and climbed to the second floor, where they came to an oak door. Anton pushed it open and switched on a chandelier.

“The light is terrible in here,” he said. “I never paint at night, and I rarely paint here in the day either. It’s just for storage, really.”

Lillian walked in. She was immediately fascinated.

“Where do you work if not here?” Moving slowly along the back wall, she looked down at dozens of oil paintings stacked vertically on the floor, leaning into one another.

“Outdoors,” he replied.