These Tangled Vines(92)

Today, however, my focus lay elsewhere—on the canvas before me, illuminated by a muted light filtering in through the windows from an overcast sky.

“How’s it coming?” Maria asked as she walked in.

“Come and take a look.” I was never shy about showing my works in progress to Maria, because she seemed to love everything I painted, which fueled my confidence and creativity. “Although there’s not much to look at just yet,” I added.

She stood beside me, contemplating the canvas, which was mostly blank. “You’re only just getting started.”

“Sì. I’ve been sketching. But can you picture it? Try to imagine here”—I waved my hand over the middle section—“when I start adding the colors of a sunset.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it very beautiful,” she said. “I don’t know how you do it. I’m always surprised and amazed by what you come up with.”

“So am I,” I said with a laugh. “It’s just trial and error most of the time.”

Maria looked out the window at the tall cypresses swaying in the wind.

“So what’s up?” I asked, studying the angles of a few charcoal lines on the canvas.

Maria sat down on the windowsill. “I came up here to tell you that Sloane just called.”

My heart gave a little leap. Sloane and I had grown close over the past year. She often called to talk about her divorce from Alan, and sometimes she vented about her challenges as a single parent. I was not a parent myself, so I enjoyed the vicarious experience when it came to my niece and nephew. I was sympathetic and in awe of Sloane’s strength and patience in dealing with everything.

“What did she want?” I asked, wondering why she had called the villa when she usually called my cell phone directly. I suspected it had something to do with the fact that it was on this day, exactly one year ago, that Anton had passed.

“She wanted to surprise you,” Maria replied, “but I told her I was terrible at keeping secrets.”

I laughed as my cell phone rang in my pocket, causing me to jump. Quickly I retrieved it and answered. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Sloane said. “It’s me. Let me guess. Maria is standing right next to you. She couldn’t resist, could she?”

I laughed. “You know her too well.” I moved around the easel and winked at Maria.

“Did she spoil it?” Sloane asked. “The surprise, I mean?”

“Well . . . kind of . . . yes.”

I heard the sound of Evan’s voice in the background asking Chloe if she had any more bubble gum.

Sloane paused before she spoke again. “Okay. So here’s the deal. I’m at LAX with the kids, and we’re at the gate, waiting to board an overnight flight. We arrive in Florence tomorrow.”

I pressed my hand to my heart. “That’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me neither.”

She broke away from our conversation to ask Evan and Chloe to watch the suitcases for a few minutes. Then she continued. “We’ll be there by late morning. We want to visit the cemetery and look at some old pictures I asked Maria to dig out. Maybe we can all do that together.”

“I’d love that.”

“And it’ll be a nice visit for the kids before they start school in London,” Sloane added.

“Are they excited?”

“I think so. Nervous, too, but I’m sure they’ll love it. They already have friends in the neighborhood. I’m just glad to be moving into the house, finally. Our stuff arrives next Tuesday.”

“What about Alan?” I asked. “How’s he taking it, now that you’re actually leaving for good?”

Sloane was quiet for a moment. “He’s still trying to talk me into staying in LA. He even offered to give me the house—as if it was a huge concession and I should bow down and be grateful for it. Meanwhile, he’s on Tinder. Imagine that. Oh, Fiona, I’m so over him, and I don’t care about his house or anything else he’s had his dirty hands on. I’m looking forward to telling you everything over a bottle of wine and a gigantic plate of pasta tomorrow night. Can we do that?”

“Of course.” I paused. “What about Connor? Have you heard from him lately?”

“No, but Mom says he’s dating the producer of a cooking show. Good luck to her.”

I chuckled.

“I’m sure I’ll hear from him when they break up. That’s usually how it goes.”

I nodded. “How about a pickup at the airport tomorrow? Should I send Marco?”

“Don’t worry about that. Maria already asked him to fetch us. Wait a second . . .” She paused. “It sounds like they’re calling our zone for boarding. I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

“All right. Safe travels.”



Later that night, after dinner, I returned to the studio, switched on the chandelier, and wandered leisurely to one of the large wooden crates that held Anton’s canvases. Carefully, I pulled one out, unrolled it, and found myself staring with contentment at the exquisite artistry before me. In simple terms, it was a landscape, but what I saw with my heart was Anton’s appreciation for the beauty in our world and for the extraordinary love he had known.