“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.
She noticed three easels folded and standing against the opposite wall and a steel case full of well-used paint tubes lying open on a small table.
Domenico, Caterina, and Francesco had followed them into the studio as well, but they remained quiet, looking around.
Anton stood by the door with his hands in his pockets, and Lillian sensed that this was torture for him—as if they were all intruding noisily upon his private life. Her heart ached a little, and she wished the others hadn’t joined them. She wished they were alone. He would have been more comfortable, she believed, if it were just the two of them.
“May I?” she asked, indicating a collection of canvases on the floor under a window.
He nodded.
Lillian crouched down and flipped through a batch of medium-size paintings. The colors were vibrant yet tempered. There was a mellowness to everything. A sense of calm.
She was no expert or scholar when it came to art, but she knew enough to recognize an impressionist style, not unlike Monet. Anton had painted Tuscany with a gentle hand while celebrating itsmovement—the wind in the cypresses, the mist creeping through the valleys, the sunset disappearing behind the mountainous horizon. Fields of yellow sunflowers pointing their faces to the sky. A meadow of poppies fluttering in a fresh breeze. Tuscan architecture in the changing light of dawn. Steep, narrow, twisting cobblestone lanes. Romanesque churches. Piazzas alive with Italians.
“These are incredible,” she said. “You should show them to people.”
“Sometimes he’ll give one away,” Domenico explained, “if it’s a friend who can pry something out of his greedy grasp.”
