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“On the Cap side, a little. You can’t eat a marble birdbath,” I told her.

“No, you cannot. But you can sit on your porch and look at it. You can watch the birds splash around in it. Living with beauty is as important as the food you eat. Sometimes beauty sustains you more than bread.”

Angelo’s studio remindsme of Grammy B’s basement. The tools are clean and ready to be used. The shelves are organized with supplies. There is order. Conor and Professoressa Adeel stand back, as though they are observing an installation in a museum, when Angelo picks up a clean cloth and gently dusts it over the gilding. He stands back so we can see his work, the layers of gold in the carving of the stone.

“Bella?” Angelo asks.

“Sì,” I agree.

Beauty sustains Angelo Strazza.

14

Gilt

Conor offers ProfessoressaAdeel a ride back to Lucca, where she lives part time at the university, leaving Angelo and me alone in the studio.

Angelo shows me the fragile sheets of gold he uses to gild the stone. The sheets are like loose pages from a book, except the patina of the gold is lovelier than any words that could ever be printed upon them. “Sicilian gold,” he explains.

“Sicily is on my list.”

“I’ll take you,” he says.

Is he flirting with me? Do I want him to be? Before I can reply, he is back to business.

“Let’s see your work.” He wipes his hand on a rag.

I surrender my sketch pad to Angelo and regret it the moment he flips the cover open. He studies a sketch of one of the fountains I am rendering for Mauro.

“Hmm,” he approves before turning the page. He holds up my self-portrait. “Who is this?”

“That’s me.”

“It doesn’t look like you.”

“It’s how I see myself.”

“You’re much prettier than that miserable woman,” he says as he flips the page.

I don’t know whether to be insulted that he finds me lacking in artistic talent or pleased that he finds me attractive. “I’m just fooling around.” I take the sketch pad from him and close it. “That’s why it’s called a sketch pad.” I tuck it under my arm. “Just ideas.”

“If it were hanging on the wall of the academy, your self-portrait wouldn’t be accurate. That’s all I’m saying,” Angelo says, speaking English slowly and deliberately.

Either my Italian is lacking in his opinion, or he appreciates the opportunity to practice his English, but either way, I feel like an ignorant expat. I dive into a well of self-doubt. I have not been alone with a man since Bobby Bilancia, and it shows. “I should be going,” I tell him.

“When a man pays you a compliment, the proper response isgrazie.”

“Grazie.”

“You don’t mean it.” He moves close to me.

“I meant—thank you.” Whenever I’m nervous, I pile on. It sounds ridiculous, even in the glorious Italian language. “Grazie. Grazie mille.”

“Now you’ve gone too far.” He laughs.

This is the first time I’ve heard Angelo Strazza laugh, and it fills me with desire. It’s the first time in my presence that I see who he is, and I want to know more. “I have a question.”

Angelo folds his arms across his chest. “Anything.”