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“Italy is neither of those things for me. When I took drawing in college, the professor spent the first class having us look at a blank page in our drawing pad. We weren’t allowed to get out a pencil. We had to look at the paper. He said that we couldn’t draw until we knew where we were going.”

“Do you know where you’re going?” Angelo asks.

“I’ve begun to hack away at the rock, like thecavatorior thescarpellini; like excavators and stonecutters, you don’t know what you’ll find until you dig deeply. Or you can choose to stay aboveground and be safe. I guess I am looking for a different kind of security.”

“Why did your husband let you go?”

“I’m not sure he has.”

“You’re funny.” Angelo opens the door. “May I walk you home?”

“No need. You know where I live. It’s just across the piazza. I can see my balcony from around the corner.”

“I know,” he says, leaning against the frame of the old door. “I’ve seen you sketching as the sun rises.”

Angelo extends his hand, and I take it. His hand envelops mine, and he gently grips my wrist, as if to pull me close. I let him. The thrill of his touch makes me shiver. It’s been a long time since I felt a rush like this. I step closer to him. His skin has the scent of cedar and lemon and salt, like a warm Tuscan afternoon.

“When I met you, you wouldn’t take my hand. Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I didn’t want to know if I would like it.”

Angelo takes me in his arms and pulls me close. I’ve missed being held since I left Bobby, but thoughts of his embrace are as far away from me in this moment as Angelo is close to me. Angelo nuzzles my cheek and his lips find mine. He kisses me. I melt into him.

I pull away. “This is a bad idea.” My voice breaks.

“Only if you don’t like me.”

“You have a girlfriend. I should go.” I move through the door quickly and out into the street.

The cool evening breeze washes over me as I walk back to the piazza at a clip that could, from a distance, seem like a sprint. I’d break into a run if it didn’t look like I was fleeing the scene of a crime, which I am. My heart beats faster at the thought of Angelo’s touch, his tousled brown hair the color of chestnuts, his eyes the color of midnight-blue velvet, and hands so expressive and strong they rival Adam’s in Michelangelo’s creation. I sketched those hands a thousand times in Renaissance art class at Montclair State. Why is it that a man who works with his hands always has beautiful ones? I remind myself that Angelo is taken and that there’s asweatbox in purgatory for women like me who fool around with another woman’s man. I should be disgusted with myself, but instead, I find myself ravenous.

Instead of heading back to the apartment, I stop for an espresso and a butter cookie (who am I kidding, I will request a double on the cookie) at the Caffetteria Leon d’Oro. Signorina LeDonne sees me when I walk in and prepares my espresso. Can it be? I’m a regular! This is a small but important victory for a woman living abroad. I will celebrate by sipping the hot espresso from a tiny ceramic cup instead of downing it like a shot. Civilized. I hold up my hand and give her the peace symbol, which in Italy means double on the side cookies.

A kitten with a fluffy gray coat enters the bar. She must belong to one of the kids on the piazza. She appears to be well kept and is comfortable around people. Her face markings include a black line down the center of her face, which gives her the appearance of wearing a Venetian mask. Maybe she’s on the lam from an off-season Carnevale. She brushes along the stools at the bar before she scampers off. She must be a regular too; she seems to know her way around.

“Il gatto,” Signorina LeDonne says, shaking her head.

“Is it yours?” I ask.

“No. She came from the mountain. Something must have happened to her mother.”

“That’s terrible.”

Thesignorinashrugs. “Everyone that comes into my bar is looking for love.”

“Not me!” I blurt.

“Perhaps you already found it?” Thesignorinawinks at me.

I walk toward my apartment under the loggia nibbling cookie number two. The stray kitten from the Caffetteria Leon d’Oro bounds out from behind the basin at the feet of Maria Beatrice andfollows me. I walk aimlessly, because I can’t shake my first kiss with Angelo or my last kiss with Bobby. The final kiss between Bobby and me happened in the parking lot of Thompson, Thompson & Thompson. I guess Bobby didn’t want to end our life together on a sour note, or he hoped a passionate kiss would change my mind. It didn’t.

“You have to go home,” I tell the kitten. She rubs up against my leg. I kneel. “Somebody somewhere is missing you terribly,” I tell her as she rubs her face into my hand. “You must be hungry.” I pick her up and she snuggles into my neck. “Did the farmer tell you I bought cream?”

I pass Signore Parolo, who operates the bakery. “Questo gattino di appartiene?”

“No, no. Quel gattino giovaga qui fuori da una settimana.”

I look around the piazza; the kitten doesn’t seem to belong to anyone.