“No tears.” CiCi tapped a finger to Simone’s nose. “Your eyes look fantastic. In fact, I’m going to have you do my makeup. After wine.”
After stepping out of her shoes, Simone padded over to the kitchen, chose a local red, tossed together a quick plate of cheese and bread and olives.
“I know it’s not an important show,” she began.
“Stop that right now—no negative vibes allowed. They’re all important, and this one is especially. It’s yours. It’s your first European show.” Opening the balcony doors, CiCi took one of the metal chairs, then the wine Simone set on the table beside her. “Salute, my treasure.”
Simone clinked glasses with CiCi. “I’m grateful for the chance. I just don’t want to overdo my expectations.”
“Well, I can see I’m sure as hell needed here to keep you from dimming your own star. It’s going to shine tonight—trust me there. You know I’m a little bit psychic. And you’re going to let it shine or I’ll have to kick your ass.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. How long can you stay?”
“I’m taking a couple of weeks to catch up with you, some friends, do some painting. It’s a beautiful city,” CiCi murmured, looking out at the piazza, the red-tile roofs and sun-washed stucco. “Is it your place, Simone?”
“I love it. I love the light and the people, the art. The air breathes art here. I love the color and the history, the food, the wine. I think being here didn’t just open something in me, but fed it. And who feeds body and soul better than the Italians?”
“And still?”
“And still. While it’s a place I’ll need to come back to, it’s not mine. If you can stay three weeks, I’ll fly back with you. I’m ready.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
*
At the opening, Simone played her part, making conversation in Italian and English, answering questions about particular pieces. People wandered in, milled around—she knew many came for the little cups of wine.
But they came.
She greeted Francesca and Isabel when they arrived, exchanged warm hugs and kisses with the longtime couple who’d taken her under their wings when she’d arrived in Florence.
The gallery manager—a woman of fifty who made severe and sober black look spectacular—slipped up and murmured in Simone’s ear.
“We have just sold your Awakened.”
Simone opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The piece, one of the few she’d chosen to do in bronze, had involved weeks of planning and countless second guesses about the pose, the medium—and then the price the gallery set.
And now the figure of a woman half rising from a bed of flowers, one arm stretched up as if to take the sun, the hint of a smile Simone had agonized over getting exactly right, belonged to someone.
“Who— Oh God, don’t tell me my grandmother bought her.”
“She did not. Come and meet who did.”
Her ears buzzed when she walked through the serpentine layout of the gallery to meet the businessman and his stylish wife who’d given Simone her first major sale.
Then the buzzing gave way to cheering inside as she shook hands, chatted.
She had to tell CiCi.
She worked her way through, finally found CiCi standing by a piece she’d titled Emergence. While she considered the bronze her most complicated and difficult piece in the show, this was her personal favorite.
Because it held her heart.
The female head and shoulders rose out of a pool, the head tipped back, the hair flowing down sleek and wet, the eyes closed, the face rapturous.
She’d done it in pale blues.
“CiCi, I … What’s wrong?” Seeing tears in her grandmother’s eyes, she rushed forward. “You’re not feeling well? Do you need air? Do you need some water?”
“No. No.” CiCi gripped her hand. “Step outside with me a minute, before I embarrass myself.”
“Okay. Here.” She slipped an arm around CiCi’s waist, guided her out. “It’s hot and crowded. I’m going to find you a chair.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Jesus, don’t treat me like an old lady. I just need a second.”
Outside, the air smelled of flowers and food. People sat on the patio of the restaurant across the street, enjoying dinner, conversation. A woman walked by—long legs in a short skirt—with a dog on a leash.
“I knew you were talented. I knew it would be clay. I’m a little bit psychic, as you know.” CiCi took the wine Simone had forgotten she held, sipped. “I could see your work moving when I visited last fall. And you’ve sent me pictures, videos. But they don’t show it, my baby. They don’t show it like this. Like seeing it. The textures, the details, the feeling. There’s so much brilliance here, I can’t begin. And you’ve barely started.”
CiCi patted away tears. “I’m telling you this, artist to artist, so don’t give me any crap when I say that your Emergence has to be mine. I’m buying it not because you’re my granddaughter. I’m buying it because it made me weep, it touched my soul.”
“It’s … It’s Tish.”
“Yes, I know. And she, and you, touched my soul.”
“Then it’s a gift.”
“No. It will not be a gift. You can give me something else, but not that. Now go in there and tell them it’s sold before somebody buys it out from under me. I need to drink this wine and pull myself together. Hurry up!”
“I’ll be right back.”
When she came back, she found CiCi leaning against the wall, smiling. “I’ve still got it. The most charming man—not much older than you—stopped and offered to buy me a real glass of wine. We should go back in before I create a sexual disturbance.”
“Now I need a minute. CiCi.” She groped for her grandmother’s hand. “CiCi, I’ve sold four pieces—five,” she corrected. “Five with yours. Anna-Tereza is thrilled. I swear, I almost took a page out of your book, almost lit candles and tried to do a spell so I could sell one and not humiliate myself.”
“No witchcraft for your own gain.” Sipping with one hand, CiCi squeezed Simone’s with the other. “It’s tacky.”
“Right. Dante’s going to be pretty pleased, as he was the model for two of the sales.”
“And the night’s not over. When this part is, we’re going to have ourselves one hell of a celebration. And look who’s going to be raising glasses with us.”
“Who—” Simone looked in the direction CiCi pointed.
She saw the woman running, short, black bob bouncing. Sneakers, a backpack.
“Mi. Oh God, Mi!”
Despite the heels, Simone sprinted to meet her.
“My flight from London was delayed. I didn’t have time to change. I’m a mess. I’m here. I’m not too late.”
The breathless volley of words came with hugs.
“But you had that conference. You’re speaking. You—”
“I’ve only got tonight. I have to fly back first thing in the morning. Jeez, you look fabulous. I’m not worthy.”
“Dr. Jung. My Dr. Jung.” She pulled her over to CiCi, embraced them both. “This is the best night of my life.”
CHAPTER NINE
In the eighteen months and three weeks Simone spent in Florence, Patricia Hobart killed three people.
Killing Hilda Barclay, who’d cradled her dying husband of forty-seven years in her arms during the attack, meant traveling to Tampa, where Hilda had moved to be closer to her daughter. But Patricia considered the time and expense worth it.
She thoroughly resented the press Hilda generated, especially after Hilda created a scholarship for underprivileged youths in her husband’s name.
Underprivileged, my ass, Patricia thought. Freeloaders and assholes coddled by whiny liberal do-gooders.
Plus her target gave her ten days away from the nasty Maine winter—and her will-they-ever-just-die grandparents.
She did her research, of course, before she kissed her annoyingly long-lived grandparents goodbye, and headed off on what everyone agreed was a well-deserved vacation.
Maybe they’d both die in their sleep before she got back, and the equally detestable cat her grandmother spoiled like a baby would eat their eyeballs.
A girl had to have her dreams.