“You aren’t the only one with secrets, Professor.”
Gabriel’s smile slid off his face.
She looked down at her shoes.
“But I can arrange a private viewing.”
“In a dark corner at the Uffizi?”
Their eyes met and she nodded.
He kissed her cheek. “You look lovely. The guests won’t be looking at Botticelli. They’ll be looking at you.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Gabriel. I’m nervous enough.” She brushed imaginary lint from his shoulders and then straightened his black bow tie. “You’re handsome. I don’t have the pleasure of seeing you in a tuxedo very often.”
“I can arrange a private viewing.” He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent.
“Roses.” He opened his eyes. “You’ve changed your perfume.”
“The Noble Rose of Afghanistan. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s fair trade and it encourages development in that country.”
“Only you would choose your perfume because of the company’s commitment to fair trade. What did I do to deserve you?” Gabriel whispered, his eyes dark and searching.
“You deserve happiness. Why can’t you let yourself believe that?”
He gave her a long look, then took her hand in his and led her to the door.
All the while, Julia’s heart nearly cracked under the weight of her realization that her love had not healed him.
“Professore. Signora.” Lorenzo, Dottore Vitali’s assistant, greeted them at the entrance to the Uffizi.
“We shall gather with the media. You will be invited to open the exhibition. Then we will view the collection, enjoy a reception and later, dinner.”
Gabriel acquiesced in Italian, squeezing Julia’s hand.
Lorenzo led them to a hallway where a crowd of about a hundred people were gathered. Julia recognized many familiar faces from Gabriel’s lecture a year and a half ago. All the men were in tuxedos, save the members of the press; all the women were wearing gowns, many of which swept the floor.
Julia looked down at her bare legs self-consciously.
Soon they were surrounded. Gabriel shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, introducing Julia as his beautiful wife. She watched as he greeted guests in Italian, French, and German, working the room fluidly and comfortably. But he never let her leave his side; his arm remained wrapped around her waist.
They were just about to follow Dottore Vitali to the doorway to the exhibition when Julia stopped short. Staring at her, not fifty feet away, was Professor Pacciani, with a tall, dark-haired woman on his arm.
Julia’s eyes widened.
For a moment, she thought the woman was Christa Peterson. But on sustained inspection, she realized that although there was a resemblance, Pacciani’s companion was older than Christa by about ten years.
Gabriel felt Julia stop, but he’d been speaking with Vitali, getting last-minute instructions on what was to take place. His eyes followed hers and something akin to a growl escaped his chest.
“Ah, you know Professor Pacciani, I assume.” Vitali spoke in Gabriel’s ear. “We invited the professors from the universities, on your instructions.”
“Right,” said Gabriel. He rued the fact that he hadn’t been more explicit about who should not receive an invitation.
“Shall we?” Dottore Vitali gestured, and the Emersons walked to the doorway.
They stood side by side, facing the crowd and blinking amid the cameras and commotion, while Vitali made his introductions. Julia tried not to fidget, but she felt very conspicuous.
The director spent a long time explaining the history of the sixteenth-century illustrations—how they were copies of Botticelli’s original images of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and how, although eight of the originals had been lost, the Emersons had possession of the full complement of one hundred.
As Julia scanned the crowd, one face stood out. A young-looking, fair-haired man with strange gray eyes stared unblinkingly in her direction, his expression one of intense curiosity. His reaction was so different from the other guests, Julia couldn’t help but return his stare, until Gabriel nudged her, drawing her attention back to their host.
Dottore Vitali painstakingly traced the provenance of the illustrations from the Emersons back to the nineteenth century, where they seem to have appeared out of nowhere.
The Uffizi was proud to display images that had not been viewed in public since, perhaps, their creation.
The audience murmured appreciatively and broke out into enthusiastic applause as Vitali thanked the Emersons for their generosity.
Gabriel moved his arm in order to take Julia’s hand, squeezing it. They nodded and smiled their acknowledgments. Then he walked to the podium and offered a few words of thanks in Italian to Vitali and the Uffizi.