But loving her as he did, he was willing to accept that, and quietly hoped that she would open her heart to him fully one day. He felt sure it was possible, and was willing to take the risk. He proceeded slowly thereafter, courting her gently and wooing her in small romantic ways. He finally invited her for a weekend in Venice with him, where things took their natural course, and they had been lovers ever since. They were quiet about it at first, and never made a big issue of it. He kept his room over the restaurant and left his things there, but for the past several years, he slept at the studio with her. They went on trips together and enjoyed each other’s company, and she told him that she loved him, and meant it, but she still rhapsodized about Lorenzo, and extolled his genius and his mainly imagined virtues, and Gabriel allowed her to keep her illusions without argument.
They had been lovers for almost four years, and Gabriel was satisfied with the relationship, even with its limitations, out of love for her. He never suggested marriage to her, nor asked for more than she was willing to give him of herself, and now and then Theo scolded her that she shouldn’t talk about Lorenzo all the time around Gabriel—it always pained Theo for him.
“Why not?” she asked, looking surprised when he said it. “Gabriel loved your father too. He knows he was a great man, and how much he meant to me. He doesn’t expect me to forget him, or to stop telling clients about him when they come to the restaurant to see his work. That’s why they come here.”
“But Gabriel comes here because he loves you,” Theo said gently. He always marveled at Gabriel’s tolerance of being number two in his mother’s life, playing second fiddle to a man who had been dead for twelve years, and had been anything but the saint she described him as. As much as he had loved and admired his father, he thought Gabriel was the better man, and far kinder to his mother than his father in his final years. He had been a great artist, but a very difficult man. He had never been easy to live with, even in his youth, according to people who had known him then. And his talent, burning within him like a white-hot flame, sometimes seared those closest to him and who loved him most.
Gabriel took a great interest in Theo’s artwork too. He never offered to represent him, because he thought Theo should have his own gallery and not live in his father’s shadow. Theo was a very talented artist, with an entirely different perception than Lorenzo’s, but almost of equal talent, once he developed it for a few more years.
At thirty, Theo was well on his way, and extremely serious about his work. And the only thing he ever allowed to distract him were his mother’s occasional requests to help her at the restaurant—if something went wrong, they were overbooked, or short-handed, which only happened from time to time. And as much as his mother enjoyed the restaurant, Theo didn’t. He hated having to greet the guests, and listening to his mother extol his father’s virtues. He had heard more than enough of it for all the years he was growing up, and even more so since his father’s death. Listening to it made him want to scream. And he didn’t enjoy the public hustle-bustle of the restaurant. Theo was a quieter, more private person than his mother.
Gabriel had given him the names of galleries he thought Theo should pursue, but he modestly insisted he wasn’t ready yet, and wanted to work for another year or two before he had a show in Paris. He had exhibited his work at several art fairs but hadn’t settled on a gallery. Gabriel insisted that he should—he was a strong supportive force in Theo’s life. Despite the oddity of their lopsided relationship, Theo was grateful that Gabriel was in his mother’s life too. And like Gabriel, he hoped that they might marry one day, if Maylis felt ready to move forward, which clearly she didn’t yet.
Marriage wasn’t high on Theo’s list of priorities either. He had had several relationships that lasted for a few months or a year, and many for a lot less. He was too dedicated to his work as an artist to put a lot of energy into the women he went out with, and they always complained about it and eventually left. And he was sensitive to gold-digging women who were interested in him because of who his father was, and he tried to avoid that. He had been dating Chloe, his current girlfriend, for six months. She was an artist too, but did commercial work that sold to tourists out of a gallery in St. Tropez. It was a far cry from what Theo did, with his background and degree from the Beaux-Arts, his genetic heritage and inherited talent, and long-term serious ambitions. All she wanted was to make enough money to pay the rent, and she’d been complaining a lot recently that he didn’t spend enough time with her and they never went anywhere. That was how most of his relationships ended, and his current one seemed to be heading there. Chloe had reached the familiar phase of complaining all the time. He was in a particularly intense work phase at the moment, developing some new techniques that he was anxious to perfect. He wasn’t in love with Chloe, but they had fun in bed, and she had a great body. At thirty, she had suddenly started talking about marriage, which was usually a death knell for him. He wasn’t ready to settle down or have kids. And she was becoming increasingly strident about his work. In the battle between women and his artwork, his work inevitably won.
—
Maylis was checking the tables in the garden, as she did every night, making sure that there were flowers and candles on every table, the linens were impeccable, and the silver gleaming. She was a perfectionist in all things, and ran a tight ship. She had learned a lot about running a restaurant in the last few years. And there was nothing casual about Da Lorenzo. The garden restaurant was as beautiful as the food and wines were fabulous. One of the waiters came to get her as she made her rounds. They had a full house, as usual, and would open for dinner in two hours.
“Madame Luca, Jean-Pierre is on the phone.” He was her brilliantly efficient ma?tre d’, and the fact that he was calling wasn’t a good sign, as the waiter handed her the phone.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, still wearing jeans and a white shirt. She was going to dress in an hour. She usually wore a black silk dress, high heels, and a string of pearls, with her long white hair neatly coiffed in a bun. She was still a pretty woman at sixty-three.
“I’m afraid not,” Jean-Pierre said, sounding ill. “I had lunch in Antibes today, and I’m sick as a dog. Bad mussels, I think.”
“Damn,” she said, looking at her watch. She still had time to call Theo, although she knew how much he hated it. But it was a family restaurant, and when she or the ma?tre d’ couldn’t work, she always called her son, and he never refused her pleas for help.
“I’m too sick to come in.” He sounded it over the phone, and Jean-Pierre never called in sick unless he was really ill.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll call Theo. I’m sure he has nothing to do.” He was always in his studio working. He had very little social life, and painted on most nights.
Jean-Pierre apologized again and hung up, and she called her son a minute later. It rang for quite a while, and then Theo picked up, sounding distracted. He was going to let it ring and then glanced at the phone and saw who it was.
“Hello, Maman. What’s up?” He squinted at the canvas as he spoke to her, not sure if he liked what he’d just done. He was very critical of his own work, as his father had been with his.
“Jean-Pierre is sick.” She got right to the point. “Can you bail me out?”