Ren went upstairs to get rid of his eye patch and change out of his laborer’s garb. Isabel finished unpacking the groceries and straightened up the mess he left in his wake. She wandered over to gaze out the garden door. The workers had disappeared from the olive grove, and Marta seemed to have moved into the villa for a while. This was a good time to locate the key to the storehouse.

She searched the kitchen drawers and cupboards, then moved on to the living room, where she finally discovered a wire basket containing half a dozen old-fashioned keys bound together with a piece of twine.

“What’s up?”

She jumped as Ren appeared behind her. He’d changed into jeans and a lightweight oatmeal cotton sweater. The hot water, she’d already noted, had magically returned. “I’m hoping one of these is the key to the storehouse.”

He followed her back through the kitchen and out into the garden. “Is there a reason this matters?”

A pair of crows squawked in protest as they headed for the olive grove. “I thought everyone was trying to get rid of me so Marta wouldn’t have to share the house, but now it appears to be more complicated than that.”

“At least in your imagination.”

They reached the grove, and she began to look for evidence of digging. It didn’t take long to notice that the ground near the storehouse was more trampled today than it had been yesterday.

Ren gazed at the footprints. “I remember poking around down here once when I was a kid. I liked the way the storehouse was built into the side of the hill. I think it was used to keep wine and olive oil.”

She tried the keys. Finally she found one that fit, and she turned it in the old iron lock. The wooden door dragged on its hinges as she pushed against it, and Ren moved her aside to give it a little muscle. They stepped into the dim, musty interior and saw old barrels, crates piled with empty wine bottles, and a few odds and ends of furniture stacked around. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she noticed scuff marks in the dirt.

Ren noticed them, too, and stepped around a broken table to take a closer look. “Someone’s moved these crates away from the wall. Go up to the house, will you, and see if you can find a flashlight? I want a better look.”

“Here.” She pulled out the small flashlight she’d stuck in her pocket.

“Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

“I’ll try not to do it again.”

He played the flashlight across the walls, pausing to study the places where the rock had been reinforced with stones and mortar. “Look at this.”

She moved closer and saw scratch marks around the stones, as if someone had tried to pry them out. “Well, well . . . What do you think of my imagination now?”

He ran his fingers over the marks. “Maybe you’d better tell me what this is about.”

She gazed around the dark space. “Didn’t you try to kill somebody once in a place like this?”

“Brad Pitt. Worst luck, he got me instead. But in a contest between you and me, Fifi, I’m going to win, so start talking.”

She brushed away a spiderweb and walked over to investigate the opposite wall. “Massimo and Giancarlo are supposed to be digging a well in the olive grove, but this doesn’t look like the olive grove to me.”

“It sure is an odd place for a well.”

They poked around a bit more but found nothing else suspicious. She followed him out into the sunshine, where he switched off the flashlight. “I’m going to have a talk with Anna,” he said.

“She’ll stonewall you.”

“This is my property, and if there’s something going on, I want to know about it.”

“I don’t think confronting her is the best way to get information.”

“You have a better way? Stupid question. Of course you do.”

She’d already thought it over. “It might be more productive to act as though we haven’t noticed anything odd, then make ourselves scarce and watch what happens from someplace we can’t be seen the next time Massimo and Giancarlo show up.”

“Spy, you mean. Now, that has to violate every Cornerstone you ever made up and a few you haven’t even thought about.”

“Not exactly true. The Personal Relationship Cornerstone calls for aggressively pursuing your goals, and the Professional Responsibility Cornerstone encourages out-of-the-box thinking. Also, something very dishonest seems to be going on here, and the Spiritual Discipline Cornerstone advocates total honesty.”

“Spying, of course, being a great way to practice that.”

“Which has always been a problem with the Four Cs. They don’t give you a lot of wiggle room.”

He laughed. “You’re making this way too complicated. I’m talking to Anna.”

“Go ahead, but I’m telling you right now, you won’t get anywhere.”

“Is that so? Well, you’ve forgotten one thing, Ms. Know-It-All.”

“And what’s that?”

“I have ways of making people talk.”

“Then be my guest.”

Unfortunately, his ways didn’t work with Anna Vesto, and Ren returned to the farmhouse later that evening with no more information than when he’d left.

“I told you so,” she said to punish him for the afternoon she’d spent sitting in the arbor thinking about that vineyard kiss instead of working on an outline for her book about overcoming personal crisis.

He refused to take the bait. “She said there’d been some small landslides, and the men can’t start digging until they make certain the hill’s stable.”

“Strange that they had to go inside the storehouse—undoubtedly the most stable part of that slope—to begin making reinforcements.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

They were standing in the kitchen, where Ren had just begun dinner preparations. He’d moved into her house, mess and all, and she hadn’t done anything to stop it.

She took a sip of the wine he’d poured, and leaned against the counter to watch as he pulled the chicken he’d bought from the small refrigerator. He sharpened a wicked-looking carving knife with a steel he found in a drawer. “When I mentioned to Anna that the storehouse didn’t seem like the most logical place to start making reinforcements, all I got were shrugs, along with the suggestion that Italian workmen knew a lot more about landslides and well-digging than a worthless American movie star does.”

“Except more politely stated.”

“Not much. Then that five-year-old exhibitionist came running in and flashed me. I swear, I’m not going up there again without a personal bodyguard—meaning you.”

“Brittany’s just trying to get attention. If everyone would ignore her negative behavior and reinforce the positive, she’d stop doing it.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one being stalked.”

“You do have a way with women.” She smiled and took another sip of wine. “How are Tracy and Harry doing?”

“She wasn’t there, and Harry ignored me.” He pushed aside a yellow plate holding the pears he’d bought at the market. “Okay, this is how we’re going to solve the mystery of what’s going on around here. We’re announcing to everyone that we’re driving to Siena for the day. Then we’ll pack up the car, head off, and when we get far enough away, double back and find a vantage point where we can watch the olive grove.”

“Interesting plan. My plan, as a matter of fact.”

“Actually, that’s what I’m going to do.” He took a whack at the chicken breast. “You’re staying in the car and driving to Siena.”

“Okay.”

He cocked one of those screen-idol eyebrows. “In the movies this is where the liberated woman tells the macho hero that he’s crazy if he thinks he’s going on that dangerous mission without her.”

“Which is why you, the bad guy, are always able to abduct those foolhardy females.”

“I don’t think you have to worry too much about Massimo or Giancarlo abducting you. Tell Father Lorenzo the truth. You don’t want to compromise your principles with spying, so you’re making me do the dirty work.”

“Good theory, but wrong. When it comes to a choice between boiling in the hot sun all day and strolling through the shady streets of Siena, guess which one I’d rather do?” Besides, strolling the streets of Siena wouldn’t present the same temptation as spending hours alone with Ren. Even though she’d almost positively decided to have an affair with him, she wanted to give herself another chance to regain her sanity.

“You’re the most unpredictable woman I’ve ever met.”

She took an olive from the bowl on the counter. “Why are you so anxious to send me off to Siena?”

He pushed aside a thigh with the edge of his blade. “Are you nuts? About five minutes into the stakeout you’d be dusting the weeds and rearranging the leaf piles. Then, when you finished all that, you’d start trying to tidy me up, and I’d have to shoot you.”

“I know how to relax. I can do it if I concentrate.”

He laughed. “So do you plan to just stand around entertaining me, or do you want to learn something about cooking?”

She smiled despite herself. “I’ve actually been thinking about taking a few cooking classes.”

“Why take classes when I’m here?” He washed the chicken from his hands in the sink. “Start cleaning those vegetables, then cut up the pepper.”

She gazed at the chicken he’d just finished dismembering. “I’m not sure I want to do any activity with you that involves knives.”

He laughed, but as he gazed down at her, his amusement faded. For a moment he seemed almost troubled, but then he dropped his head and slowly, thoroughly, kissed her. She tasted wine on his lips and something else that was distinctly Lorenzo Gage—strength, cunning, and a thinly veiled vicious streak. Or maybe she’d made up that last one to try to terrify herself out of what she wanted to do with him.

He took his time drawing away. “Are you ready to start talking about cooking, or do you intend to keep distracting me?”

She made a grab for the small spiral-bound notebook she’d left on the table. “Go ahead.”

“What’s that?”

“A notebook.”

“Well, put it away, for chrissa—for Pete’s sake.”

“These are supposed to be lessons, aren’t they? I need to understand the principles first.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do. Okay, here’s a principle for you: She who works, eats. She who writes crap in a notebook, starves. Now, get rid of that and start slicing up those vegetables.”

“Please don’t use the word ‘slice’ when we’re alone.” She opened the nearest drawer. “I need an apron.”

He sighed, grabbed a dish towel, and wrapped it around her waist. But when he’d finished tying it, his hands stayed on her hips, and his voice developed a husky note. “Get rid of your shoes.”

“Why?”

“Do you want to learn to cook or not?”

“Yes, but I don’t see— Oh, all right.” If she protested, he’d just say she was being rigid, so she kicked off her sandals. He smiled as she tucked them under the table, but she didn’t see anything amusing about leaving a pair of shoes out where anyone could trip over them.

“Now, open that top button.”

“Oh, no. We’re not doing—”

“Quiet.” Instead of arguing, he reached out and did the job himself. The material fell away just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and he smiled. “Now you look like a woman a man wants to cook for.”

She thought about buttoning it back up, but there was something intoxicating about standing here in a fragrant Tuscan cucina, wineglass in hand, rumple-haired, unbuttoned, barefoot, surrounded by beautiful vegetables and an even more beautiful man.

She set to work, and as she rinsed and sliced, she was conscious of the worn, cool tiles beneath her feet and the tickle of evening air brushing the tops of her breasts. Maybe there was something to be said for looking like a slattern, because she loved the way he kept gazing at her. It was oddly satisfying to be appreciated for her body instead of her brain.

They got their wineglasses mixed up, and when he wasn’t looking, she discreetly turned his so she could drink from the place where his lips had touched. The silliness pleased her.

Outside the garden door the evening turned the hills to lavender. “Have you already signed for your next film?”

He nodded. “I’ll be working with Howard Jenks. We start filming in Rome, then move on to New Orleans and L.A.”

She wondered when they’d begin, but she didn’t like the idea of having an invisible clock ticking over her head, so she refrained from asking. “Even I’ve heard of Howard Jenks. I assume this won’t be your standard slasher film.”

“You assume right. It’s the part I’ve been waiting my whole career to tackle.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Probably not, but I want to hear anyway.”

“This time I won’t be playing your garden-variety psychopath.” He began describing the role of Kaspar Street, and by the time he’d finished, she had chills. Still, she could understand his excitement. This was the kind of complex role actors stood in line for. “But you still haven’t seen the final script?”

“It should be here any day. It’s an understatement to say that I’m anxious to see what Jenks has done with it.”

He slid the chicken into the oven, then began placing the vegetables in a separate roasting pan. “As horrible as Street is, there’s almost something poignant about him. He genuinely loves the women he murders.”

Not her idea of poignant, but for once she was going to keep her mouth shut. Or almost shut. “I don’t think it’s good for you to always play such horrible men.”

“As I believe you’ve mentioned before. Now, dice up those tomatoes for the bruschetta.” He pronounced the word with the hard k of the Italians instead of the soft sh most Americans used.

“All right, but if you ever want to talk about—”

“Chop!”

While she was doing that, he cut thin slices from yesterday’s bread, then drizzled them with olive oil, rubbed them with a clove of garlic, and showed her how to toast them over the open flame of the stove. As they turned golden brown, he added bits of ripe olive and slivers of fresh basil to the tomatoes she’d diced, then spooned the mixture on the bread slices she arranged on a majolica plate.

While the rest of the dinner cooked in the oven, they carried everything into the garden, along with the earthenware jug holding the flowers she’d bought at the market. Gravel dug into her bare feet, but she didn’t bother going back for her shoes. They settled at the stone table, where the cats came up to investigate.

She leaned back and sighed. The last rays of light clung to the hills, and long purple shadows fell over the vineyard and the olive grove. She thought of the Etruscan statue in the museum, Shadow of the Evening, and tried to imagine that young boy roaming lean and naked over the fields.

Ren took a sloppy bite of bruschetta, then stretched out his legs and spoke with his mouth full. “God, I love Italy.”

She closed her eyes and breathed a soft amen.

A whiff of breeze carried the cooking smells from the oven into the garden. Chicken and fennel, onion and garlic, the sprig of rosemary Ren had tossed on top of the roasting vegetables.

“I don’t appreciate food when I’m home,” he said. “In Italy there’s nothing more important.”

Isabel knew what he meant. At home her life had been too highly scheduled for her to enjoy a meal like this. She was out of bed at five for yoga, then in the office before six-thirty so she could write a few manuscript pages before her staff arrived. Meetings, interviews, phone calls, lectures, airports, strange hotel rooms, falling asleep over her laptop at one in the morning trying to write a few more pages before she turned out the light. Even Sundays had become indistinguishable from weekdays. That Divine Slacker might have had time to rest on the seventh day, but He didn’t have Isabel Favor’s workload.

She let the wine roll over her tongue. She tried so hard to approach life from a position of strength, but all that effort had come at a price. “It’s easy to forget simple pleasures.”

“But you’ve done your best.” She heard something that sounded like sympathy in his voice.

“Hey, I’ve got a world to run.” She said the words lightly, but they still tried to catch in her throat.

“Permesso?”

She turned to see Vittorio coming through the garden. With his black hair tied in a ponytail and his elegant Etruscan nose, he looked like a gentle Renaissance poet. And walking just behind him was Giulia Chiara.

“Buona sera, Isabel.” He opened his arms in greeting.

She smiled automatically, discreetly fastened her top button, and rose to have her cheeks kissed. Even though she didn’t trust Vittorio, there was something about him that made her look forward to his company. Still, she doubted it was coincidental that he’d shown up tonight with Giulia. He knew that Isabel had spotted them together, and he was here to do damage control.

Ren looked less than friendly, but Vittorio didn’t seem to notice. “Signore Gage, I am Vittorio Chiara. And this is my beautiful wife, Giulia.”

He’d never said a word about being married, let alone being married to Giulia. He’d never even told Isabel his last name. Most men who hid the existence of wives did it so they could hit on other women, but Vittorio’s flirtatiousness had been harmless, so he’d had another reason.

Giulia was dressed in a plum-colored miniskirt and striped top. She’d tucked her light brown hair behind her ears, and gold hoops swung from her lobes. Ren’s scowl gave way to a smile, which made Isabel resent Giulia even more than she’d resented her for the unanswered phone calls.

“My pleasure,” Ren said. Then, to Vittorio, “I see word’s gotten out that I’m here.”

“Not too much. Anna is very discreet, but she needed help with preparations for your arrival. We’re family—she is my mother’s sister—so she knows I’m very trustworthy. The same is true of Giulia.” He lavished his wife with a smile. “She is the best agente immobiliare in the area. Homeowners from here to Siena trust her to handle their rental properties.”

Giulia gave Isabel a strained smile. “I understand you were trying to find me. I’ve been out of town and didn’t get your messages until this afternoon.”

Isabel didn’t believe it for a moment.

Giulia tilted her head at a charming angle. “I trust Anna took care of everything while I was away.”

Isabel made a noncommital murmer, but Ren was suddenly all hospitality. “Would you like to join us?”

“Are you sure we won’t be a bother?” Vittorio was already steering his wife toward a chair.

“Not at all. Let me get some wine.” Ren set off for the kitchen and quickly returned with more glasses, the wedge of pecorino, and some fresh slices of bruschetta. Before long they were settled around the table laughing at Vittorio’s stories of his experiences as a guide. Giulia added her own tales centering on the wealthy foreigners who rented villas in the area. She was more reserved than her husband but just as entertaining, and Isabel began to set aside her earlier resentment and enjoy the young woman’s company.

She liked the fact that neither of them questioned Ren about Hollywood, and when Isabel was guarded about her own work, they didn’t press. After several trips to the kitchen to check the oven, Ren invited them to stay for dinner, and they accepted.

While he sautéed the porcini, Giulia put out the bread, and Vittorio opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water to accompany the wine. It was getting dark, so Isabel found some chunky candles to set in the middle of the table, then asked Vittorio to climb on a chair and light the candles in the chandelier she’d hung in the trees. Before long, glimmers from the flames were dancing through the magnolia leaves.

Ren hadn’t misrepresented his abilities as a chef. The chicken was perfect, juicy and flavorful, and the roasted vegetables held subtle undertones of rosemary and marjoram. As they ate, the chandelier swayed gently from the tree limb above them, and the flames flickered happily. Crickets sang, the wine flowed, and the stories grew more outrageous. It was all very relaxed, very merry, very Italian. “Pure bliss.” Isabel sighed, as she bit into the last of the meaty porcini.

“Our funghi are the best in the world,” Giulia said. “You must come and hunt the porcini with me, Isabel. I have secret places.”

Isabel wondered if Giulia’s invitation was genuine or another gambit to get her away from the house, but she was too relaxed to care.

Vittorio chucked Giulia under the chin. “Everyone in Tuscany has secret places to find porcini. But it’s true. Giulia’s nonna was one of the most famous fungarola in the area—what you would call a mushroom hunter—and she passed on everything she knew to her granddaughter.”

“We will all go, yes?” Giulia said. “Very early in the morning. It is best after we’ve had a little rain. We will put on our old boots and take our baskets and find the best porcini in all of Tuscany.”

Ren brought out a tall, narrow bottle of golden vinsanto, the local dessert wine, along with the plate of pears and a wedge of cheese. One of the candles in the tree chandelier sputtered out, and an owl made a soft whoo nearby. The meal had passed the two-hour mark, but it was Tuscany, and no one seemed in a rush to finish. Isabel took a sip of vinsanto and sighed again. “The food has been too delicious for words.”

“Ren’s cooking is much better than Vittorio’s,” Giulia teased.

“Better than yours, too,” her husband responded, mischief in his smile.

“But not as good as Vittorio’s mamma’s.”

“Ah, my mamma’s.” Vittorio kissed his fingers.

“It is a miracle, Isabel, that Vittorio is not one of the mammoni.” At Isabel’s puzzled expression, Giulia explained, “These are the . . . How do we say this in English?”

Ren smiled. “The mama’s boys.”

Vittorio laughed. “All Italian men are mama’s boys.”

“So true,” Giulia replied. “By tradition, Italian men live with their parents until they marry. Their mamas cook for them, do their laundry, run their errands, treat them like little kings. Then the men don’t want to get married because they know younger women like me won’t cater to them like their mammas.”

“Ah, but you do other things.” Vittorio traced her bare shoulder with his finger.

Isabel’s own shoulder tingled, and Ren gave her a slow smile that made her blood rush. She’d seen that smile on the screen, usually just before he led some unsuspecting woman to her death. Still . . . not the worst way to go.

Giulia leaned against Vittorio. “Fewer Italian men get married all the time. This is why we have such a low birthrate in Italy, one of the lowest in the world.”

“Is that true?” Isabel asked.

Ren nodded. “The Italian population could decrease by half every forty years if the trend doesn’t change.”

“But it’s a Catholic country. Doesn’t that automatically mean lots of children?”

“Most Italians don’t even go to mass,” Vittorio replied. “My American guests are always shocked to learn that only a small percentage of our population truly practices Catholicism.”

The headlights of a car coming down the lane interrupted their conversation. Isabel glanced at her watch. It was after eleven, a little late for visitors. Ren rose. “I’ll see who it is.”

A few minutes later he came into the garden with Tracy Briggs, who gave Isabel a tired wave. “Hey, there.”

“Sit down before you collapse,” Ren growled. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

While Ren went inside, Isabel performed the introductions. Tracy wore another expensive but rumpled maternity dress and the same run-down sandals she’d had on yesterday. Despite that, she looked gorgeous.

“How was the sight-seeing?” Isabel asked.

“Lovely. No kids.”

Ren emerged holding a plate piled with leftovers. He slapped it in front of her, then filled a glass with water. “Eat and go home.”

Vittorio looked shocked.

“We used to be married,” Tracy explained as the last of the candles sputtered out overhead. “Ren has leftover hostility.”

“Take all the time you want,” Isabel said. “Ren is being insensitive as usual.” Not so insensitive, however, that he didn’t make sure Tracy had plenty to eat.

Tracy looked longingly toward the farmhouse. It’s so peaceful down here. So adult.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I’ve already moved in, and there’s no room for you.”

“You haven’t moved in,” Isabel said, even though she knew he had.

“Relax,” Tracy said. “As much as I enjoyed getting away from them, I’ve been missing them like crazy for hours.”

“Don’t let us keep you a minute longer.”

“They’re asleep by now. No reason to hurry back.”

Except to begin making peace with your husband, Isabel thought.

“Tell me where you went today,” Vittorio said.

The conversation moved on to the local sites, with only Giulia remaining silent. Isabel realized she’d been subdued ever since Tracy had appeared, almost resentful. Since Tracy had been friendly, Isabel didn’t understand it.

“I’m tired, Vittorio,” she said abruptly. “We need to go home.”

Isabel and Ren walked them out to their car, and by the time they got there, Giulia had recovered her good cheer enough to invite them to their house for dinner the following week. “And we will go funghi hunting soon, yes?”

Isabel had been enjoying herself so much she’d managed to forget that Giulia and Vittorio were part of the forces trying to get her out of the house. Still, she agreed.

As the couple drove off, Tracy headed for her own car, munching a bread crust on the way. “Time to get back.”

“I’ll take the children for a while tomorrow if you’d like,” Isabel said. “That’ll give you and Harry a chance to talk.”

“You can’t,” Ren said. “We have plans. And Isabel doesn’t believe in sticking her nose into other people’s business, do you, Isabel?”

“On the contrary, I live to interfere.”

Tracy gave her a tired smile. “Harry will be halfway to the Swiss border by lunch, Isabel. He won’t let a little thing like talking to his wife interfere with his job.”

“Maybe you’re underestimating him.”

“Or maybe not.” Tracy hugged her, then Ren, who gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and helped her into her car. “I’ll give Anna and Marta a big tip for watching the kids today,” she said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t do anything stupider than usual.”

“Not me.”

As Tracy drove away, Isabel’s stomach took a roller-coaster dip. She wasn’t ready to be alone with Ren, not until she’d had a little more time to come to terms with the fact that she’d nearly decided to let herself become another notch on his splintery bedpost.

“You’re getting jittery again, aren’t you?” he said as she headed for the kitchen.

“I’m just going to clean up, that’s all.”

“I’ll pay Marta to do it tomorrow. Stop being so nervous, for God’s sake. I’m not going to jump you.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” She grabbed a dish towel. “Well, think again, Mr. Irresistible, because whether or not our relationship goes any further is my decision, not yours.”

“I don’t even get to vote?”

“I know how you’re voting.”

His smile sent out a sexy smoke signal. “And I’ve got a pretty good idea how you’re voting, too. Although . . .” The smile faded. “We both need to make sure we’re clear about where we’re going with this.”

He wanted to warn her off, as though she were too naïve to figure out that he wasn’t proposing a long-term relationship. “Save your breath. The only thing I could possibly—and I emphasize ‘possibly,’ because I’m still thinking about it—the only thing I could possibly want from you is that amazing body, so you’d better let me know right now if I’ll break your heart when I dump you afterward.”

“God, you’re a brat.”

She gazed up. “You’re not, God. Forgive Ren for being disrespectful.”

“That wasn’t a prayer.”

“Tell Her.”

He had to know it wouldn’t take much effort on his part to make her forget she wasn’t quite ready to take that final step. One more of those well-practiced kisses would do the trick. She watched him try to make up his mind whether or not to press her, and she didn’t know whether she was glad or sorry when he headed for the stairs.

 

Tracy used the banister to haul herself upstairs. She felt like a cow, but then she always felt like a cow by her seventh month—a big, healthy Elsie cow with round eyes, a shiny nose, and a daisy chain around her neck. She loved being pregnant, even with her head hanging over the toilet, her ankles swollen, and the sight of her feet nothing but a memory. Until now she’d never worried much about the stretch marks that had spread like lightning bolts across her belly or her big, leaky breasts, because Harry had pronounced them beautiful. He’d said pregnancy made her smell like sex. Obviously he didn’t find her sexy now.

She walked down the long corridor toward her room. The heavy moldings, frescoed ceilings, and Murano glass fixtures weren’t her style, but they suited the dark elegance of her ex-husband. Considering the way she’d barged in on him, he wasn’t being as much of a prick as she’d expected, which proved that you could never predict exactly how people would behave, even the ones you knew the best.

She opened the door to her bedroom, then stopped just inside as light from the hallway fell on her bed. Harry lay on his back in the middle of her mattress, the raspy sounds coming from his mouth not exactly snores, but not exactly not-snores either.

He was still here. She hadn’t been completely certain he’d stick around for the rest of the day. She allowed herself a moment of hope, but it didn’t last long. Only his sense of obligation had kept him from leaving right away. He’d drive off first thing in the morning.

In looks, Harry was ordinary compared with Ren. His face was too long, his jaw too stubborn, and his light brown hair beginning to thin on top. The creases at the corners of his eyes hadn’t been there the night of that dreary cocktail party twelve years ago when she’d accidentally on purpose tipped a glass of wine into his lap.

The moment she’d seen him, she’d made up her mind to get his clothes off, but he hadn’t made it easy. As he’d later explained, men like him weren’t used to having beautiful women hitting on them. But she’d known what she wanted, and she’d wanted Harry Briggs. His quiet intelligence and steady outlook had been the perfect antidote to her wild, aimless life.

Now Connor lay across his chest, the fingers of one chubby hand caught in the neck of his father’s undershirt. Brittany was pressed against his other side, the final remnant of her tattered blankie draped over his arm. Steffie had curled into a tight, insect-fighting ball near his legs. Only Jeremy was missing, and she suspected that it had taken a supreme act of will to keep him in his room instead of cuddled up with his father and the “brats.”

For twelve years Harry had been the calm to her fire, putting up with all the drama and emotional excess that made up who she was. Despite their love for each other, it hadn’t been an easy match. Her untidiness drove him crazy, and she hated the way he withdrew when she tried to get him to express his feelings. She’d always been secretly afraid he’d eventually leave her for someone more like himself.

Connor stirred and rolled farther up on his father’s chest. Harry instinctively drew him closer. How many nights had they spent with kids in their bed? She never turned them away. It hadn’t seemed logical that the most secure people in a family, the parents, were permitted to find comfort together at night but the smallest and most vulnerable were expected to sleep alone. After Brittany was born, they’d moved their king-size mattress to the floor so they didn’t have to worry about babies falling out at night and hurting themselves.

Her friends had been incredulous. “How can you ever have sex?” But the doors in their house had solid locks, and she and Harry had always managed to find a way. Always, that was, until this last pregnancy, when he’d finally gotten fed up with her.

He stirred and opened his eyes. They were unfocused until they settled on her. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of that familiar, steadfast love, but then his expression went blank, and she saw nothing at all.

She turned away and went off to find an empty bed.

 

In a small stone house on the outskirts of Casalleone, Vittorio Chiara pulled his wife closer to his side. Giulia liked to sleep with her fingers in his hair, and that’s where they were now, woven through the long strands. But she wasn’t asleep. His chest was damp beneath her cheek, so he knew she’d been crying, and her silent tears broke his heart.

“Isabel will be gone by November,” he whispered. “We’ll do the best we can until then.”

“What if she doesn’t leave? For all we know, he might sell the house to her.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, cara.”

“I know you’re right, but . . .”

He stroked her shoulder to quiet her. A few years ago he would have made love to her, but that wasn’t so much fun anymore. “We’ve waited a long time,” he whispered. “November isn’t far off.”

“They’re nice people.”

She sounded so sad he couldn’t bear it, and he said the only thing he could think of that might cheer her up. “I’ll be in Cortona on Wednesday night with those Americans I’m taking out. Can you meet me?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, but then she nodded against his skin. “I’ll be there,” she said, sounding just as sad as he felt.

“This time it’ll work, you’ll see.”

Her breath skittered across his skin. “If only she’d go away.”

 

Something woke Isabel up. She stirred in bed, then began to drift back off, only to hear it again, a clicking against the window. She turned on her side and listened.

At first she heard nothing, but then it came again: the sound of pebbles being tossed against the glass. She got up and made her way across the tiles. Outside the window only the faintest sheen of moonlight illuminated the garden. And then she saw it.

A ghost.

It moved through the olive grove, a vaporous apparition. She thought about waking Ren, but going anywhere near his bed didn’t seem like the best idea. Better to wait until morning.

The ghost moved behind a tree, then drifted out again. Isabel waved, shut the window, and went back to bed.