he was doing the same as me, though he seemed completely unapologetic about it. Might just be the way he is.
I’m sure you’ll get used to him in a day or two. Then he’ll be old news.
I’m counting on it.
He leads me to a path lined with potted cypress, then through an old iron gate along the stone wall. We step into what looks to be another gravel parking lot, perhaps where guests would park back in the day, and then to the barn.
He motions for me to stay where I am and walks to the barn doors which he unlocks with a key he pulls from his pocket. Then, in an impressive display of strength, he pushes one of the heavy doors open, the muscles in his arms and shoulders popping, and flicks on a light.
“Here we are,” he says, waving for me to come forward.
I slowly approach him and peek inside.
There are five cars, four of them vintage sports cars, then a modern green Range Rover SUV. The vintage cars are all two-door, one of them a convertible. I don’t recognize all of them, but from the insignias I see a Maserati, a Lamborghini, and an Alfa Romeo.
“Wow,” I say breathlessly. “This would be my father’s heaven.”
His brows raise appreciatively. “Your father likes cars?”
“Yes. Growing up he had a 1968 Jaguar and I think now he might have an Aston Martin. I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it.”
“You don’t see your parents very often?”
“Uh, well, not really. I live in Edinburgh but my mother is in Ullapool. That’s on the West Coast, the Highlands, and my father lives in London. He remarried a long time ago.”
“Ah,” he says.
“So this is all yours?” I can’t help but ask.
He shrugs. “More or less. My father had the Maserati Ghibli there and the Lancia Stratos. He gave them to me. Has no room or no need for them anymore.”
“But you collected the rest? Including the Ferrari out front?”
He nods, scratching at the stubble on his strong jaw. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?”
“How does someone in the arts afford all of this.”
“You’re right. I am thinking that. No offense.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “No offense taken. But it all started with my father. Have you ever heard of Sandro Romano?”
I shake my head. “I know Sandro Botticelli.”
“Personally?”
I burst out laughing, and without thinking, I reach out and smack his arm playfully. “No. Not personally. Anyway, go on.”
His grin widens, seeming to appreciate my outburst, and I have to wonder what’s wrong with me, because I am definitely not one of those reach out and smack someone playfully people. I keep my arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.
“Sandro Romano is my father,” Claudio says. “He’s a famous painter here in Italy, and I guess around the world in certain circles. His paintings are worth a lot of money.”
“Oh,” I say softly. “That’s where you get it from.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe. I paint sometimes, but it looks pretty amateur, especially compared to him. He opened an art gallery in Lucca a long time ago, and now I run it. He’s somewhat retired and living on the island of Elba with my mother.” He pauses. “I say this for context, because if it wasn’t for my father, I wouldn’t have had the training and education and exposure to do what I do. And what I do is create art that people pay large amounts of money for.”
He’s downplaying his success and talent, attributing it to his father. “I’m sure you have talent that would have come out some other way, had your father gone on a different path. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Claudio runs his fingers along his jaw, pinching his square chin as he studies me. “Let me ask you something, Grace, from an artist to an artist.”
“I’m a writer,” I interject.
His brows raise, his face looking like I just slapped him. “Nooo,” he says in a hush. “A writer is an artist. You don’t agree?”
I shrug and look down at my feet. “Honestly, I don’t feel like much of a writer right now anyway. So I definitely don’t feel like an artist.”
“Just because you don’t feel it, doesn’t mean that you aren’t. Which brings me to my question. You say I am selling myself short because my father paved the way for me. This is your first novel on your own, correct? You had a writing partner before?”