“I’m sorry. It’s just that your facial expressions give me life.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Believe me, I heard that a lot growing up. No surprise that I’m a terrible liar.”
“As am I,” I tell her. “I don’t think it’s such a bad thing.” I raise my glass. “So here is to that. Here is to being terrible liars. Cin cin.”
She composes herself and sits up primly, clinking her glass against mine. “Cin cin. To terrible liars.”
Our eyes stay locked while we sip.
Going out for lunch was a great idea. Not just to give myself a break from cooking, but to see Grace’s very expressive face as she takes in Lucca. Even when we’re sitting in a comfortable silence together, her eyes are watching everyone as they walk past, always observing. I guess that’s what makes her a good writer, knowing how people behave, the way they talk, the way they act. She doesn’t gawk either, she’s very subtle. I know she studies me sometimes in that same way.
I have to wonder what she thinks, what she sees.
I hope, whatever it is, that she likes it.
After lunch we take our time strolling through the streets, getting gelato and peering in shop windows.
I have to say, I know it’s not a date but it feels like one. Or, perhaps it just feels good to be with someone that I want to be around, someone I’m increasingly intrigued by.
“Claudio,” a familiar voice calls out.
I turn around to see an old friend, Marika Nespoli, waving at me from a café table, sitting alone, shopping bags piled on a seat.
“Marika,” I greet her as I walk over.
She gets out of her seat, and I grab her lightly by the shoulders, kissing both her cheeks.
“It’s been a long time,” I say to her.
“It has,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me. A diamond ring on her left hand catches my eye.
“Congratulations,” I tell her. “I assume Daniele is the lucky man.”
“He is,” she says, beaming.
I realize that Grace has been standing a few feet away, watching curiously and not understanding a word, so I gesture for her to come over. “Marika, this is Grace,” I say, switching from Italian to English. “She’s an author.”
“An author,” Marika says, her English fluent enough. “That is cool. What do you write?”
Grace seems to shrink before my eyes, getting a painfully shy look on her face. “It’s just fiction.”
I step back and put my arm around her, giving her a squeeze. “Stop being so bashful, Grace. Just fiction? You’re a New York Times bestselling novelist.” I look to Marika. “Us artists are so humble, aren’t we?”
“You’re not,” Marika says with a laugh.
I let go of Grace’s shoulders, wishing I could have kept hold of her for longer. If it gave Marika the impression that we were together, I wouldn’t have minded.
“So, what is your author name?” Marika asks.
“Grace … Grace Harper.”
Interesting.
“I’ll have to look it up on my Amazon,” Marika says. She smiles at me and says in Italian, “She is very beautiful. You’re a lucky man, Claudio.”
I don’t correct her. Because it’s all true.
“We won’t keep you,” I tell Marika, switching back to English so that Grace doesn’t feel left out. “I’ll see you soon, yes? I am having a gallery night next Saturday. You should come. And bring Daniele.”
“I will,” she says. “Ciao, ciao.”
“Ciao, ciao.”
Grace and I walk off toward the bustling plaza around the church, Chiesa di San Michele in Foro, one of the top sights in Lucca. Away from the shadows of the buildings, heat shimmers off the white tiles and perspiration tickles the back of my neck.
“You never told her you wrote under Robyn Grace,” I mention. “I take it that Grace Harper, your name, will be your pen name for your upcoming book?”
She nods, looking guilty. “Yes. I know the book isn’t out yet but … I didn’t … I wanted…”
“You wanted to be known by your future, not your past?”
“Something like that.” She glances at me. “What’s a gallery night?”
“Oh, sometimes I have these invite-only parties at the gallery. After hours. Sometimes to showcase new work, sometimes to have an excuse to drink around friends. I’m a hermit too, as you say, but it’s good for me to be social.”
She nods at that and then stops in her tracks once she realizes we’re walking toward the church. “Wow,” she whispers as she stares up at the white monolith that was built in the 1100s.