the church that I pay it no mind. “You know, you’re invited to the gallery night as well,” I tell her. “I’d be terribly hurt if you didn’t come with me. Of course, you’ll be with me at the concert the night before, so it depends whether you’re sick of me or not.”
Please don’t be sick of me.
It takes her a moment to tear her eyes away from the massive building. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she says feebly.
I almost laugh. “You? You pull out a new dress every day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but I am sure you have something. I won’t take no, Grace. You’re coming with me.”
She just nods and then slips me a quick glance. “Marika is very beautiful. How do you know her?”
“She is my ex-girlfriend,” I say matter-of-factly.
Her eyes go wide, lips pulling together to make an “O.”
“A couple years ago,” I go on. “She’s engaged now, as you saw.”
She mulls that over for a few moments. “You would have made a great couple. Both of you are so … you know…” She gives me the once-over and gestures with her hands.
I grin. “Grace. Are you trying to say I’m good looking?”
“Only if it doesn’t go to your head.”
“Too late.”
“So what happened?”
“Between us? It was nothing dramatic. Actually, we were pretty good together. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Why not?”
She seems awfully interested in my ex. Hopefully I won’t read too much into that.
“Because of Vanni, actually.”
She jerks her head back. “Really?”
I nod. “He didn’t like her. I never could figure out why, but he didn’t like her and he didn’t like me dating her. So I ended it.”
Grace continues to stare at me, processing that.
I go on. “Look, obviously I wasn’t head over heels in love with her if I gave her up that easily. If I was, I would have fought for her. But in the end, my son mattered more and I had a choice to make, and I chose to make him happy.”
“But you were happy with her…”
I shrug. “It’s the way things are sometimes.”
“Is he like that with all the women you date?”
I wipe the sweat off my brow. I can’t tell if the sun is getting hotter or if the questions are getting more intense. “To be honest with you, I don’t really date.”
Her mouth twists in surprise. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Is it?” I ask. “You’ve seen the way I live. Where would I find the time? Come on, let’s go to the gallery before it gets any hotter.”
We go toward the gallery which is around the corner from the church, and thankfully back in the cooler shade of the buildings.
The sign outside says Romano Gallery, and I push open the door.
There are a few tourists inside, looking at some of my sculptures and my father’s paintings (the gallery only carries our art), and I head over to the register where my employee, Carla, is working.
“Mr. Romano,” she says in a hushed voice, not wanting to alert the customers that the man who creates the art is on the premises. She thinks they’ll bug me, but actually they often end up actually buying the art. As is the case here, weeks can go by without a single purchase. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I just wanted to show a friend around,” I tell her in English, turning to smile at Grace.
She is a friend, isn’t she?
“Grace, this is Carla.”
“Ciao,” Grace says.
“Ciao,” Carla says warmly. She’s about twenty-five, with black hair that swoops over one side, and an undercut, plus a plethora of facial piercings. She intimidates some but she’s very soft-hearted. “And where are you from, Grace?”
“Edinburgh, Scotland,” Grace says, her accent becoming more apparent.
“Edinburgh,” Carla rhapsodizes with a smile. “I have been to the Fringe Festival twice already. I love it.”
“Oh, I actually took part in that one year,” Grace says. “Well, actually it was in university and my friend was in it. I just helped.”
I let Carla and Grace talk while I walk around the space, inspecting the pieces to make sure some child hasn’t been let loose in here and scribbled on my statues with crayons (that happened once), and checking to see if anything has sold. It hasn’t, but I’m not too worried. Or at least, I won’t be once I can create my next piece.
Perhaps it’s the pressure that’s causing my muse to stall.
“Is this your father’s?” Grace asks, appearing beside me.
I glance up at the painting hanging above a statue