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“Buongiorno, signora, how was your journey?” he pleasantly asked as he led me across the street.
“It was wonderful, Signor Alfredo, thank you,” I said. “You look well.”
He smiled and nodded, his gap-toothed smile a sight for sore eyes. He held the door open for me, then climbed in after. We sped off down the road to my father’s villa in Siena. Alfredo tuned the radio to a local station, and the drive went on in silence.
Siena was a small town with a rich culture; it was populated by families who had grown from being neighbors into one massive, extended family. It dotted the countryside with grazing fields for cattle and sprawling valleys filled with vineyards and lemon trees.
We entered the gates to my father’s estate barely an hour after leaving Florence; the sweet scent of citrus ushered me back to my childhood home. The workers in the vineyards looked up to wave as the car passed, and I wondered if I would still recognize any of them.
There was a bustle of activity closer to the main house: preparations for the party, most likely. Alfredo pulled up in front of the main steps and I stepped out, thanking him again. He beckoned at a little boy, giving him my bags and telling him to take them into the house.
I looked at the house and saw my brother, Lorenzo, descending the steps toward me. He smiled when he saw me and held his arms wide open. “You look amazing, little sister. It’s nice to see you again.” He picked me up effortlessly and spun me around.
“Hello, Enzo,” I replied as he set me down. “How’s Father?”
“Excited. Unbearable. He’s fired about ten workers in the last two days.”
“Nice to see that some things don’t change,” I quipped. “One would think that he would be happy on his birthday.”
Enzo shot me a look out the corner of his eye. “I would advise none of your wisecracks today, Alessia. He’s in a mood.”
“Isn’t he always,” I retorted. “Excuse me, Enzo. I have had a long morning, and I am tired. I want to go to my room now.”
He stepped to the side, letting me walk past. “Welcome home, little sister,” he said as I climbed the stairs. I did not know how the smallest of interactions with my brother and father always blossomed into something more severe. I made a mental note to avoid both of them for the duration of my stay in Siena.
I got to my bedroom without running into more family members and was grateful to find that my bags had arrived. My room looked unchanged but spotless; everything was exactly how it was the last time I was home.
I opened a closet and brought out an easel and a wooden frame. I reached deeper into the closet and retrieved an unused roll of canvas. I unfurled the canvas, tacking it with a large stapler to the frame. I always made sure to have tools and supplies for work everywhere I stayed.
I had thought of drawing Michael on my drawing pad, but changed my mind, opting for something where I could express myself better. I set up the easel and stool in front of the window that overlooked the gardens. I rummaged through my work bag and got out the other supplies I needed. I arranged my brushes in a tidy row, mixed paint on my palette, and got some water from the bathroom.
I found the process of preparing a painting therapeutic and enjoyed it almost as much as the painting itself. I stared at the smooth surface of the blank canvas for several moments, thinking about what to paint.
Somewhere down the road to Tuscany, Michael had been moved to the back of my mind. Now, thoughts and images of him swam through my brain, thousands of them. The urge I had felt to draw him was still powerful, even now, as I stared at the canvas. One thing I knew, I was going to enjoy working on this painting.
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed a brush from the side, wet it slightly, dipped it in paint and began working. The world around me disappeared as I made guided brushstrokes, my mind and hand working in tandem. I could have worked on the painting with a blindfold, given that my mind and hand were in perfect synchronization.
Several hours later, I took a break. I shook my head; it felt like I had come out of a trance. I washed my brushes and wiped them with a clean towel, setting them back in the box. I took one last look at the work I had done so far and headed down to the gardens for a walk.
I was barely out of my room when I saw my father’s younger sister, Aunt Giulia, one of the more bearable members of my family. I often made time to have tea with her whenever she came to Paris. I smiled at her pleasantly, and she stretched out her gloved hand to me.
“Ciao, zia,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “Come stai?”
“Molto bene, mia cara,” she replied, touching my cheek affectionately. “You look wonderful, child. Paris has been good to you?”
“Thoroughly,” I replied. “You look wonderful, Auntie.”
She made a fussy sound as she smiled. “Come, walk with me to the garden, no? You will tell me all that has been going on with you, mia bambina.”
I nodded with a smile, and she took my arm in hers, leading me down the grand stairs to the gardens. It was a pleasant day to be outdoors, and I didn’t mind Aunt Giulia’s company. She was rarely as obnoxious as the other women in the family and knew how to hold a conversation. She had stood up for me on several occasions when my father was being unreasonable, protesting my right to enjoy womanhood.
The activity around the grounds seemed to have ramped up while I worked, and we had to duck through throngs of people to get to the seclusion of the gardens. I caught her up on work and a few details of my personal life as we strolled leisurely. She asked a few questions but listened.
We found a bench and took a seat under the shade of an olive tree. “I know you don’t like me talking about this, but I would not be happy with myself if I didn’t,” she said, taking my hand. “You’re not a little child anymore, you know? By now, you should have long settled down and even had small babies running all over the place, making a mess. I hate to still see you alone like this, mia cara.”
I smiled at her. “And what makes you think I am alone, Auntie? How do you know I don’t have a man back in Paris waiting for me?”
“What?” She covered her mouth in surprise. “You have a man, and you haven’t brought him to us? Cosa c'è di sbagliato in te, bambina? What’s wrong with you?”
