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She forced a smile, relieved that he hadn’t found the few words she’d voiced lacking. At least it seemed so. “Si, grazie.
She felt another small surge of anger and she pushed it back down. She was tired, jet lagged. Her emotions were all over the place. The short nap she’d managed to take before a quick lunch now seemed too distant to remember.
“So,” said Francisco. “Did the gallery in New York express any interest in Katerina’s work?”
“Si, of course,” said Giancarlo. “Cassidy Grady is very interested in our work and wants to offer us an exhibition, just as I predicted.”
“She said she was interested andpossiblycould offer us a slot in January,” said Kate.
Giancarlo gave a very Italian shrug. “It’s only a formality.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Kate.
“Of course it’s only a formality,” said Francisco. “Especially after she hears what a success this exhibition is.”
Kate nodded, trying to appreciate Francisco’s tone and words as enthusiasm rather than the obsequious toadying she sometimes felt it was. There was no doubt that Francisco was aware that his employment as Giancarlo’s gallery manager gave him access to Giancarlo’s connections and cachet as one of the prominent members of Rome’s unofficial old nobility that their ancient pedigree and wealth guaranteed.
“You can do the Italian classics for Signora Grady. Keep to your theme, your brand. It’s how we will make you famous, Katerina,” said Giancarlo.
She looked over at Giancarlo and gave a startled laugh. “Fame?” she said in English. “I don’t think so. I’d just be satisfied if I just sold a few of my works.”
Giancarlo leaned over and whispered, “Italiano, bella. Italiano.” He put his arm around her. “Nonsense,we will make your name known among the art world. Everyone will want to have one of your pieces. I know these things. This is what I do. ” He pulled her in closer and kissed her cheek.
“With one of the most ancient families of Rome behind you there can be no other result,” said Francisco. “Every time you have appeared at his side, Rome has taken note. Soon, it will be all of Italy.”
It took Kate a while for her fogged brain to translate his words, but when she did, she looked away, unwilling for Giancarlo to see how unsettling she found that remark.
Six
Kate pressed the thick linen napkin to her mouth in an effort to stifle a yawn. She blinked a few times and took a sip of the water from the delicate goblet of Murano glass. She replaced the glass carefully on the table, conscious that it had probably been in the family for generations. The glass beside it, filled with red wine, no doubt from their vineyard in the Tuscany hills, she was nearly too terrified to touch. Gold-rimmed and etched, its value seemed in regions that would mean it was better placed in a museum. But then the contents of the whole apartment belonged in a museum. The thought that Giancarlo’s mother might be best placed in a museum, too, crossed her mind. But no. Though her manner of dress was timeless and classic, Paloma Fabrizi was very much aware of the world she inhabited, dominating it with the subtle iron touch that gave no hint of fragility.
Even now she sat at the head of the large, gracious table, with Giancarlo on her right, Kate on his other side, and the priest on Paloma’s left. Or was the priest a deacon? Were deacons priests? He couldn’t be a cardinal. Didn’t they wear red? Purple, she knew, was the pope’s color. His name that might have included a title had been lost in the rapid-fire introductions in Italian Paloma had given when she and Giancarlo had first arrived for luncheon at his mother’s apartment. When Giancarlo had reminded her of it this morning, she’d had to stop herself from groaning. She was still jet lagged from the day before, but she knew better than to object. She’d just nodded and donned the pale yellow Dior sheath dress and matching shoes Giancarlo had selected. She’d grabbed the quilted powder-blue Chanel bag with the chain shoulder strap in the hopes that spoke “classic” enough for his mother, but she knew as soon as his mother had spotted it, she’d made a mistake. There had been no comment, no frown. It was just a glance at the bag and a fractional arch of her brow, and that had communicated volumes to Kate. Thankfully, Giancarlo hadn’t noticed. He’d been too busy presenting Paloma with the vase of calla lilies, the flowers she’d seen upon her arrival the day before. The vase apparently was an antique purchased for Paloma at great expense and difficulty from one of Giancarlo’s connections in Geneva. And what better way to present it than to fill it full of one of his mother’s favorite flowers?
The vase now stood on the table, the flowers inside it statuesquely overlooking them as they ate. Or rather as Kate endlessly pushed the risotto around her gold-edged china plate. Her stomach really couldn’t fathom eating very much. The travel, lack of sleep, and odd eating patterns seemed to have affected her appetite.
“Is there something wrong with your risotto?” asked Paloma, cutting into Giancarlo’s discussion of Kate’s forthcoming exhibition arrangements.
Kate looked up, startled. It took a moment for her to process Paloma’s words, thrown out with a speed that Kate was certain few could match.
She put on her most reassuring smile. “There’s nothing wrong with it at all. It’s delicious. I just don’t have much of an appetite, that’s all.” She spoke slowly, trying to ensure that her Italian was perfect. “The trip home to America. I’m still feeling the effects.”
Paloma’s dark eyes focused on Kate intently. “Home? Is not Rome your home? You have said so frequently.”
Kate flushed and tried to suppress the desire to pull every one of the black hairs of Paloma’s perfectly coiffed bob from her head.
Giancarlo reached over and took Kate’s hand and kissed the back of it. “She does of course think of Rome as her home. She meant to say ‘old home,’ but her Italian, it is not always perfect.”
Kate gave Paloma a weak smile. “Of course I think of Rome as my home. It has given me everything.” She squeezed Giancarlo’s hand. “And Giancarlo. I think of Giancarlo as my home.”
Paloma gave her a peculiar look. Had Kate expressed herself incorrectly?
She decided a fresh subject was needed. “I’m looking forward to the exhibition,” said Kate. She looked over at the priest. “Will you be attending?” All Kate knew of the guest list was that it was extensive and filled with highly connected people.
Paloma gave a wave of dismissal. “Monsignor Carducci is far too busy with Vatican matters.”
“Oh,” said Kate, giving the monsignor an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, of course.”
The monsignor smiled, his kind dark eyes twinkling, his thin mouth twitching with amusement. “It is of no consequence. I only wish I could. I understand from Giancarlo that you have much talent. How long will your works be on display at Giancarlo’s gallery? Perhaps I might find some time to view them.”
