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“I know, Mama.” I put my arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. “Luisa is amazing. She has new friends, and she loves her teachers. We talk every day. She is happy and having a wonderful time.”
“I know.” My mother sips her coffee and tries to appear cheerful. I change the subject.
“I’m going to the Rosselli villa today. I have a buyer in the U.S. who is very keen on the work of Girolamo.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mama says standing to clear the breakfast table.
My mom is the solid support behind the Moretti success. She is always there for my dad and me. Her job, she says, is making a comfortable home for her family. But she worries. It’s as if she is not happy unless she has something to worry about. She worries about me not being married.
“It’s different these days, Mama,” I tell my mother gently as I reach for her hand. “Being single is not a badge of despair or inadequacy.”
“Yes, but I just think you are missing out on so much. You should find a nice girl and settle down.”
“It’s not as if I can’t get a girlfriend. I choose not to.” I laugh.
“And what about Luisa? It would be nice for her to have a mama, no?”
“Mama, Luisa has a wonderful life. I don’t think she’s missing out on anything. And besides, being a single dad is not unusual. And she has you and Papa.”
“But you, Gianni. Don’t you want to be in love again? I know that you were so in love with the American girl, but that was years ago. You deserve happiness, my son.” My mother pauses and looks wistful. “There could be someone else who is special for you. Perhaps, when you are in New York you will meet the girl of your dreams there. I don’t know, but don’t you want to at least be open to having love in your life?”
My mother means well. But she doesn’t understand that I am comfortable with my memories of Libby. Each one is like a beautiful painting of a moment that we shared encased in a gilded frame. Libby is still present in my life. But I don’t say that to my mom.
“There’s no room in my heart for another, Mama. You and Luisa fill it up completely,” I say hugging my mama. We laugh and hug.
Then she says, “Oh, Gianni. I will have to be patient.”
I finish the last of my croissant and cappuccino, use the white linen napkin to wipe my hands, then stand and kiss the top of my mother’s head.
“I’ll see you later. With the new old painting.”
I take the Ferrari to the Rosselli villa. It’s about an hour away in Cortona through some beautiful rural country. Hills roll away in ochres and browns and spires of dark green Cypress trees pierce the cerulean sky. No wonder artists choose this place for inspiration. The road twists and turns. I hug the bends enjoying the power of the engine but I’m mindful of farm traffic and carts. On a straight, I press my foot on the accelerator, and, like a thoroughbred racehorse, the Ferrari takes off. With the top down and the wind in my hair, there’s no better feeling than zooming through the Tuscan countryside. I feel like a king.
The Rosselli villa is a picture postcard Palladian palace behind an ornate wrought-iron gate guarded by stone lions. The house itself needs a little TLC. The Rosselli family is selling off assets left and right just to keep the place going. I had been in touch with Rosselli senior who was only too happy about off-loading one of the many paintings my way. We didn’t even discuss a price. But I have a feeling that whatever he wants for it, my client, Mrs Peabody, will be happy to pay double.
I park in front of the steps leading up to the central entrance. The door opens for me, and I am admitted to the salon by a uniformed maid. She tells me Signor Rosselli will be with me shortly. I make myself comfortable on the antique tapestried couch. The elegant room is highly decorated, every surface is painted with allegorical figures. Venus and Mars fly overhead in an amorous embrace, amid billowing blue clouds and pink-cheeked putti. Tall windows frame the formal gardens of classical statues and fountains.
Signor Rosselli enters the room. He is older than I thought he would be. The Rossellis haven’t been featured in the society pages for a while, so I guess I had a younger version of Rosselli in mind.
“Mr Moretti, thank you for coming out to see the painting,” says Mr Rosselli extending his hand in greeting. He invites me to sit while we exchange pleasantries. He offers refreshments. “And how is business in New York?” He rings a bell to summon the maid. She nods then leaves the room.
“So far everything is going well,” I tell him, but I don’t brag about the recent success. “We have some very supportive clients who love Italian art, which is why I am here today.”
“Yes, Mr Moretti. I have the painting we discussed on the phone.”
A man comes in with an easel and places it by the window. Another man brings in a panel of wood covered with a cotton cloth. He secures the panel to the easel, then removes the cotton cloth which he drapes over the supporting bar below the painting.
Even from where I’m seated, the painting is stunning. I stand and walk towards it. The colors glow. The application of pigment is sublime. The portrait shows a haughty character with untrusting eyes. I wonder what he would be thinking if he was in the room with me. I bend closer to inspect the brushwork. The surface needs cleaning but, considering its age, the quality and condition are very good. I point my torch at the painting and turn it on. Then use a magnifying glass to see the finer details.
“It’s a very fine piece of work, Signor Rosselli. I’m sure it will be hard for you to let it go.”
“Ah yes, young man. But these things actually cost me. The upkeep on an old house such as this, and the care of all the knickknacks that fill it, is truly phenomenal. This painting was bought by my father. It has little significance to the family other than the obvious dollar value, that is.” He chuckles. The maid comes in with a tray of coffee and biscotti.
Mrs Peabody was delighted when I told her about the purchase. She made the payment promptly to the gallery account and said she had organized a courier. She said she would like to use one of my employees to transport the picture, which is fine by me. Mrs Peabody is a very highly regarded client. I am happy to accommodate her wishes.
“Of course, Mrs Peabody. Which one of my staff would you like me to organize?”
“I have asked Olivia if she would be interested. I hope that is not too presumptuous, Mr Moretti. It’s just that I was so excited about my new acquisition, I couldn’t help myself.” She laughs on the line.
