back through the cemetery to the town. They could hear the rough exchanges, the creaking and sliding of boards as the coffin was lowered skillfully into the earth.
At the gate, Stanton and Massimo paused and shook hands with the others. First came the Panatella family, who murmured condolences, which Massimo didn’t bother to translate. Paolo Braggio said quite a bit, but the gist of it was that he was on his way back to Milan and would see Stanton in only a few weeks when they would meet in Frankfurt for the annual book fair. As he ran on, the Cinis stood quietly behind him, waiting their turn. The son, who was near Lucy, exchanged a few words with his father; then, to her surprise, he addressed her in heavily accented English. “Are you the agent of this unfortunate writer?”
“No,” she said. “I’m his assistant.”
“You help him to write?” His eyebrows shot up in dismay.
“No,” Lucy said. The inappropriateness of the present tense grated on her. “I kept track of his business interests—his mail, for example. And I transcribed his novels onto the computer.”
Signor Cini smiled weakly, closing his eyes for a moment as if he’d been subjected to an unexpected obscenity. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The computer.”
His father interrupted at this point with some gruff questioning, which his son answered snappishly with what Lucy took to be the equivalent of “Shut up.” Paolo Braggio had released Stanton’s hand at last and the Cinis moved forward. Lucy was left in the awkward position of facing the scion and his mother, who eyed her warily, unwilling to speak. The sonturned toward her, including her in an invitation to dinner at the villa. “We would be so happy if you would join us,” he concluded. Massimo, who seemed to think this a fine idea, said to Stanton, “I can drive you back to Florence afterward. There will be less traffic, and I am staying the night there, as well.”
It was agreed. Massimo, Stanton, and Lucy would return to the farmhouse, then go on to the villa at nine, which was the Cinis’ dinner hour. There was more handshaking, forced smiles, polite exchanges. They walked out through the gate and back down the dusty road to the piazza. The old couple led the way, followed by Stanton and Massimo, then Lucy and the man she had begun to think of as “son of Cini.”
“I’m afraid in all these introductions your name has become lost to me,” he said as they walked along.
“It’s Lucy,” she said. “Lucy Stark.”
“Lucy,” he repeated, trying it out, but it felt wrong to him. “Will you mind if I call you Lucia?”
“Not at all,” she said.
“Santa Lucia.” He hummed the familiar musical phrase.
“She is always shown carrying her eyes on a plate,” Lucy pointed out.
“You are a student of the saints.” He had a way of making statements that were really questions.
“A little,” she said.
They had arrived at the parked cars. His father and grandmother had already climbed into the backseat, where they waited, looking peevish. Their heir and driver rolled his eyes at Lucy, indicating the tiresomeness of his obligations. She put out her hand, which he took limply. “Until later, Signor Cini,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
“Lucia,” he said, fastening his shifty eyes on hers for the first time in their brief acquaintance. “You must call me Antonio.”
Chapter 6
A S LUCY STOOD in the doorway to the Cini family’s dining room, contemplating the expression of boredom and intolerance knit into the lineaments of her host, it occurred to her that beautiful objects do not have an ennobling effect upon the souls of those who possess them. She could, she thought, amuse herself for several hours just in examining the contents of the massive breakfront against which Antonio Cini leaned his aristocratic behind. She recalled St. Teresa of Avila’s comparison of heaven to the Duchess of Alba’s drawing room, where the saint had seen so many things
At the gate, Stanton and Massimo paused and shook hands with the others. First came the Panatella family, who murmured condolences, which Massimo didn’t bother to translate. Paolo Braggio said quite a bit, but the gist of it was that he was on his way back to Milan and would see Stanton in only a few weeks when they would meet in Frankfurt for the annual book fair. As he ran on, the Cinis stood quietly behind him, waiting their turn. The son, who was near Lucy, exchanged a few words with his father; then, to her surprise, he addressed her in heavily accented English. “Are you the agent of this unfortunate writer?”
“No,” she said. “I’m his assistant.”
“You help him to write?” His eyebrows shot up in dismay.
“No,” Lucy said. The inappropriateness of the present tense grated on her. “I kept track of his business interests—his mail, for example. And I transcribed his novels onto the computer.”
Signor Cini smiled weakly, closing his eyes for a moment as if he’d been subjected to an unexpected obscenity. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The computer.”
His father interrupted at this point with some gruff questioning, which his son answered snappishly with what Lucy took to be the equivalent of “Shut up.” Paolo Braggio had released Stanton’s hand at last and the Cinis moved forward. Lucy was left in the awkward position of facing the scion and his mother, who eyed her warily, unwilling to speak. The sonturned toward her, including her in an invitation to dinner at the villa. “We would be so happy if you would join us,” he concluded. Massimo, who seemed to think this a fine idea, said to Stanton, “I can drive you back to Florence afterward. There will be less traffic, and I am staying the night there, as well.”
It was agreed. Massimo, Stanton, and Lucy would return to the farmhouse, then go on to the villa at nine, which was the Cinis’ dinner hour. There was more handshaking, forced smiles, polite exchanges. They walked out through the gate and back down the dusty road to the piazza. The old couple led the way, followed by Stanton and Massimo, then Lucy and the man she had begun to think of as “son of Cini.”
“I’m afraid in all these introductions your name has become lost to me,” he said as they walked along.
“It’s Lucy,” she said. “Lucy Stark.”
“Lucy,” he repeated, trying it out, but it felt wrong to him. “Will you mind if I call you Lucia?”
“Not at all,” she said.
“Santa Lucia.” He hummed the familiar musical phrase.
“She is always shown carrying her eyes on a plate,” Lucy pointed out.
“You are a student of the saints.” He had a way of making statements that were really questions.
“A little,” she said.
They had arrived at the parked cars. His father and grandmother had already climbed into the backseat, where they waited, looking peevish. Their heir and driver rolled his eyes at Lucy, indicating the tiresomeness of his obligations. She put out her hand, which he took limply. “Until later, Signor Cini,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
“Lucia,” he said, fastening his shifty eyes on hers for the first time in their brief acquaintance. “You must call me Antonio.”
Chapter 6
A S LUCY STOOD in the doorway to the Cini family’s dining room, contemplating the expression of boredom and intolerance knit into the lineaments of her host, it occurred to her that beautiful objects do not have an ennobling effect upon the souls of those who possess them. She could, she thought, amuse herself for several hours just in examining the contents of the massive breakfront against which Antonio Cini leaned his aristocratic behind. She recalled St. Teresa of Avila’s comparison of heaven to the Duchess of Alba’s drawing room, where the saint had seen so many things
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