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years.”
    “Quite an afterthought.”
    “Something like that. Anyway, I decided to travel. So, I have passed
    the last couple of months traveling around Europe.”
    “Painting?”
    “Yes. It’s a good way to take time to see the places properly.”
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    Santa Montefiore
    “You must have a wonderful collection by now.”
    “I do. But I’m afraid I don’t keep them all. I can’t travel around with suitcases full of pictures.”
    “Of course not. So, what do you do with them? Don’t tell me you
    throw them away?”
    “No. That would be too painful. I’m attached to each one, in a way.
    So, I leave them in hotels, restaurants . . . or I give them away.”
    “That’s generous of you.”
    “It’s easy to be generous. They cost me nothing.” He shrugged. “And
    anyway, they aren’t worth much. I’m not famous. I’m not even well
    known.”
    “If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”
    “You’re probably right. I came to Devon by chance and found it so
    beautiful I decided I would stay. As I was trying to work out how that
    would be possible, I saw your advertisement in the local paper. I would like to remain here for the summer.”
    “Then return to Argentina?”
    “Yes. Back to Buenos Aires.”
    “I have never been to Argentina.”
    “It is beautiful, too. Judging from your good taste here at the hotel,
    I would say you could not fail to love it.”
    “They say it is full of Italians who speak Spanish and want to be
    English.” She laughed, relaxing into her chair. He had such an appeal-
    ing face she wanted the interview to go on and on. She knew already
    that Rafa Santoro would be spending the summer at the Polzanze,
    whether he could paint or not.
    “I suppose that is quite accurate, where I am concerned, at least. Al-
    though I don’t think I’d want to be English. I’m happy being who I am.”
    At that moment the door opened and Heather entered with a tray
    of juice and biscuits, followed by Harvey, keen to see what all the fuss was about. He had ordered the quartet in the hall back to work, knowing that Marina would hate them to be standing idle, especially Bertha, who was as lazy as a sow in sunshine.
    “Meet Harvey,” said Marina, eyes brightening at the sight of him.
    He shook Rafa’s hand and grinned down at him. Marina recognized
    his approval at once and felt her spirits soar. “Harvey has been with
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    us since we bought this place eighteen years ago. He’s my Man Friday.
    I couldn’t have made a success of this without him.”
    “Don’t listen to her,” Harvey protested, a twinkle in his eye. “There’s just no one else on the premises who can change lightbulbs like I can.
    Even at seventy-five.”
    “You don’t look seventy-five, Harvey.”
    He winked at Rafa. “It’s that kind of flattery that keeps me climbing
    ladders and clearing drains.”
    “Did you bring any of your work to show us?” Marina asked.
    “Of course.” Rafa pulled a brown leather bag onto his knee and un-
    zipped it. He withdrew a sketch pad and placed it on the coffee table.
    Marina leaned forward eagerly. “May I?”
    “Please.”
    She opened the first page. “Perfect,” she breathed, gazing on a water-
    color of a river, painted with flair and warmth. A flock of birds was
    taking to the air, some still in the water, others already reaching for the skies, and she could almost feel the spray as they agitated the water
    with their feet. The next was a sketch of old women gossiping in a
    market, their faces full of expression, from bitterness to pride. “You are very versatile.”
    “I have to be, in my business. I might draw a cola bottle one day, a
    landscape the following day, a caricature the next. It is never the same.”
    “Where did you learn to draw?”
    “Nowhere special.”
    “You were born with the gift.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “You’re lucky.”
    He