Then there’s the fact that I care as much about his son’s opinion as I do Jana’s. He matters to me. So, as long as it can all stay a secret between Claudio and me, then we’re good. But if it goes beyond that, things get tricky. Once again, we can’t evolve into something more than sex. We can’t get serious.
And I most definitely can’t fall in love with him.
I swallow at that thought, my throat feeling caked in sawdust.
I try to give that word, that feeling, as little power as possible, in the event that I end up manifesting it, in the event I start believing it.
It will do neither of us any good.
But you’ll still be powerless to stop it.
I ignore that and clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, smooth down my hair, and leave the room.
The house seemed to have one level at first, but there’s an open area leading down to another floor which seems to bleed out onto a terrace, dotted with potted plants, an awning overhead. Some of Claudio’s statues are in the corners, a pair of women rising from the waves. Four chairs are set up facing the sea, which sparkles between the bay below and the dark mound of Corsica in the distance. How neat that we’re so close to France.
“There you are,” Claudio says, twisting in his chair to look at me, a cigar hanging from his fingers. “The guest of the hour.”
I walk across to them, smiling at his mother and father, both of them getting out of their chairs.
His father is the spitting image of him, just with white hair. A very handsome, distinguished looking man. Well-dressed too. He carries himself with a lot of confidence, his eyes sage and bright, but I guess that happens when you’re a famous painter.
Sandro Romano.
“Buona sera,” I tell him, since it’s nearly seven o’clock.
“Ah yes. Ciao. Your Italian is very good, by the way,” he tells me, kissing me on both cheeks, the smell of his cigar tickling my nose. “Please sit down.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” his mother asks me as I sit down next to Claudio, quickly flashing him an appreciative smile. “Campari and soda?”
“That would be lovely,” I tell her.
“That’s a nice dress,” Claudio comments. His words sound innocent, but there’s no denying the glint of desire in his eyes.
“Thank you,” I say innocently.
“So, Grace,” his father says, and I turn my attention to him. “This is the first time you’ve been to Elba?”
“Yes. First time in Italy.” I pause. “Actually, I was in Rome for one night, but I got food poisoning on the way over and didn’t see any of the city.”
“Ah, that’s not good. Rome is a wonderful place sometimes. What month was this?”
“Uh, a few years ago. August.”
He waves his hand at me and makes a dismissive noise. “Then you were better off. Rome in August is awful. Only tourists there. All the Romans are on holiday, they go elsewhere. Some even come here.”
Well, that would have been good to know.
“It’s just as well,” I tell him. “My partner managed to see the Trevi Fountain early in the morning, but then both of us were flying out.”
It takes me a moment to realize I’ve just mentioned Robyn.
“Partner? For work?” he asks, puffing on his cigar.
Shit.
“Aye,” I tell him, hoping he’ll leave it at that. “A work partner.”
I glance quickly at Claudio, but he’s looking across the sea, his hand dipping into a bowl of olives that sits between us.
A beat passes. “What kind of work do you do?” his father asks.
I give him a quick smile. Here it goes. Maybe I can tell the truth without Jana even having to come up.
“I’m an author.”
“An author?” he exclaims, slapping his palm against his knee. “This is true? What do you write? What type of story?”
“Murder mystery. I have a series called the Sleuths of Stockbridge.”
“Ah. I don’t think I know it. You said you had a partner though?”
“Yes. I wrote them with someone. Her name was Robyn. Together we were Robyn Grace. That’s the pen name.”
I’m tense, waiting for the blow. Usually when I tell people I’ve written with someone, they get ready to treat me like it doesn’t count, like I got help with a book, that I didn’t do it on my own.
But his father merely smiles. “That is fantastic. What a nice way to do art, is it not? To share the process of discovery with someone?” He sighs. “It is such a lonely profession. Even being a painter, it is so many hours in the studio or off on the land by yourself. You neglect every step of your life except the thing you’re trying to create. Because, of course, if you neglect the thing you are trying to create, you may never create it! It is like the muse. You have to beg for her to show, and when she does, you have to show her so much attention so she doesn’t leave you. Our life’s work hinges on that muse.” He pauses. “That fickle bitch.”
I burst out laughing.
“Papà,” Claudio chides him.
“What?” he asks, throwing his hands out. “It is true. Look at you, for example. You could be doing so much more work than you are, but you don’t. You blame it on your muse. How she doesn’t show for you.” He shakes his head and looks away, sounding gruff now, in that way of fatherly disappointment I know too well. “You know, sometimes I think if you just tried a little harder, she might come to you more often.”
“I am trying,” Claudio says, his face darkening. “I have had so many commissions this year.”
“But commissions don’t put art into the store.”
“There is too much art in the store as it is. There is no room.”
His father waves him away and has a sip of his drink, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Bah. You know when I ran that store, we could hardly keep anything in stock.”
“You can’t compare the economy of the eighties to today.”
His father shrugs.
Well, at least we managed to keep Jana from being mentioned, though it seems they have their little difficulties between them.
“Never mind them,” his mother says, appearing with a sparkling red drink in a highball glass. She hands it to me, and I thank her as she sits down. “The two of them are always arguing about the same old things. The damn muse, as if she is the same for everyone.”
I look to Claudio at that, and see him already staring deeply at me.
They don’t know that I am his muse, and the fact that I am the muse, that I have the power to create his inspiration and his art, is a thrill that never leaves me.
That said, I am stumbling over what his father said. That you have to show the muse so much attention or else she’ll leave for good. Is that why Claudio is so attracted to me? Because I promise him creation and success? If I didn’t, would we even be here right now?
As if he can hear my thoughts, Claudio reaches up and taps the side of his head.
He mouths to me, “Stop.”
I suppose my trepidation is on my face, as clear as anything.
The next day Claudio knocks on my door early, telling me to get up and come with him to the beach for a morning swim. Seeing as we went to bed fairly early and in separate rooms, I don’t want to pass it up. I need to be alone with him.