The Savage Garden

    Antonella seemed amused by the idea. 'She thinks all fashion is trivial, which of course it is. But she doesn't understand that it can also bring pleasure.' She picked up some material from the workbench. 'Here.'

    Only when he took it from her did he realize it was a piece of suede, as soft as silk.

    'Imagine that against your skin,' she said. 'Imagine a skirt made of it.'

    'That might be asking a bit too much.'

    She laughed and took the suede from him. 'When are you moving in—to the villa, I mean?'

    'She told you?'

    'Of course.'

    'Tomorrow.'

    'You don't have to.'

    He hesitated. 'You think it's a bad idea?'

    'I think I haven't seen my grandmother so alive for a long time. But it doesn't mean you have to, just because she asked. She can be very ...prepotente.'

    'Overbearing?'

    'I don't know the word, but it sounds right.'

    'I want to,' said Adam. 'It's good for work, I'm near the garden, the library's right there. . . .'

    'And is this work?'

    She reached for his copy of The Divine Comedy, which he'd abandoned on the work bench.

    'No,' he lied, 'just never read it before.'

    It was her idea that they sneak off for lunch. Beneath the trees in a small piazza around the corner, they shared a carafe of Chianti and a thick slab of bistecca alla fiorentina done with a light hand.

    The restaurant owner fussed around Antonella as if she were a long-lost daughter.

    Adam filled her in on Harry's predicament, which had brought him down into town at short notice.

    'When does he arrive?'

    'God knows. Maybe never. As soon as he gets his hands on the money, anything could happen.'

    'But you want him to come or you would have told him not to.'

    'I suppose,' he said, surprised that it was so apparent to her.

    Her own brother, Edoardo, sounded like an altogether different character—levelheaded, responsible and reliable. 'I don't know where he gets it, but he is proof that two negatives can make a positive.'

    'And you?' asked Adam.

    'Me? Oh, I'm not easy.'

    'What's your worst characteristic?' asked the Chianti.

    She thought on it. 'My temper.'

    'Really? I don't see it.'

    'Pray you never do.'

    Adam laughed.

    'So?' she asked. 'Quid pro quo—your worst characteristic.'

    'An uncompromising sense of justice. It gets me into all kinds of scrapes.'

    'Very funny.'

    'Jealousy.'

    'Jealousy?'

    'Yes.'

    'Of what?'

    'I don't know. Everything. Other people's success. My girlfriend's old boyfriends. It's very mean-spirited of me, I know.' 'You have a girlfriend?'

    There was a satisfying note of forced indifference in the question. It suggested that the answer mattered to her. He was glad to be able to say, 'Not anymore.'

    'What happened?'

    'I'm not quite sure.'

    He tried his best to explain, though, raking over the dead embers of his relationship with Gloria.

    When he was done, Antonella said, 'I don't like the sound of her.'