2

The next morning, Ashley fought a battle between the fear of reaching out and the idea that she should approach this opportunity with rationality and calm. She picked up her cell phone at least a half-dozen times, referring to Luca’s business card while she dialed. And hung up. And growled at herself. And tried all over again…and hung up.

What was wrong with her? This was nothing more than a meeting between two people mutually driven by a passion for art. But that was just it. There was meaning and potential to this connection that extended far beyond the parameters of a mere meeting. She had sensed as much the instant he handed over his card.

Move, my child. Don’t question. Move. I’m with you always.

A loving Spirit prompt gave her the stillness, and calm, to finally dial the number in its entirety.

“Ciao, L’arte Della Vita. In cosa posso servirla?” Crisp, rapid-fire Italian crossed the connection, and Ashley intuited the woman’s request to be of assistance. She gave her name and did her best to ask for Luca in as smooth a return of Italian as she was able. Nerve sparks came alive all over again while she waited.

“Ashley. I’m glad to hear from you. How are you?”

Smooth and deep, his tone blended professionalism and pleasure. That set her promptly at ease. They exchanged pleasantries and Luca laughed gently. “I was hoping you’d call, and that you weren’t too put off by the way I introduced myself.”

“You’re a braver soul than I am, and I appreciate what you did. I spent some time last night familiarizing myself with your gallery. To call it impressive is an understatement. I’m amazed by the level of success and acclaim you’ve achieved.”

“Thank you, but the artists are the ones to be commended. I simply give them an avenue, a chance for exposure. May I give you a tour in person? Are you going to be in Florence for long?”

“I’d be honored. I’ll be in Florence for the next three weeks.”

“Back to the States after that?”

“Yes, but I have to admit, I don’t even want to look that far ahead.”

“Live in the moment. I understand completely, and leaving Florence is never easy. Would two o’clock today work?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing you then. And don’t forget your portfolio. I’m eager to explore your work.”

She rang off and spent the next few hours doing what she loved most since arriving in Italy, walking slowly through narrow, angled streets, milling about sundry shops, bakeries, before ending at a favorite café where she ordered a macchiato and cannoli.

At just before two o’clock she lingered before the window display of Il Papiro, a high-end stationary shop tucked within the narrow confines of the Via Dei Tavolini. Luca DeRosa’s gallery was just half a block away, but she didn’t want to appear to be overly eager by showing up early, so instead of storming the gates she opted to admire the sketch books and leather goods spotlighted beautifully behind snow-dusted glass.

Just after a bell tower in the nearby Piazza della Repubblica struck the hour, she moved ahead and crossed the threshold of L’arte Della Vita. A glass and chrome reception desk framed the rear corner of a wide display area. Crafted into the shape of a supple wave, the desk featured the shop name etched in script across the front. The artwork was stunning, strategically positioned, and perfectly lit. Ashley cautioned herself in firm terms. If she paused to gawk at the visual feast before her, she’d never properly attend to her scheduled appointment. She focused instead on the stylish woman who lifted to her feet and moved forward in greeting. Shifting a tabloid-sized satchel from her right hand to her left, Ashley tried to keep from shuffling nervously. 

"May I help you?" Supermodels had nothing on this statuesque lady with her high cheekbones, full lips and ocean of wavy, waist-length brunette hair. She was cordial, but Ashley absorbed the rake of a curious gaze.

"I hope so. My name is Ashley Coratini. I’m here for a meeting with Mr. DeRosa."

Interest lit the hazel eyes of her greeter.  "Ah, yes. The charcoal artist. He’s told me about your work. Please, come with me."

Ashley followed the woman's lead. 

"I'm Katrina Marshall. I manage the gallery on behalf of Mr. DeRosa.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I envy you the opportunity. Living out my professional life in the art world would be a dream come true.”

Katrina responded with a soft smile. “I’ve worked with Luca for years now; almost since the day he opened. He recruited me after I graduated with my masters of fine arts degree from Studio Art Centers International."

Ashley’s forward progress stuttered to a stall. A flutter of longing, an instant sense of artist-to-artist kinship, came to life. "You attained your masters from SACI? What an incredible experience that must have been. What’s your degree in?"

"Studio art." Katrina rested her hand on the knob of a closed office door and nudged it gently open. "Here we are."

Though kind and professional, there remained something vaguely aloof and intimidating about the woman. "Luc, Ashley Coratini is here to see you."

"Ashley, welcome." Luca sat behind a glass-topped desk; his smile dawned warm as he took to his feet. "Thank you Katrina."

A pregnant pause followed the dismissal. Before Ashley could wonder too much about it, Katrina smiled and nodded, leaving a subtle air of tension in her wake. The woman’s thin heels tapped against high-glossed wood floor as she walked away. A slim skirt fell just above the knee, topped by a crisp white shirt. Definitely intimidating, Ashley thought as she slid her fingers over the crepe fabric of her black slacks. She had chosen a hip-length blouse of royal blue lace because the ensemble had struck her as chic and artsy—until she met Katrina. 

Doubts and static faded once Luca took hold of her hand and kissed both of her cheeks in a light, European-style greeting that left the rest of Ashley’s world hazy around the edges. A delicious sensation, all in all, but she tempered that reaction with a businesslike attitude. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” He didn’t return promptly to his desk but instead gestured to a nearby chair. “Feel free to set aside your folio. I'd like to get you acquainted with the gallery first if that’s all right."

"Absolutely. I'd like that very much."

Actually, Ashley couldn’t wait to explore. Thanks to the Google machine, she had learned a few things about L’arte Della Vita and its owner. After just ten years in existence, in a very tight and competitive art market, Luca and his wife Madelyn had created a fast-growing gallery with an upscale clientele and strong reputation as a venue that catered to fresh artists who were local to Florence and its many art institutes.

“I understand from my web search that you and your wife are the ones who established the gallery.” Ashley wandered slowly, entranced by strong brass sculptures, ethereal water colors, provocative and breathtaking sketches. “What a wonderful legacy you’re creating, to fill the world with beauty, and art.”

“Well said. Spoken like an artist who truly understands the overall mission. Actually, that was Madelyn’s driving philosophy from the day we opened.”

Was? Ashley turned to him in silent question…and surprise.

“She passed away three years ago, very unexpectedly, but she was the visionary behind what you see. I’ve always been the talent scout while she was the key-holder of the gallery and the business side of things.”

He was a widower. That stole her words for the moment. Luca struck her as being maybe in his mid-thirties, perhaps even a bit older judging by his outlook and polish, but he certainly didn’t look it. He was tall and lean, strong shouldered; his features were unlined, but now she noticed his thick brunette hair featured a smattering of silver.

Luca gestured to their left. “Here’s the offshoot of the main gallery. I use these two compartmentalized spaces to spotlight the work of students. In the main area I host exhibitions for new and promising artists and acquisitions.”

He moved away from the topic of his late wife and Ashley refused to press into uncomfortable territory. She studied him as he led the way, admiring his black silk suit, the flair of a ruby red tie, his smooth carriage.

She forced herself to proper focus. “I have to ask. How did you come up with the name The Art of Life? I think it’s a wonderful choice.”

“Thank you. Madelyn came up with it, and I agreed straight away. It’s fitting. Perfect, really. Art gives and reflects life—which, I know, sounds about as cliché and lofty as any art patron can be, right?”

Ashley laughed, allowing herself to relax, and step into this delicious, often-dreamed of world of creation. Soft recessed lighting accentuated dreamy watercolors, stark modernistic canvases; colonnade-style pedestals featured brass renderings of abstracts, of people, and there was a breathtaking version of the Duomo that was so strongly crafted, so evocative, Ashley nearly reached out a hand to gloss fingertips along its ridges…

“I lose myself every time I stroll through this place. The talent thrills and captures me every time.”

“I suppose I’m pretty transparent.”

His smile ended at the crinkled corners of his eyes; appreciation lit his demeanor. “Yes, but I consider that an admirable trait. Let’s take a look at your portfolio. I’m eager to see what else you’ve done.”

Luca led them on a return to his office, but didn’t reclaim his seat. Rather, he stopped short and turned her way. “Rather than conducting a stilted business meeting, why don’t we take a walk? There’s a café nearby that serves wonderful cappuccino, and I want to review your work, and show you a rooftop view of Florence that I think you’ll love.”

“I’d like that very much.”

~*~

Ashley stood behind Luca in a line that formed near the baked goods display case of the Cuppa Cappa Coffee shop. He ordered a pair of their signature Cappuccinos while she watched a skilled barista spray a layer of frothy white cream atop their beverages then sculpt thin, delicate streams of chocolate into the perfect shape of Florence’s time-honored and iconic emblem: the fiordaliso.

They claimed a table to the rear of the café and Ashley settled, unwinding a pink wool scarf from around her neck. She took a careful but delighted sip of her beverage. “Thank you for the coffee. It’s almost too pretty to drink.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I meant to say, earlier, that I’m impressed by your command of the English language.”

“I’m afraid that’s purely mercenary on my part. Some of the most prominent and passionate art collectors are from New York. I’ve also learned French and a bit of Chinese, but Chinese is a challenge.”

“I took a year of Italian before coming here for a study abroad session almost two years ago, at the end of college. I’m afraid I know just enough of the language to be dangerous.”

“Languages, like art, have always interested me for some reason. Language is creative—and I’ve always been drawn to anything creative.” He pushed back his chair slightly and nodded toward her folio. “Speaking of which, would you mind if I take a look?”

“Not at all.” Oh, sure, she sounded confident, but on the inside, she quaked in the throes of uncertainty. Ashley handed him the satchel. “I hope you won’t be disappointed. I get the feeling you hold my work in high regard.”

He took custody and opened the cover. At once, she could tell he lost himself. He turned the pages slowly, and an expressive grin lit his features. “You have good instincts. I think your work is remarkable.”

He peeled back layer upon layer of her portfolio. He studied—really studied—each image in a manner that left her senses to sparkle and dance. She waited in silence until he looked up at last and refocused.

“What’s your dream as an artist, Ashley? If you had carte blanche, what would you hope to achieve?”

The questions caught her off guard, leaving her no choice but to respond on instinct and from her heart. “I suppose—like any artist, really—I want to reach people. I want touch hearts, and engage.”

She shrugged shyly and noticed he returned to taking in her work—absorbing it all over again.

“I think the highest honor an artist can achieve is for their work to find a place in people’s memories,” she said, “in their homes and their minds. I’ve always believed art speaks to people, and that belief moves me forward.”

He looked up once more and regarded her with that same degree of gentle, thorough scrutiny that left her both warmed and energized. He didn’t speak, perhaps deliberately, so she continued—deciding to trust him with the ultimate vision she had for her time in Italy.

“I come from a family of loving but concerned doubters. They’ve always worried about me pursuing a life in art. Most likely, I’ll return to the states and a job teaching. I actually have an offer from the Sandringham school district in New Jersey to begin teaching at the high school next fall. In the meantime, my goal for this trip, for this time in Italy, is to be free. To create charcoal sketches that I’ll self-publish into a display book and offer for sale on-line and at whatever brick-and-mortar stores might be willing to give me a chance.”

Luca frowned. “No internal support, eh?”

Ashley shrugged. “I’ve always been told a life spent sketching will amount to nothing more than frustration and a monumental struggle. My family and friends, they mean well; I know art is a difficult profession, but when it’s your calling, you need to follow, and at least try, right?”

“Without question.” He closed the folio then returned it carefully to Ashley’s possession. “What I’ve seen here would translate beautifully into the type of book you’re imagining. Toward that end, I have an idea—some advice that might help.”

“Which is?”

“Allow yourself to reveal the city of Florence from a unique point of view, in ways people don’t generally have the opportunity to see. Your straight-on sketches of the city landmarks are beautiful, and you capture the beauty of the piazzas and the city with great power, but my favorite, by far, is the sketch you did from your perch on the bridge yesterday. You looked away from the Ponte Vecchio. You treated the bridge as an aspect of the drawing, but not the focal point. We catch a glimpse of the right edge of the bridge and the buildings that form its farthest arc, but beyond that you create a vision of Florence that’s both beautiful and unexpected. Going slightly off the beaten path could become your calling card—that rare angle that wins you notice both as an artist and within the pages of the type of book you describe.”

“How would I go about doing that?” She leaned forward, eager to discover where this conversation might lead.

“By simply being open to fresh perspectives. Are you finished?” He gestured toward her coffee mug, which she had emptied with pleasure.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s head to the Hotel Balcony.”

In a tease, she arched her brow in mock affront at the idea of going to a hotel with a veritable unknown man.

Luca caught on swiftly and offered a solid laugh in return. “There’s nothing unsavory about my request, I promise. There’s a view from the rooftop that will illustrate precisely what I mean. There’s also a restaurant next door that serves a fantastic salmon carpaccio if you might enjoy dinner afterwards.”

“Lead the way.”

Butterflies flew free, brushing her senses, heightening a sense of promise and joy. Artistic expression, Florence and a knowledgeable, respectful patron—what other dreams could possibly come true?