The next afternoon, when I return to the Balduccis’ after my morning shift, Massimo flings open the front door before I have the chance to knock. He glances at the bags of art supplies I’ve brought with me. ‘Mia! Are you ready for our surprise?’ he asks, wide-eyed with anticipation.
‘Oh, am I ready for it? Are you ready for it?’ I ask, scooping him up in my arms, tickling him before he escapes outside with his brother.
‘Looks like you have two excited boys on your hands,’ says Clara. ‘They haven’t stopped talking about you since this morning.’
‘I’m so glad; it’s nice to see them so happy,’ I reply, pleased to hear about how eager they are.
Clara nods and quietly replies, ‘Yes, it certainly is.’ She says goodbye and I round up the boys.
‘Okay, artists, have you got any smocks you can wear?’
‘Yes! We’ll go get them!’ They almost bowl each other over in a race to get inside.
I’m sharpening the last of our pencils when the boys come bounding towards me.
‘All right, so this is what we’re going to do. I want you to pick something to draw, anything you can see from where you’re sitting.’
Massimo chooses his ride-on Ferrari, and Alessandro chooses the olive tree. I sit in between them both and gently place my hand over Alessandro’s as I bring the tree to life with a series of pencil strokes. He sits still and silently, while Massimo peers over my shoulder. ‘Now for a Ferrari for Massimo.’
‘Wow, Mia, you’re like a real Botticelli,’ he says.
I laugh and tickle him under the chin. ‘Not quite, but thank you. Now it’s time for the fun part—the painting.’ I place the watercolours on the table with a dish of water. I show them how to use the paints and the boys quietly get to work, their tongues poking out of their mouths in concentration. ‘These ones are just for practice. The rest of our paintings are going to be for our art exhibition for your mum. How does that sound?’
Their faces light up and Massimo tells me it sounds great.
‘Did Botticelli paint like this?’ asks Alessandro.
‘Well, not quite, you’re painting in watercolour, but he used tempera for a lot of his paintings. Do you know what that is?’
They both shake their heads. ‘It’s a paint made using the yolk of an egg,’ I say.
‘You mean the yellow part?’ asks Massimo.
‘That’s right! He would mix it with coloured powders called pigment. Many painters used it during the Renaissance. That was a busy time for artists. Your mum would know all about it. You should ask her sometime.’
I leave the twins outside while I set up the ironing board inside beside a window overlooking the garden so I can keep an eye on them.
Half an hour later Alessandro bursts through the door, a bundle of enthusiasm as he shows me his painting. I switch off the iron and meet him at the kitchen table, where I pull out a chair. ‘Tell me about your picture. How does it make you feel?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s my family. That’s Daddy playing soccer,’ he says, pointing to a man with short dark hair, who is kicking a ball. I try to mask my reaction when I notice that the lady in the picture, who is no doubt Clara, has a downturned smile.
‘Mummy doesn’t look very happy.’
His innocent green eyes blink at me. I wrap my arm around his tiny waist, pulling him onto my lap. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because she’s gone,’ he replies, but I have little time to probe him further as Massimo bursts through the doors, triumphantly holding his painting of his red Ferrari.
‘I love it! You did such a great job, Massimo. Botticelli would be extremely proud of you!’
The boys’ laughter peals across the room. I hand them a couple of extra sheets of paper and encourage them to do some more painting while I head upstairs to put away their clothes. On opening their wardrobe, a pile of clothes comes tumbling down from the top shelf along with a rectangular pink box. As I pick up the loose lid and go to place it on the box, I notice a bundle of soft, pink items wrapped in tissue paper. Baby clothes. Pink blankets. A velveteen rattle with a bunny.
‘Look, Mia! We’re done!’ says Alessandro, suddenly in the room with me and proudly holding up his work.
Massimo gasps. Alessandro looks at him, then at me, and then at the box. His eyes widen like saucers as his little mouth lets out a huff of breath.
‘What’s wrong?’
Massimo points to the box.
‘It’s okay, I’m just putting it back now. Is it a secret that your mum’s having a baby?’ I ask, smiling. ‘That’s wonderful, boys.’
Alessandro shakes his head. Massimo is biting his lower lip. I take a closer look at the items in the box. The clothes have been worn. And then I suddenly understand who is gone and who she has taken with her.
‘Baby isn’t here anymore?’
Alessandro nods, his eyes on the floor.
‘It’s our fault,’ says Massimo.
‘Oh, sweetheart, it’s not your fault. Sometimes God just needs more angels.’ Beyond the pristine demeanour, the enormous house and the enviable career, here lies the reason behind Clara’s sadness and the vagueness I recognise in her, the one that comes with living in your body but not being fully present.
I place the box on the top shelf before asking one more question.
‘What was her name?’
‘Isabella.’
Once Clara returns home in the evening, the boys race down the stairs to greet her, artwork in hand. She rests her briefcase on the kitchen table and lowers herself into a chair. Alessandro waves his painting in her face.
‘Let’s see what you have here,’ she says. She holds it out in front of her and studies it carefully. As she comes to recognise herself in her son’s painting, she flinches. Alessandro takes a magnet to place it in prime position on the fridge.
‘Oh, it’s too special for the fridge, darling. Why don’t you let me have it and I’ll take it to work with me?’
‘And mine?’ asks Massimo.
‘Yours, too, sweetheart,’ she replies. Clara notices me standing on the staircase then, and appears somewhat embarrassed. ‘Mia, how was your afternoon?’
‘It was great. Can I help you with anything else before I go?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, that will be all, thank you for all your effort. I can tell the boys are growing fond of you already. See you tomorrow.’
By the time I pass the officina, it’s already closed. Disappointment washes over me at the thought of having to wait until tomorrow to see Luca. But minutes later, my phone rings, and it’s him.
His smooth voice carries over the line. ‘So you survived your afternoon shift at the Balduccis’?’
‘I’m actually having a lot of fun with them. How was your afternoon?’
‘I had to go to Siena to pick up some spare parts for the officina. I’ll be leaving soon.’
This definitely means I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him again. ‘Oh,’ I reply, unsuccessfully hiding my disappointment.
Is this how love messes around with your head?
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘I wanted to see you again tonight, bella Mia,’ he says.
‘Me, too.’ I sigh.