It feels strange to be excited about my work when Luca and I are apart like this, where half my heart is beating outside of myself. It’s only been days since I last saw him, but it seems much longer than that. I desperately want to pick up the phone to tell him the news about the commissioned paintings. Having something like this happen, under such unexpected circumstances, forces me to reconsider the way I’ve been approaching my work and my life. As I take each step through Florence’s paved streets, I know exactly where I’m going. There’s an element of peace that fills me up from the inside. It feels as though the City of Art is wrapping its wings around me. Being able to paint for a living is what gives my life meaning. Being with Luca is what colours it, completes it, makes me whole again. As I embark on this new chapter in my life, I know that whatever the future brings, I’ll always consider myself Luca’s painter girl. I set up my work space, close to our Florentine Bridge, with the reassurance that I will always have a small part of myself to come back to, to comfort me when I’m feeling scared or alone, happy or sad, no matter what.
I take out the spec sheet from the anonymous buyer and start prepping my first painting. Soon I have no control of what is appearing in front of me; I’m lost in thought, reliving the emotion of what once was.
Day after day, I return to my place on the bank of the Arno River until my three paintings are done.
I’m in the studio making the final check on my third commissioned painting to ensure it’s dry, when Clara calls.
‘We’re going to Venice for a few days. We’re meeting Bert there and we leave tomorrow night. The boys are hopelessly excited about the gondolas.’ She laughs. ‘Now, while I’ve got you on the phone, do tell me—on your days off, what is it you’ve been working on? The boys mentioned you’ve been working on a big project.’
‘I didn’t want to say anything until after I’d finished. I was going to invite you over to take a look, actually,’ I say, glancing over at my latest paintings of Luca and me.
‘I can’t wait to see your work,’ she says, the enthusiasm in her voice apparent.
I tell her about all the painting I’ve been doing, as well as the triptych.
‘Did Signor Fiorelli mention who the buyer is?’
‘A woman named C. Jones. She wanted to be kept anonymous until after I finished the paintings.’
‘That’s not too uncommon. Sometimes meeting a buyer can make an artist nervous. I’m sure she has every faith in your abilities to create the work she’s looking for. Listen, I was hoping we could catch up for dinner this evening. Maybe we can have a proper chat then?’
‘Sure. Why don’t you come here?’
‘Sounds great. I’ll bring the wine.’
Clara arrives a little earlier than expected, just as I’m mounting the last painting of Luca and me to the studio wall.
‘Come in!’ I call out. ‘The door’s open! Make yourself at home.’
I move my equipment into the corner of the studio. I take a step back and view the wall in its entirety. I’ve used a soft palette of pastels on some of the paintings, and vibrant hues of colour on others. Each of these thirty paintings holds a significant meaning for Luca and me.
‘Mia, do you need some help in there?’ asks Clara.
‘Sorry, I got a bit carried away,’ I call.
I poke my head out of the studio door. ‘Let me get this paint washed off, and I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I say, making my way to the bathroom. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking that I’d like to enrol in art school,’ I say to her from the bathroom.
‘You should absolutely do that, Mia. Your work … oh my goodness, it’s truly breathtaking.’
I walk out of the bathroom and dry my wet hands on the back of my jeans. Clara is standing in the doorway of the studio, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes wide, as she takes in the artwork displayed on the walls.
‘I literally just finished the last one this afternoon,’ I say, pointing to a painting of a twentieth-century antique carousel, run by the fifth generation of the Picci family, which lights up Piazza della Repubblica. We stood there arm in arm, gelatos in hand, mesmerised by the golden lights bouncing in and around it as the painted horses gently swayed to and fro, eliciting smiles of glee from small children. As the music hummed away, their laughter tickled us, and for a few short minutes we enjoyed the taste of innocence and simple pleasures that life has to offer.
‘Delightful.’ When she finally tears her eyes away, she looks around the room and says, ‘Look at what you’ve done to this room. It was never like this before.’
‘You’ve been here?’
‘Yes, Signor Fiorelli has done many paintings for me over the years,’ she murmurs, her attention focused on a painting of Luca and me walking along the beach.
‘It’s called Once-in-a-lifetime Tuscan Love. It’s our story …’ I say, my voice trailing off. She seems so enthralled in the paintings that I doubt she’s heard a word I’ve said.
‘Go on,’ she murmurs without shifting her gaze.
‘It started out as fourteen paintings when he was in hospital, and I haven’t been doing much else except for painting and looking after the boys this month,’ I confess. ‘So that number grew to thirty.’
Clara is silent for what feels like hours as she admires the wall from afar, then steps towards each painting, one by one, as if viewing them in a gallery. She traces her fingers across the framed labels. Once she’s finished she turns around and looks at me. ‘My goodness …’
I raise my eyebrows, unsure of how to interpret her response.
‘Like them?’ I ask shyly.
‘I’ll give you sixty thousand euros for all of them.’
‘Excuse me?’ I say, certain I’ve misheard her.
‘Pardon?’ I blink several times in a futile attempt to play back what I have just thought I heard.
‘It’s the most incredible story depicted in contemporary artwork I have seen in my entire career.’
I’m absolutely speechless.
‘These pieces are magnificent. The way you’ve captured the emotion, the depth. It’s extraordinary. Especially given your age and experience. Are these paintings all based on real events? Things you did together?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
She reaches over to the painting of me sitting at the bar, sketching Luca, who’s working in the officina.
‘I have at least four buyers I know who would be interested in this work,’ she says, her eyes glued to the painting.
‘But nobody knows my work. How will you convince anyone that it’s worth their consideration?’
‘You let me worry about that,’ she says, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve been in this business long enough to recognise a gem when I find one. And believe it or not, I’m very familiar with your work.’
My eyes question her.
She breaks out into a smile. ‘I’d hoped to remain anonymous until after you’d delivered the triptych. It seems like a good time to let you know I was the one who commissioned it.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It all feels too surreal. ‘You’re C. Jones?’
‘Yes, Mia. Jones is my maiden name.’
‘Oh my goodness! I had no idea.’
‘That’s how it was supposed to be. I wanted you to show me your work in your own time. I happened to be visiting Signor Fiorelli when I saw your painting. My office is around the corner from the Uffizi. Signor Fiorelli was telling me how talented you were. I didn’t realise the painting was yours until I recognised your name on the card beside it. By then I’d already offered to buy it. Every afternoon I’d stop and see more of your paintings. I showed them to my partner, Joseph, and, well, here we are now.’
‘I’m very grateful, Clara.’
‘You’re a true artist. Knowing I’m helping you in your career is an honour. This is just the beginning. That is, if you’d be happy for me to help you.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘So, would you consider selling these paintings?’
I think back to how hard it was to pick up those paintbrushes when I was unwell, and how the paintings in this room are so much more than a love story. They’re painted by a girl who turned pain and fear into love and hope. A girl who was given a second chance at life but was scared to take it; however, once she did, she found herself.
‘Consider them sold.’
She claps her hands together, an infectious smile creeping across her face.
‘Here, let me show you your paintings,’ I say, gesturing towards the corner of the studio where a drop sheet sits over the commissioned pieces. I lift the cover to reveal the three works. I’ve painted one picture of the Ponte Vecchio at sunset, one of a couple tossing their key from the bridge, and another of an elderly couple sitting on a park bench admiring a panoramic view of Florence. ‘I hope they’re what you were looking for.’
‘No, they’re not.’
When she turns to look at me, she’s beaming, letting me know in a voice as smooth as honey, ‘They’re much more than what I’d hoped for. They’re brilliant.’
Once we’re downstairs, Clara opens the bottle of wine she brought over and tells me about her plans for the paintings. She’d like The Florentine Bridge triptych to be displayed in London for three months for an upcoming art exhibition featuring contemporary artwork by Florentine painters depicting the city. She needs to make several phone calls regarding the paintings she has seen today but tells me it’s likely they will be sold as a collection at auction. I’m still reeling at the events that are unfolding when Clara interrupts my train of thought.
‘Are we ready to start dinner?’
‘No, I think we should eat out tonight, Clara. On me.’
The following morning, I wander into Impruneta, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions within me. The overwhelming joy at yesterday’s news, dampened by the incessant longing to be able to share it with Luca. My eyes rest on the officina. I can almost hear the roller door being shut, causing the ache within me to grow heavier. I watch a young couple cross my path, stopping beside a parked scooter. He smooths her hair and gently wipes under her eye. He holds his finger out in front of her and she blows a puff of air over her loose eyelash.
‘What would you wish for, Mia?’
‘To never be apart from you.’
My phone rings, nudging me back to the present. It’s Clara.
‘I’m outside the villa. I thought I’d come to say goodbye before we head to Venice. Will you be long?’
‘I’ll be there soon,’ I reply, tearing my gaze away from the officina.
Clara emerges from her car, and together we make our way to the front door. As I turn the key in the lock, I hear the sound of car doors opening and closing. I turn around and narrow my gaze. Emerging from Clara’s car are my parents.
‘Hello, pumpkin,’ says Dad, smiling. ‘We thought we’d surprise you.’ Mum rushes towards me. She runs her hands through my hair and rests her hands on my cheeks. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she whispers, her eyes damp.
I throw my arms around her, inhaling the familiar floral scent of her perfume. I turn to Dad, who locks me in a tight embrace, an embrace I didn’t realise I’d missed this much.
‘When did you arrive? And how did you …?’
Clara smiles. ‘Told you to leave this with me. You’ve been so strong, but I thought a reunion might make things a little easier for you.’
I smile in appreciation.
‘I suggested your parents could stay in my cottage, but I assume you’d like them to stay here with you, at least until Stella returns from New York.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, ‘I was thinking actually, that the cottage could be perfect for you and Luca. We could arrange whatever modifications might be required. I’ll leave you to think about it. Now, I need to dash, but we’ll spend some time together once I return from Venice. I promised your parents a personalised tour of Florence.’
Mum and Dad unpack and settle in, while I set up the spare upstairs bedroom for them.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ says Mum, watching me smooth out the sheets. ‘Your life here … it’s so different to what it was like for you at home. It’s like you’ve grown up overnight.’
‘I love it here. Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’ve been thinking of staying in Italy. To study, that is. I’d like to study at the academy …’
Mum nods, showing me she understands. ‘Clara filled me in on all the details about your paintings. I think if that’s what you want to do, you should do it.’
‘Even if I don’t get accepted … I still want to stay here though. With Luca …’
Mum lowers herself on to the edge of the bed and pats the mattress for me to sit down beside her. She turns her body to face me and takes my hand in hers. ‘Why aren’t you with him, honey?’
I shrug. ‘He wants space.’
‘Does he?’ She questions me with her eyes.
‘That’s what he thinks he wants. He thinks that because he can’t walk he isn’t enough for me. The thing is, he’s more than enough. He’s everything to me.’
‘Oh, Mia. You’re so young to be dealing with something like this. I know you love him, but are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’
‘Let me show you something.’ I lead Mum into the art studio.
I show her the paintings of Luca and me, telling her about each one. She listens, moving from one piece to the next, taking everything in.
Finally, she speaks. ‘Has Luca seen these? Have you shown them to him?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Darling, I really think you should.’
Instantly, my heart knows exactly what I need to do to bring Luca home. Maybe Signor Fiorelli was right. Sometimes the answers are right in front of us.
Mum and Dad fit into life in Italy seamlessly. We’ve been spending bursts of time together sightseeing, and since she returned from Venice, Clara has been spoiling Mum with visits to centuries-old villas, appreciating all they offer in terms of architecture and design. Dad’s made himself at home at Silvio’s bar every evening, where he plays cards with the locals. He’s there tonight, while Mum and I spend a quiet night in at Clara’s. I’m lost in my own thoughts, thinking about the best time to visit Luca, who still isn’t answering my calls.
‘You seem a little distant tonight,’ says Clara. The boys are in bed and we’re standing in the kitchen drying dishes together.
‘I was thinking about the paintings, and showing them to Luca,’ I say, rubbing my tea towel over an already dry plate.
‘You should go see him,’ says Mum.
‘You and Dad have only been here a little over a week. I can’t just leave you.’
She winks at me. ‘It’s not like we’ll be bored without you. It’s Italy! Besides, we’ll be here when you get back. We’ll be here as long as you need us to be.’
‘I’ll make sure your parents have plenty of ways to occupy their time while you’re away,’ says Clara.
‘What if he refuses to come home?’ I twist the tea towel into a knot.
Mum takes it off me and folds it. ‘Well, sweetheart … at least you’ll know you tried.’
Clara chimes in. ‘She’s right, you know.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Clara, you know the offer you made about the cottage … I was wondering if that still stands?’
Later that evening, Mum and Dad slip into bed and I return to the studio. Memories of Luca and me dance around in my head amongst the silence in the studio, one of the places I know I can count on for solace. I cast my mind back to the day we visited the Boboli Gardens, where everything was green and luscious and in bloom, the time we ate so much gelato on the beach that we both felt sick for hours afterwards, the time we wished upon our shooting stars.
I set up my paper on an easel and start to paint. Luca. Standing near the outdoor table, shades in one hand, squinting to get a better look at that girl on the swing. Once I’m finished, I take a card and let the ink flow: Where it started.
Then I reach for a sheet of notepaper and start writing.
Dear Luca,
I’ll never forget our first kiss. In that moment I knew my life would be forever changed. You showed me that love knows no time, and that one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves is the permission to let go and listen to our hearts. When I was scared and broken you showed me that it was safe to trust in life. You showed me that what we feel is just as important as what we think. I know now that allowing you to love me and to be with you no matter what the future might bring, is okay, safe and right. If there is love, there is acceptance, and true love allows for unity in the face of uncertainty. I know now that if we can take life as it comes, together, everything will be okay.
I’m not a girl of many words; my brushstrokes are my words and these paintings are for you. This is us. This is our love. A once-in-a-lifetime, what-are-the-chances-of-us-ever-meeting kind of love. This is what we had and what we stand to lose if we remain apart. There are 195 countries in the world, with over seven billion of us in it. But there’s only one person I want to be with, and I belong to him, as much as he belongs to me.
Please come home to me.
Your painter girl,
Mia.