“I get to bring the flowers. What flowers go with paper doors?” Susan asks.

“Do you want austere and sculptural or various and tumbling? Roses in glass bowls or huge renaissance extravaganzas?”

They’re arranging the gallery, moving the table to the wall by the door, wiping down dusty windowsills, leaving four chairs in an alcove where people can pause and visit. The paper doors will ring the walls, not crowded. Along the center of the room six of Camille’s favorites, suspended by transparent fishing line, will float in the air. Leo, who seems to be able to do anything, and Valter, who owns the frame shop, take measurements. Camille sees them looking at her work with a what-the-hell-is-this expression.

She unpacks her doors and Julia helps lay them along the floor the way she wants them hung. “I’m liking this do-it-yourself exhibit.” Camille holds up two doors to see how they like each other. “Imagine just shipping your stuff off to New York and appearing when the caterers do.”

“I’m the caterer and thrilled to be so. You’re going to love my antipasti platters, which I am mixing up with a few southern goodies such as ham biscuits and cheese straws.”

“I’ll try not to be too nervous to notice. But I will be wearing my red velvet shoes. And Rowan is cutting his final classes to get here. Pretty gutsy, I think, since this is his last semester of teaching.”

Susan takes three tablecloths out of a box. “Choose which one you want and I’ll make the flowers work.” She shakes out a cream Busatti, makers of the traditional Tuscan linen, then a peach brocade from Grazia’s stash, and a renaissance-moment red and gold jacquard.

“Definitely the cream,” Camille decides. Susan already knew her choice but had a small hope for the jacquard’s drama. “Okay, now I’ll have fun. Lunch break, let’s go.”

At Stefano’s they order penne alla Norma. Camille asks Julia, “What was it like to see Chris again? Maybe I’m feeling iffy about Rowan’s arrival. You and I both sort of fell in with them quickly, but I’m thinking now what if we look at each other and think, What was that about?”

“I doubt that. He’s completely cool and arty. With Chris, this may sound unlikely, but we took up where we left off. We started talking about the tours and Sicily and his boy coming home to live. I feel like I’m already beginning to know his son, that everything will be quite natural, and if it’s not, if we later wear out, that’s not going to end my world. Maybe it’s my damaged sense that this is a—I don’t want to say posthumous relationship. That’s too dire. But this revised life has to unfold in a serene and good way. He feels like a best friend, and I happen to find him crazy attractive, too.”

“That he is,” Susan agrees. She runs her fingers through her hair, raising the spikes. “Not that I have run into anyone other than Riccardo—and I think he’s gay without even admitting it to himself—so this is theoretical, but it seems like you’re both ferreting out what love is at this stage.” She laughs wickedly. “Love in the time of chin hairs and vaginal moisturizer!” They start laughing so loud that everyone turns their way. “Anyway—you sound like you’ve totally got it straight. The relationships are nothing like what any of us has known before—that passion that makes you overlook flaws, the arc of a long marriage, the comfortable complacency that sets in, the decades and decades where being a part of something seems big and whole but also splits you into twos and threes.” She slaps her hands against each other. “Over and done. Now it’s seize the day. People who like to be side by side, as you once said, Julia. Didn’t you say you imagined you and Chris walking down a foreign street arm in arm? I love that.”

“Did I? You’re so good and succinct, Susan. But does it make you feel—what? Lonely? That we have these part-time men and you haven’t met anyone? Well, there’s Riccardo; he’s interesting—about saffron and roses and translation and the inner workings of the Vatican. You have a lot in common. Are you sure he’s gay?”

“I don’t care. Truly. He likes to have lunch and dance at parties and he’s passionate about literature and gardens. He’s a friend, a good one. Sex? Actually, he doesn’t appeal to me that way. I seem to want to throw all my—as you know, considerable—energy into my interests. For now anyway. I’m glad you found, at least, great dates and maybe soul mates. Don’t worry about me. I’m way past thinking I need a bicycle built for two. You all having dessert?”

Julia takes her at her word. Camille shrugs. Paper doors, she thinks. Always opening.