“Outdoors,” he replied.

She noticed three easels folded and standing against the opposite wall and a steel case full of well-used paint tubes lying open on a small table.

Domenico, Caterina, and Francesco had followed them into the studio as well, but they remained quiet, looking around.

Anton stood by the door with his hands in his pockets, and Lillian sensed that this was torture for him—as if they were all intruding noisily upon his private life. Her heart ached a little, and she wished the others hadn’t joined them. She wished they were alone. He would have been more comfortable, she believed, if it were just the two of them.

“May I?” she asked, indicating a collection of canvases on the floor under a window.

He nodded.

Lillian crouched down and flipped through a batch of medium-size paintings. The colors were vibrant yet tempered. There was a mellowness to everything. A sense of calm.

She was no expert or scholar when it came to art, but she knew enough to recognize an impressionist style, not unlike Monet. Anton had painted Tuscany with a gentle hand while celebrating its movement—the wind in the cypresses, the mist creeping through the valleys, the sunset disappearing behind the mountainous horizon. Fields of yellow sunflowers pointing their faces to the sky. A meadow of poppies fluttering in a fresh breeze. Tuscan architecture in the changing light of dawn. Steep, narrow, twisting cobblestone lanes. Romanesque churches. Piazzas alive with Italians.

“These are incredible,” she said. “You should show them to people.”

“Sometimes he’ll give one away,” Domenico explained, “if it’s a friend who can pry something out of his greedy grasp.”

Greedy probably wasn’t the right word, Lillian thought, but she let it go.

“I’m amazed by all this, Anton. You’re very talented.” She rose to her feet and turned to him. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Attractive laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. “Plenty. But isn’t that what life is about? Trying new things? Finding out what you love doing? Then taking a deep dive into it?”

She wondered how many paintings were stored in this studio. One hundred? How long had it taken him to paint all of them?

She strode slowly toward him. “Thank you for showing them to me. I feel honored.”

An awkward silence ensued as she and Anton watched each other under the stark light from the chandelier—although it was only awkward for the others, who turned away and pretended to be looking at the paintings.

“I should probably get going,” Lillian said. “Thank you for dinner and for showing me this.”

The air around her felt electrified, but then she noticed a look pass between Domenico and Caterina. She remembered that Anton was a married man, and everyone in the house must be acquainted with his wife and children.

“I can drive you,” Francesco said.

Domenico frowned at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Francesco. You’ve had too much grappa. Anton will walk with you, Lillian. Lord knows he needs the exercise.”

“That’s true,” Caterina agreed.

“Speak for yourself, Domenico,” Anton replied with laughter as he turned and headed for the door.

A short while later, Anton and Lillian were making their way down Cypress Row, where the air smelled of sweet pine and damp earth. Fireflies sparkled in the greenery.

“I’m still thinking about your paintings,” Lillian said. “Would you let me look at them again sometime?”

“If you like.”

Their footsteps tapped lightly in unison. Wispy clouds passed in front of the moon.

“You know . . . ,” she put forward, carefully. “I have a thought, but I don’t want to step over the line. When I say it out loud, you might regret hiring me.”

He chuckled at that. “Never.”

Lillian inhaled a slow, deep breath. “All right, then. I’ll just throw this out there. Anton, have you ever considered putting some of your artwork on the wine labels?”

Anton said nothing for several seconds, and she worried that she had indeed crossed the line and he was trying to decide how to respond tactfully. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “That’s very interesting.”

She put one foot in front of the other, glancing up at him as she walked, trying to gauge what he was thinking.

“But the Maurizio family name is a national treasure here in Italy,” he finally said. “This winery has had the same image on its label for over a hundred years.”

“I know. And it’s a sketch of the villa, like every other old-world wine label out there in circulation. Don’t misunderstand. I wouldn’t change that, not for the vintage wines. But the new ones that you’re developing . . . I can’t imagine a better way to put your own stamp on those bottles. The Maurizio family name is the foundation, of course, but from what I’ve gathered about you, Anton, you’re very passionate about this place. A hundred years from now, your wines and your contribution to the collections will have equal historical value. Perhaps you could try the new labels out with the Americans. Do a test batch. See how it plays.”

He turned his eyes to meet hers. “That’s interesting as well.”

They reached the little cluster of stone buildings where her guest suite was located. All the windows were brightly lit, except for hers.

“Here we are,” she said, stopping on the gravel driveway. The wet grass in the surrounding yard glistened in the light from the lampposts.

Anton looked at her door, shrouded in darkness. “You’ve got me thinking,” he said. “It’s quite an innovative idea. It feels risky, though.”

“I don’t think so at all,” she replied. “Would you like to come inside for a bit? We could talk about it. Brainstorm a little.”

As soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth, she regretted the suggestion. There was an obvious attraction between them. She’d be a fool to deny it. If anything was risky, it was this.

“Sure,” he said, but there was a hint of unease in his tone. Nevertheless, he followed her up the stone steps, then held the flashlight steadily to illuminate the keyhole as she unlocked the door.

They entered the kitchen and sitting room. Everything was tidy and smelled clean after a visit from the maid that day. Lillian switched on a lamp and hung her purse on the back of a chair.

“Have a seat.” She gestured toward the armchair. “Would you like a drink? We have rum and cola.”

It was Freddie’s rum. He would notice if she had some. He wouldn’t mind, but he would mention it.

“That sounds exotic.”

“Allow me to indulge you.” She smiled as she withdrew the bottle from the top shelf in the cupboard and mixed two drinks over ice.

“So tell me,” Anton said, sitting back in his chair and crossing one long leg over the other, “how do you see it working for the Americans? Changing the labels, I mean. Don’t they come here wanting to experience the Old World? Isn’t that what they’re looking for? Ancient buildings and all that?”

“Yes, most definitely,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa across from him. “That’s what brings them here, but from what I’ve seen, they’re most interested in purchasing the wines that have some sentimental story attached to them. Even if they’re young wines, when I talk about something personal in regards to the harvest of a particular year—like the difficulty you had with days of rain which held you back and had you all in a mad panic last year—they love hearing about it. Every group buys a number of bottles because there’s a story attached.”