The Last Promise (36 page)

“Uncle Bert is coming over a little later. I bet he’ll let you drive the go-cart.”

“Really? You have a go-cart?” He looked up at his mother. “Can I?”

“Yes. But only if Uncle Bert is with you.”

“Don’t worry, Bert’s the only one who can get the darn thing started. Now, you go on, honey. We’ll be just fine. I’ve been doing this mother thing for a long time.”

“All right, Mom.” She kissed her cheeks.

“I love how those Italians do that. They’re such an affectionate people, aren’t they?”

“They are.
Ciao,
Mom.”

It thrilled her when her daughter spoke Italian to her.
“Ciao.”

 

The drive from Vernal to Park City was a little more than three hours, with nothing to see but scrub oak and desert terrain. Eliana didn’t mind the drive. The sun-baked asphalt road stretched out before her flat and desolate. She welcomed the opportunity to be alone with her thoughts.

It was a warm day, and she cracked her window just enough as to not drown out her car’s CD player. She still listened to her Italian CDs. They were like old friends. But even they seemed different now. Foreign somehow.

Her mind wandered over the blank backdrop of the terrain. She wondered where Ross was. England? Germany? No, she didn’t see him either of those places. Spain? Maybe Spain—the dark, sun-kissed hills of Barcelona, or south in Seville. She could see him in Spain.

He’d learn the language fast. He was good with languages, and they are similar, Spanish and Italian. It would come easy for him. So would the women, she thought. This made her stomach ache a little. Would she be so easily replaced? She did not doubt him, only herself. She never saw what he was so taken by in her in the first place. Still, maybe it was different for a man.
Love is a portion of a man’s life,
the Italians said,
the whole of a woman’s
. The Italians had much to say on the subject. Even the word
romance
found its root in
Roman
. As much as it hurt her to think of Ross with another woman, she didn’t want him to be alone. She wanted him to find a kind, beautiful woman who would care for him the way she had wanted to. One who could give him everything she couldn’t. He deserved that. Her love for him demanded that.

She had gone to sleep on a thought the night before. As she walked the labyrinth of her aching heart, she realized that love and gratitude are born twins. For if she were asked what she felt for Ross, she’d say love. But what she felt most was gratitude. Gratitude for what he had brought into her life. Gratitude for the way he had loved her. Gratitude that he had made her feel whole again. In spite of what she had said to her mother, gratitude even for the pain.

Maybe she too would marry someday. As foreign as the idea seemed to her, her intuition told her that she wouldn’t be alone forever. Alessio needed a father. She would make a partnership with a man and they would be friends and she might even learn to love him. Still, a part of her feared that deep inside she would always feel that she was only settling.

She ejected the CD and put in an old Eagles album. The Italian stuff made her think too much.

Three hours later Eliana arrived in Park City: the mining town turned exclusive ski resort. There was a time when land there could be bought for fifty dollars an acre. Now the old mine shacks on Main Street were being snatched up by the rich and famous for a million dollars and change. Even in the summer months, when the hills were dry and the runs bare, the town was busy with tourists.

She parked her car in the lot at the Linton Gallery then walked down the road two blocks, where she met up with her new art dealer, Marsha Ellington, at a sidewalk café.

A warm mountain flurry descended the Wasatch slopes and ruffled the fringes of the café’s awning. Eliana sat sipping iced tea across from Marsha, who was meticulously spearing the olives from her pasta salad with a fork, then piling them next to a partially eaten hard roll on her bread plate.

“You heard me. I told them, no olives. How hard is that? If he hadn’t taken so long to bring it out in the first place, I’d make them do it over.”

“Olives are good for you,” Eliana said.

“Yeah, well so is Jazzercise, but you don’t see me prancing around in spandex.” She speared another olive and dropped it on the plate. “There are a lot of olive trees in Italy, aren’t there?”

It was like asking if there were a lot of Italians in Rome. “Yes. We had them at the villa.”

“Are there two kinds of trees, black olives and green olives?”

“No. They come from the same tree. All olives are green at first. It’s just a matter of how ripe they are when they’re picked.”

“I’ve wondered about that.” She disdainfully speared another olive, adding it to the pile. “So how’s the adjustment back to American life? Everything getting back to normal?”

“I’m not sure that I know what normal is anymore. It seems that everyone is in a hurry all the time.”

“That’s what we Americans do best.”

She sighed. “Not this one.”

“Good. Artists shouldn’t be in a hurry. Are you going to stay in Vernal?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty small. I guess we’ll see.”

“There’s plenty of nice places available in Park City. I’ve got an ex who’s a real estate agent up here. Bad husband but good agent. Give me the word and I’ll tell him you’re looking.”

“I’m not sure if Park City is right for us.”

“Well, Park City certainly loves you. You’ve got to be pleased with how things are going.”

“I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Let me tell you, this kind of response for a first showing is extraordinary. I talked to Carolyn on the way up. She said there are only a couple paintings that haven’t sold yet. I’m not surprised. Tuscany is so haute right now.” She took a fork of lettuce and dipped it into a small cup of Italian dressing. “Taking nothing from your talent, of course.”

“Toscana seems to be all the rage back here.”

“I told you you’d do well. I knew it the moment I saw your first painting. I do think we should play up your countess title. It’s much more exciting owning something done by nobility.”

Eliana shook her head. “No.”

Marsha raised one eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

Marsha sighed, then conceded with a flourish of her free hand. “You’re too humble, Ellen. You’ve got to learn to flaunt. It’s marketing. But either way, things are going to just keep happening for you. That reminds me. I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you. Do you know Boyd McCann?”

“No.”

Marsha reached into her purse and brought out a business card. She laid it on the table in front of Eliana. The card was burnt umber, with a large palm leaf in gold foil embossed with the name Boyd McCann and Associates.

“You met him last week.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, he’s a big Salt Lake City interior designer. Does all the Deer Valley, Walker Lane crowd. Only deals with the filthy rich, Hollywood ski bums, my kind of filth. He left me his card the other night. He wants you to do some private commissions.”

“Really?”

“Oh, it gets better. Are you sure you don’t remember him? He was that forty-something guy at the reception, the one with the cute butt and the Mercedes-Benz ragtop?”

Eliana remembered and grimaced slightly. “I remember him. He was the guy with fake hair, too much cologne and wandering hands.”

“And too much money, I might add. Well, he’s newly single. And he noticed more than your art.”

Eliana grinned incredulously. “Marsha . . .”

“Don’t kill the messenger, Ellen. Besides, this is a good thing. You can get a lot of work out of it.”

Just then the waiter walked up and refilled Eliana’s glass with ice water from a carafe. “Is everything okay, ladies?”

Marsha pointed to her bread plate. “What are these?”

He looked at the black pile of olives. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You didn’t want olives, did you? I’ll get you another salad.”

“Don’t bother, I’ve already picked them all out.”

The waiter held his hands out in surrender. “I’m sorry. Dessert’s on me.”

Eliana smiled sympathetically. “Mine’s great, thank you.”

The waiter smiled back at her as he took the bread plate and walked away.

“These waiters are all ski bums. This one’s hit a few too many moguls, if you ask me.” She turned back. “Give Boyd a call, Ellen. He thinks you’re gorgeous. And he’s right, you know. If I had your figure, girl . . .”

Eliana looked at the card but made no move toward it. “I don’t know.”

“Listen, girl, divorce happens. I’ve had three myself. It’s not the end of the world. It’s time you got back on the field and put some points on the board.”

“Points, huh?” Eliana glanced down at her watch. “I better get back over to the gallery.”

“Oh, go on. I’ll get the check. I’m still going to have coffee. And I’ve got a dessert coming. I hope this guy doesn’t expect a big tip.”

Eliana lifted the napkin from her lap and stood. “I appreciate you watching out for me, Marsha. I’m just not ready. I’ll come around someday.”

Marsha’s cell phone rang over the last of her words. “Just a minute,” Marsha said. She dug through her handbag and pressed the receive button as she lifted her Nokia to her ear. “Hello. Oh, hi, Boyd. We were just talking about you. Ellen and I. Well, I’ll let you ask her.”

Eliana shook her head emphatically.

“No, you’ll have to wait, Boyd—she was just running off to the ladies’ room. Listen, hold on just a moment, my waiter’s here. No, don’t go, I need to talk to you. You can wait, honey, I’ll only be a second.”

She looked up at Eliana, shaking her head. “Someday doesn’t always come, sweetie. I’ll see you before I go. I’m coming up to the gallery to talk with Carolyn about your next show.”

“Ci vediamo,”
Eliana said.

“Whatever that means.
Ciao.
”

Marsha lifted her cell phone. “I’m here, honey, talk to me.”

Eliana slung her purse over her shoulder and walked to the curb. She waited for a passing car then crossed the street and walked the two blocks north to the gallery. The gallery was housed in a restored mining shack, narrow, rising three stories above the street. Its wood-paneled exterior was painted rust with orange-yellow trimming. A carved wooden sign that read “The Linton Gallery” hung from chains over its etched front door, blending in with the old town motif. The interior was crowded with art, Western bronzes and antiques, the rooms lit by rows of slim, black track lighting. Carolyn, the gallery’s owner, was seated on a leather couch in the foyer as Eliana entered.

“Well, Ellen, you better get on back to your studio and start painting. You’re sold out.”

“Everything sold?”

“Everything and then some. This place was a zoo a half hour ago. There were a couple gentlemen who purchased the last two of your paintings and were very interested in buying one of the portraits you brought in to exhibit.”

“Which portrait is it?”

“The one of the man holding the book.”

She shook her head. “It’s not for sale.”

“Oh, I told them. But between us, I think you should reconsider. You could always just paint another one, couldn’t you?”

“Not of this one.” Her brow furrowed. “You didn’t promise them anything?”

“No, of course not. But they were pretty insistent. They wanted to speak with you personally.”

“They’re still here?”

“One of them is. The other had to leave. I told them I expected you back any minute, so I think he went back to covet the portrait some more. It would be good for you to personally thank him anyway.”

“All right.”

Eliana walked to the back room. There was only one person there, a man, a little older than she. He was balding and broad-shouldered, and wearing a tweed jacket, Calvin Klein jeans and snakeskin boots. He stood looking at the portrait with his hands in his pockets. His back was to the door she entered from.

“Hello, I’m Ellen.”

The man turned and smiled broadly. He offered his hand. “You’re the artist. I’m Stan. It’s a pleasure.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“What a gift you have. You really have some beautiful pictures here. My partner and I bought a couple of them already. We would like to purchase this one as well, but the woman up front said it’s not for sale.”

“Thank you, but no, it’s not.”

“It’s a shame. If it’s about money, we’re willing to talk.”

“No. I’m sorry.” She looked at him more closely.

There was something familiar about him. “Have we met before?”

“No. This is my first time in Utah. Besides, a pretty lady like you I definitely would remember.” He looked back at the painting. “Do you mind me asking what’s so special about this painting?”

“It’s just personal.”

He nodded again, then looked back at her. “Isn’t all art personal?”

“
Vero,
I mean true. It’s a portrait of a friend of mine.” She paused. “It’s all I have left of him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He passed on?”

“No. He’s just gone.”

He took a step toward the painting. He gazed at it silently then spoke without turning back. “I think the real reason you won’t sell this painting is because it’s not really yours.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He turned back to her, pointing at the picture. “It belongs to him. You gave it to him.”

For a moment she was dumbstruck. “How did you know that?”

His smile widened and he turned and faced her head on. “Because, Eliana, he told me. He’s my brother.”

“Your brother . . .”

“Ross is my brother.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, he said he couldn’t come to you on account of a promise you made him make. The truth is I think he was just plain chicken—so he sent me to get you. But I guess he changed his mind.” He looked up over her shoulder.