Page 182 of One Wrong Move

I get out of the car, my eyes wide. “Nate…?”

A woman with curly, gray hair that falls to her shoulders and warm eyes walks out of the house. She has an apron on.

It’s covered with paint smudges.

She might be in her sixties or seventies, but there’s an ageless beauty to her.

“Signora?” Nate asks.

The woman smiles and nods, and says something in rapid Italian. She calls for someone inside the house, and out comes a teenage boy of maybe fourteen. He waves at us.

“I’ll translate,” he says in accented English.

The puzzle pieces are slowly falling into place, and I look from the lady to Nate and back again.

“You’re Giulia Conti?”

She nods and holds out her hands. They’re tan from the sun, with short nails, and covered in color stains. “Si,” she says. That’s the only part I understand.

Her—is that her grandson, maybe?—translates. “Nonna says your boyfriend here told her how much her art means to you. She’s very happy you’re here. Come in. We have lemonade inside.”

“Come,” the woman says in English. “Come, come.”

I step after her into the small studio. And everywhere, on the walls and even leaning on the ground, are paintings of the Tuscan countryside. Sun-filled images, or veiled in rain, in winter, and in summer. Rolling hills and olive groves and small picturesque towns.

She’s the artist whose painting is hanging on my grandmother’s wall.

“Nate,” I whisper.

“Good surprise?” I can hear the smile in his voice as he stands beside me.

“The best surprise,” I murmur. My eyes have already caught on a large painting overlooking the Tuscan hills at sunrise. I turn to the lady. There are so many questions I want to ask. How she got started, where she paints, who she is… and with the help of the trusty but obviously bored teenager, I get to ask them all.

We leave there an hour and a half later, having been offered drinks and snacks, and with three paintings in the trunk.

I bought one for me.

One for my grandmother.

And Nate bought one for his collection.

He told Giulia that he was an art collector, and her eyes lit up, just as they had when I told her about my job. She didn’t have a business card, but I asked her to write her information down for me.

My first art purchase. Check.

It’s a bit intense. All of it, a full-circle moment, completing the list and being here, in this beautiful environment, with the man I love beside me.

He lets me have it. Looks over at me from time to time on the drive to the hotel, but by now, he knows that it’s the weight of the emotions that’s keeping me silent.

We check-in at the little boutique five-star hotel. It’s on a hill with magnificent sunset vistas.

I haven’t gotten used to traveling with Nate, yet. I hope I never will. These hotels, these surroundings… the large rooms and beautiful décor, amazing service. We have dinner right away on the outdoor patio, sitting under the setting sun. Drinking wine and sharing tiramisu for dessert.

It’s late when we get back into our suite, and I open the double doors to our balcony. It overlooks the rolling hills, and I breathe in deeply. The air smells like blooming flowers and dry earth. The oppressive heat faded along with the sun, replaced by a warm nighttime breeze.

I lean out over the railing and just breathe. It doesn’t take long before a tear tracks a path down my cheek.

Nate is unpacking behind me. I hear him pour a drink, the ice clinking. And then, his approaching footsteps.

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