the one with the view of two beautiful women.” It was corny, but Camilla felt herself color again.
Mrs. Ashton snorted. “I think your arithmetic is faulty. Or else it’s your grammar. No need for plurals. There is only one beauty at this table.”
Camilla, embarrassed, knew she should thank both of them for the compliment, but it was hard to look directly at Frederick, while Mrs. Ashton had been so very cool in her correction that she almost made the compliment seem a by-product. Or an insult. Certainly it wasn’t true. Camilla knew she was not unpleasant-looking. Her skin was clear, her features regular, and her hair—a light brown with a coppery undertone—was nice enough. But nice was not beautiful. Camilla decided to sidestep the comment altogether. “Have you eaten here before?” she asked.
“Every time we come to San Gimignano,” Mrs. Ashton told her. “Frederick is fond of the gnocchi.” She sighed and shifted her weight. “He can eat whatever he wants without gaining an ounce. It’s really aggravating.”
A waiter approached just then and asked what they wanted to drink. Camilla asked for a Martini, while the Ashtons ordered a large mineral water, con gas. When the drinks were brought, moments later, Mrs. Ashton looked over at Camilla’s innocent glass of red liquid.
“But that isn’t a martini,” she said.
Frederick smiled. “It isn’t gin. Mother. Martini is the brand name for sweet vermouth.”
Mrs. Ashton regarded Camilla’s glass. “Ah, vermouth,” she said in a voice full of approval.
Frederick beamed at the two of them. “I told you she thought it was an American martini you ordered yesterday,” he explained. “My father was a gin drinker. They make mean drunks.”
Camilla blinked. Would she ever get accustomed to American candor? Shyly, she tried to suss out Mrs. Ashton. But the woman seemed unflustered by the remark. She did, however, notice Camilla’s, eye upon her.
“I’m used to Frederick,” she explained to Camilla and calmly picked up her menu.
With Frederick’s help, Camilla ordered what turned out to be a splendid meal. She ate the roasted peppers, the gnocchi, and the wonderful snapper with pleasure. They talked about San Gimignano, the odd architectural war between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, and church frescoes. Mrs. Ashton commented occasionally, but the conversation was mostly between Camilla and Frederick.
“So, where are you from?” Frederick asked.
“Hard to say,” Camilla said, smiling. “I grew up in Birmingham. In England. Not very romantic, I’m afraid. And then I went to school in the States and studied art history, and now I’m here being a tour guide. Where are you from?”
“Well, I usually say New York, but that’s a lie. Actually, I grew up in Westchester County. Mother still has a house in Larchmont. Very suburban.”
“There’s nothing shameful about being from Larchmont,” Mrs. Ashton said.
“No. As long as you don’t stay there after you grow up. My sister and I both moved to the city,” he explained, “though I’ve been living back in Larchmont the last few months.”
He sounded apologetic. Camilla knew that a lot of young people had moved home. What had they called that in the States? “Returning to the nest” or something? For Camilla, it was an impossibility. Anything would be better than the council house in Birmingham.
She tried not to judge Frederick harshly. Still, she had to wonder at a man in his thirties who lived at home and traveled with his mother. She wondered if he was a homosexual. But if so, why would he feign an interest in her? Perhaps it was simply to divert his mother. Camilla looked down at her plate and decided it was best to keep her attention on her dinner.
“Who is your favorite Italian painter?” Mrs. Ashton ventured.
“Canaletto,” Camilla told her without hesitation. This was comfortable ground.
“Canaletto?” Frederick asked. “God. I never would have thought it. He’s so fixed. So mathematical.”
“That’s part of what I like,” Camilla replied. “He combines the fairy tale of Venice with the control of an architect.”
“It’s very British of you,” Mrs. Ashton said approvingly. “Didn’t Joseph Smith send Canalettos by the boatload to London?”
Camilla nodded, impressed with the old woman’s knowledge. But Frederick was clearly not in agreement with her choice. “When it comes to Venice,” he said, “I prefer Guardi. He does backwaters and different lights. It’s not always midday on the Grand Canal.”
“I suppose I like midday on the Grand Canal,” Camilla said primly. She felt like adding that she’d spent enough of her time in backwaters, but she restrained herself.
“So, tell us about your book,” Frederick proposed. Camilla’s mouth was full of the potato pasta, and she nearly choked as she swallowed.
“What is it about?” Frederick prompted. Camilla thought for a moment but didn’t come up with an answer.
“It’s hard to say, really.” She paused. The pause grew too long. “I mean, it’s a group of American women on tour in Italy, but that’s not what it’s about, if you know what I mean.” God, she sounded awkward and daft.
“Is there a plot?” Mrs. Ashton asked.
“Not much,” Camilla admitted. “They come to Firenze and they tour by coach and then they go home.”
“Send it to Emma,” Mrs. Ashton sniffed. “She always thinks highly of books without plots. Now, I prefer a story. Daphne du Maurier. But you ought to send it to Emma.”
Camilla looked from Mrs. Ashton to Frederick. What had she missed? “My sister,” he explained. “She works in New York for a publisher. Are you determined to publish first in London? Have you already promised it to someone?”
Camilla very nearly laughed. As if the whole publishing world were waiting breathlessly for her manuscript! “No,” she said demurely, “I haven’t promised it to anyone at all.”
“Well,” Frederick said, “we’ll have to talk about this.” Camilla took another sip of wine. Was this happening? Or was this just the empty talk of strangers? She could hardly believe her luck. She told herself not to get too hopeful. She’d just wait and see. Yet her head felt light, as if she’d already had too much wine.
Somehow, hazy as it all felt, they began to talk about their favorite cathedrals, and Frederick listened as Camilla chin-wagged about Assisi and Giotto’s frescoes. At last, realizing what she was doing, she stopped. She must be drunk, she realized. She’d dominated the conversation. The three of them sat for a moment in the silence.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I seem to have run on and on.” She looked down at her empty plate, abashed.
Frederick ignored her apology. “You have a lovely voice,” he said. “Would you show me the church at Assisi sometime? I’ve been, but I always focused on the structure more than the decor.” He paused. “Would you come with me to Assisi?”
“At
