Marie gazed down at the heap of mussel shells on the plate. She felt hurt.
“Maybe in your eyes these people aren’t doing anything very special or important. But speaking for myself, I’ve never seen anyone dance like Pandora. And I’ve never heard such heartfelt poetry as Sherlain writes. You said yourself that her work speaks to you! The Greenwich Village crowd is like family to me; each of them has his own particular passion and we all have that one thing in common. Surely you understand!” she cried out, almost desperately. “And they accept that right at the moment I cannot make my art. Nobody looks askance at me. They all say that I simply have to gather enough inspiration, and it will start to happen again.”
“Do you think that a vine bears more grapes if I sit down in front of it and plead for days on end? Isn’t it better simply to leave it alone to grow?” Franco asked. He reached out and lifted her chin, but Marie didn’t reply to his question. “When you seek and seek like this, you are going about it the wrong way, believe me! Why not just enjoy life? Like today. There are some things you cannot force, so you must simply let them take their course.”
Marie tore up another piece of bread and threw it to the greedy gulls, which huddled together and squabbled over the crumbs. Maybe Franco was right. All the same something inside her refused to give in.
“I never had a close friend in my life. Back in Lauscha there was simply no time for friendship; all I ever did was work.” She looked thoughtful. “And perhaps the other women in the village thought I was an odd bird.” She laughed. A woman who sat at the lamp and flame from morning till night, like the men did—certainly they must have found it strange. “But here I have two close friends, three if you count Wanda. They like me, and I like them. And each of them, in their way, is at least as odd as I am. But nobody here seems to find it at all strange when a woman does her own thing. I am always the outsider in Lauscha, even if people have gotten used to my job by now.”
Franco didn’t answer. For a moment, they were each alone with their own thoughts.
How could she explain to him that he had no reason to be jealous of Pandora or anybody else? Nothing even came close to what she felt for him. She had never been in love like this. She felt like a girl again. She loved him so much that she never wanted to let go of his hand. She had to make an effort to do anything but gaze at him rapturously, her eyes wide. She wanted to kiss him again and again, his lips, his strong, manly mouth. She loved him so much . . .
Franco was annoyed at himself. This wasn’t the way to get through to her. He knew exactly what she needed to unleash the forces of her creativity once more: his love. His hands on her body, his kisses on her naked skin. Nights of passion when he could make a woman of her. But he had to keep his desires in check for now—Marie wasn’t like Sherlain, or any of those other women who gave themselves to any man who came along. He knew that she wasn’t a virgin, of course—she had told him about Magnus back home. But the man couldn’t have meant very much to her, given the way she had spoken so indifferently about him. Franco had the impression that she had never truly loved anything or anyone but her art—until now. There was something innocent about Marie, something untouched . . .
Just as there had been about Serena.
He cleared his throat. “Pardon me if I have offended you. It’s just that sometimes you seem to care more about these women than you do about me! What do you really know about me?” He raised his hands helplessly.
“Well, I know for instance that you are my handsome Italian. My jealous, handsome Italian.” Marie kissed his pinkie teasingly, then the other fingers, one by one. “And I know that the de Lucca family wine arrives in crates here by the shipload. That you ship thousands of barrels every year from Genoa to America, and that you have to be here in charge of distribution even though you’d much rather be back home taking care of the vineyards.” She was counting off the points on her fingers now, like a schoolmistress summing up a lesson. “And I know that I have never loved a man the way I love you,” she finished up in a hoarse whisper.
For a moment they simply gazed into one another’s eyes. Then a waiter came to the table and asked if he could bring them anything else. Franco asked for the check and the waiter hurried off to fetch it.
“Sending wine all this way—is it really worth it?” Marie asked. “I mean . . . the Americans make their own wine now, don’t they?” It was only as she spoke and saw the expression on Franco’s face that she realized he might take offense at the question.