"That's great. I think Lorenzo's going to be all right."
She brought the sandwich and set it down on the coffee table along with a bottle of Beck's. "No mustard or butter or anything. I suppose I could smear it with blueberry yogurt."
"No thanks, this'll do fine."
She settled down a cushion away, pushed off her tennis shoes with her toes, and turned sideways to face me, one arm over the back of the sofa, one leg tucked under the other, the pale blue denim tight against her thighs. Some women have legs that seem to catch your eye no matter what they're doing with them or what they're wearing on them. Anne, happily, was one.
"Only two more questions," she said, after waiting for me to take a couple of bites and have a swig of beer. (I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin.) "First, if Bolzano is such a great art lover, why would he be so cavalier about blowing up his El Greco to get at you? I mean, if he'd do that, why not just have one of his thugs destroy the Vermeer in the first place? Wouldn't that have been easier than all this killing?"
"Good question," I said, chewing. "I'm just guessing, because no one thought to ask him, but I assume he figured he could live without an El Greco-especially with two million dollars' insurance to soothe him-but he couldn't stand the idea of losing his Vermeer. I know that's the way I'd feel about it."
"Oh? Vermeer over El Greco? Is that an objective art-historical judgment or personal preference?"
"Personal preference. Of an objective art historian. What's your other question? Last one, mind you."
"How Bolzano knew you were going to be at the Christmas shooting. Did he have somebody following you?"
"Nope, that was me telling Jessick telling Mark telling Bolzano. Bolzano came up with some excuse to call Mark and just casually asked him what I was doing over Christmas. And you know how he found out I'd be on the truck with the El Greco?"
"Traben told him?"
"Nope. Bolzano paid a guy that works at my hotel in Florence to tape my telephone calls-one of which was from the Kunstmuseum-and send the tapes to him."
"Like in the movies."
"Uh-huh. Wait'll that rotten Luigi sees what kind of a tip he gets from me next time."
She watched me finish the sandwich, her head tilted to one side, a look in her eyes that I hoped I was reading correctly for once. "I'm glad you didn't get killed." She shrugged and gave a small, shy laugh. "I just thought you might like to know."
"I'm very glad to know." I put my hands on either side of her face, pulled her head closer, and kissed her gentiy on the lips. Her hair, soft and warm and tousled, tingled against the backs of my hands. "I'm extremely glad to know. You don't have any idea how glad I am to know."
She pressed my hands to her face for a moment, then let go and sank back down on the sofa.
"Chris, has it ever struck you that for a couple of mature adults we're having a remarkably chaste, old-fashioned sort of romance? If this is a romance."
"Oh, the thought may have crossed my mind. Once or twice. And yes, I believe this is a romance."
She put her hand on my knee and I covered it with mine. "I'm sorry about the other night at the General Walker," she said. "I kicked myself the minute you left."
"No, you were right. I realized it later; it wasn't the right time."
"No." And then, softly: "Not then."
I leaned across and kissed her again, getting up on one knee to do it. "I want to ask you something."
She looked mutely up at me, her clear violet eyes huge and shining.
"Do you mind if I use your telephone?"
She laughed.
"No, I'm serious."
"You want to make a telephone call right now? This minute?"
"Yup, this minute."
I charged the call to my room and waited for it to go through. If I'd ever felt happier in my life, I couldn't remember it.
"Rita? Chris Norgren."
Rita laughed ropily. "I don't believe it. You're actually returning a call after only eight days? Hey, it must be the middle of the night there."
"It is. Listen, I'm calling about Bev's last counteroffer."
"Okay, just a sec." I heard her scrabbling for my file. "It's been so long I… All right, here it is: nine-and-three-quarters percent of Jan van der Meer van Delft, including the advance; fifty percent of proceeds from sale of house- sorry, she reneged on the forty-car to her, Murphy to you, but she gets visiting-"
"Fine."
"-privileges. Library to… What?"
"It's fine. I accept."
"But-but there's more-"
"That's fine, too. Let's go with it. It's gone on way too long already."
A hiss wooshed out of her chair all the way from San Francisco as she fell heavily back into it. "Do my ears deceive me? Don't you have a counteroffer? Don't you want to think it over and call me right back, like next month sometime? Don't-"
"No sarcasm is necessary, Rita. Just send it. I'll sign it."
"Well, well, well," she said. "Well, well."
When I put back the receiver, Anne was watching me with a quiet, luminous smile, very still and alert, sitting with both feet tucked up under her, her forefingers steepled against her mouth.
I smiled back, feeling as if an enormous weight that had been strapped to my shoulders for years had finally been lifted, which indeed it had.
I was finally ready, in every sense of the word; ready to give my full and wholehearted attention to Anne, ready to move forward again with my life, ready to take on a significant new dyadic interrelationship.
Louis will be glad to hear it.