Free Blood Orange by Drusilla Campbell Page B

to bed so she
would be ready when her mother’s lugging Chrysler turned into the
driveway.
    “Are you saying you want to stay longer? How much longer?
Another week?”
    “No.”
    “I don’t get this, Dana. What’s going on? Is there something I
should be worried about?”
    “I don’t want to leave, that’s all. But I’m fine, really. I just love it
here, that’s all. You’re right, I fell in love. With Florence and Italy.
David, I don’t ever want to leave. I belong here. It’s part of me
now.
    “Dana, sweetheart, it’s a town, a city.” He laughed fondly.
“There’ll be another time. One of these days I’m gonna get a big
case, and when I do I’ll take you back to Florence. I promise.”
    The open piazza was bright and bitter-cold and crowded with
student groups. Hordes of boys and girls in signature black, mobs
of young crows cawing Spanish, German, French, and guttural languages Dana could not identify, lined up to enter the Romanesque
cathedral. To the right of the cathedral, Micah was one of a dozen artists who had set up tables and easels. Dana stood apart, so embarrassingly American in the yellow wool coat she would still be
paying for this time next year. Bright as a target, she thought, aware
that the crowds of young Europeans vaguely frightened her. Two
days earlier she had ignored them and seen only the cathedral’s pink
and green and white marble facade like an elaborately decorated
cake.

    Micah wore his struggling-artist costume on Sundays. Black
turtleneck, ragged at the cuff and throat, a Greek fisherman’s cap,
torn Levi’s, and sandals. He hadn’t shaved that morning and looked
dissolute and pallid. As he spoke to a browser, Micah’s gold earring
flashed in the sunlight and a chill ran up Dana’s legs. She wrapped
her arms around herself, grateful for wool the color of midsummer
lemons.
    As she watched, he sold two watercolor-and-ink cityscapes to a
pair of Japanese tourists. He could produce one of these in a couple
of hours. He bragged that he had the Ponte Vecchio down to ninety
minutes flat.
    Micah looked in her direction. A wide smile opened his face,
and he lifted his arm, gesturing her to him. She felt something move
in her, move and stretch and snap.
    She was too old, too married, too American.
    And he was too young. Not in years but in the way he lived,
thinking only of his pleasure, content to sell mediocre drawings in a
piazza while other men erected bridges, negotiated treaties, and
raised families.
    Micah’s hand cupped the air more urgently. “Turn around, let
me see the back.” He twirled a finger in the air. “That coat!”
    Two men, passing with easels shoved under their arms, said something in rapid Italian, and Micah responded, and all three laughed.
    “What?” Dana asked.

    “They wanted to know if you were my American mistress. One
called you Mistress Sunbeam.”
    “I’m going back to the apartment,” she said. “I’m cold.”
    “You can’t go. I won’t let you. You have to stay.” He motioned
to a stool. “I’m sorry I teased you, honestly. It’s a beautiful coat.
Here. Sit down. You watch the store and I’ll get you a coffee. Are
you hungry?”
    “My feet are frozen.”
    “What’s the matter? What happened? Did you call him?”
    Another group of Japanese tourists stopped at Micah’s table. He
turned his attention to them, though occasionally, as he smiled and
laughed and cajoled and took their money, he glanced sideways at
Dana. When they left he showed her the pile of hundred-Euro
notes.
    “Not bad, huh? Give me another hour and I’ll shut down.”
    She covered her face with her hands.
    “What did he say?” Micah waited for her answer. When she said
nothing, he pulled her hands away from her face and peered into
her eyes. “Okay. Go home. I’ll close up here.”
    “You don’t have to-“
    “I’ll load up the car and meet you back at the flat.”
    He brought fresh rolls and mozzarella,