“I’m sure he would love nothing more.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That Gennaro the barman has designs on my wife.”
“You were obviously listening to opera while you were working today.” Chiara poured a generous measure of Barbaresco into a wineglass and placed it on the kitchen island. “Drink this, darling. You’ll feel better.”
Gabriel settled atop a stool and gave the wine a swirl. “I’ll feel better when you tell me that I’m wrong about you and your friend from Bar Cupido.”
“It’s only a harmless little crush, Gabriel.”
“I knew it,” he murmured.
“I’m old enough to be his mother, for heaven’s sake.”
“And I’m old enough . . .” He left the thought unfinished. It was too depressing to contemplate. “How long has this been going on?”
“Has what been going on?”
“Your affair with Gennaro the barman.”
“You know, Gabriel, you really should wear a mask when you’re using solvents. It’s clear the fumes have taken a terrible toll on your brain cells.”
Chiara removed the lid from the stainless-steel Dutch oven resting on the stovetop. The mouthwatering aroma of its contents, a rich duck ragu seasoned with bay leaves and sage, filled the kitchen. She sampled the dish, then added a pinch of salt.
“Perhaps I should taste it as well,” suggested Gabriel.
“Only if you promise never to raise the subject of Gennaro the barman ever again.”
“Is it over between the two of you?”
Chiara spooned some of the ragu onto a crostino and ate it slowly, the expression on her face one of sexual satisfaction.
“All right,” said Gabriel. “I surrender.”
“Say it,” insisted Chiara.
“I will never mention Gennaro’s name again.”
“Who’s Gennaro?” asked Irene as she wandered into the kitchen.
“He works at Bar Cupido on the Fondamente Nove,” replied Gabriel. “Your mother is having a torrid affair with him.”
“What does torrid mean?”
“Ardent and passionate. Scorched with heat.”
“It sounds painful.”
“It can be.”
Chiara prepared another ragu-smothered crostino and pointedly handed it to Irene. The child was wearing a World Wildlife Fund pullover that Gabriel had never seen before.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, tugging at the sleeve.
“We adopted a tiger.”
“Will he be sharing your room or Raphael’s?”
“It’s a symbolic adoption,” said Irene, rolling her eyes. “The tiger remains in the wild.”
“I’m relieved. But since when did you became an animal rights activist as well as an environmental extremist?”
“Do you know how many species are threatened because of climate change?”
“I haven’t a clue. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“More than forty thousand. And with each degree of warming the problem will only get worse.” Irene climbed onto Gabriel’s lap. “How was your trip to Paris?”
“Who told you that I went to Paris?”
“Mama, silly.”
“But I never mentioned it to her.”
“I saw the charges for your train tickets and hotel on your credit card,” explained Chiara. “I also noticed a rather large withdrawal from an ATM machine in the Eighteenth Arrondissement, which seemed odd. After all, you had plenty of cash in your wallet when I left London. Nearly a thousand euros, in fact.”
Gabriel plucked the ragu-covered crostino from his daughter’s hand and devoured it before she could object. “Paris was interesting,” he said. “I went there to see someone named Naomi Wallach. She works at the Louvre.”
