Dusky and dusty one moment, then vivid with bold colors the next. Beauty to beauty, all saturated with heroic light.

They turned off the road onto a steep, narrow gravel track rising up through olive groves.

She saw rough steps hacked out of the hillside, as if some ancient giant had cut them out of the long drop. Wildflowers forced their way through the cracks to drink the sun just below a small flat area with an iron bench.

To sit there, she thought, was to see everything.

“This is the estate Bastone,” Lanzo told them. “Giovanni Bastone, you go to see him, has the important villa. His sister and his mother live also on the estate in a very fine house. His brother, he lives in Roma, and sees to their . . . what is it? . . . interests there. Still one sister more who lives in Milan. She sings the opera, and is known as a fine soprano. There was another brother, but he died young, in a car crash.”

He made a gentle turn toward iron gates connecting white walls.

“The security, you understand. They expect you, sì, and my car is known.”

Even as he spoke, the gates opened.

Groves of trees, a manicured terrace of gardens guided the way to the glamour of the villa.

It managed to present both the majestic and the soft with tall arched windows, the curves of porticoes and flowing terraces. Without the softer lines, the charm of vines spilling from those terraces, it would have dominated the landscape. Instead, to Lila’s eye, it married it.

The red-tile roof rose, jutted, slanted above pale yellow walls. The drive circled around a central fountain where water flowed whimsically from the cupped hands of a mermaid perched on a tumble of rocks.

“I wonder if they ever need a house-sitter.”

Julie rolled her eyes. “You would.”

Lanzo popped out to open the door of the car just as a man in buff pants and a white shirt stepped out of the entrance.

His hair was white, dramatically streaked with black to match thick, arched eyebrows. He had a well-fed look, still shy of portly, and tawny eyes that blazed against a sharp-featured, tanned face.

“Welcome! You are welcome. I am Giovanni Bastone.” He extended his hand to Ash. “I see some of your father in you.”

“Signor Bastone, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Of course, of course, this is delightful.”

“These are my friends, Lila Emerson, Julie Bryant and Luke Talbot.”

“Such a pleasure.” He kissed Lila’s hand, Julie’s, shook Luke’s. “Come in, out of the sun. Lanzo, Marietta has something special for you in the kitchen.”

“Ah, grazie, Signor Bastone.”

“Prego.”

“Your home looks like it grew here under the sunlight hundreds of years ago.”

Bastone beamed at Lila. “That is an excellent compliment. Two hundred years—the original part, you understand.” Already charmed, he drew Lila’s arm through his, led the way inside. “My grandfather expanded. An ambitious man, and canny in business.”

He guided them into a wide foyer with golden sand tiles, creamy walls and dark beams above. The staircase curved, that softening line again, with archways wide enough for four abreast flowing room to room. Art, framed in old burnished gold, ran from Tuscan landscapes to portraits to still lifes.

“We must talk art,” Bastone said. “A passion of mine. But first we’ll have a drink, yes? There must always be wine for friends. Your father is well, I hope.”

“He is, thank you, and sends you his best.”

“Our paths haven’t crossed in some time. I have met your mother, as well. More recently.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“Una bella donna.” He kissed his fingers.

“Yes, she is.”

“And an exceptional woman.”

He led them out to a terrace under a pergola mad with bougainvillea. Flowers tumbled and speared out of waist-high terra-cotta pots; a yellow dog napped in the shade. And the Tuscan hills and fields and groves spread out like a gift beyond.

“You must get drunk every time you step outside. The view,” Lila said quickly, when he furrowed his brow. “It’s heady.”

“Ah, yes. Heady as wine. You’re clever, a writer, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Please to sit.” He gestured. A table already held wine, glasses, colorful trays of fruit, cheese, breads, olives.

“You must try our local cheese. It is very special. Ah, here is my wife now. Gina, our friends from America.”

A slender woman with sun-streaked hair, deep, dark eyes, came out at a brisk pace. “Please, excuse me for not greeting you.” She rattled something to her husband in Italian, made him laugh a little. “I explain to Giovanni, my sister on the telephone. Some small family drama, so I was delayed.”

Her husband made introductions, served the wine himself.

“You had a good journey?” Gina asked.

“The drive from Florence was lovely,” Julie told her.

“And you enjoy Florence? Such food, the shops, the art.”

“All of it.”

They settled into small talk, but the lively sort, in Lila’s estimation. Watching the Bastones, she saw two people who’d lived a lifetime together, and still enjoyed it, treasured it.

“You met my husband’s amante,” she said to Lila.

Bastone chuckled, cast his eyes to the sky. “Ah, the young American girl. We had such passion, such urgency. Her father did not approve, so it was only more passionate, more urgent. I wrote her odes and sonnets, composed songs to her. Such is the pain and joy of first love. Then she was gone.” He flicked his fingers. “Like a dream.”

He picked up his wife’s hand, kissed it. “Then there was the beautiful Tuscan woman, who spurned me, brushed me aside so I would curse her, beg her, court her until she took pity on me. With her, I lived the odes and sonnets, the song.”

“How long have you been married?” Lila wondered.

“Twenty-six years.”

“And it’s still a song.”

“Every day. Some days, the music is not in tune, but it’s always a song worth singing.”

“That’s the best description of a good marriage I’ve ever heard,” Lila decided. “Remember to sing,” she told Julie and Luke. “They’re engaged—as of yesterday.”

Gina clapped her hands, and as women will, leaned over to study Julie’s ring.