wanted. He was in no hurry to move on. He actually preferred it to all of the ports in France. It was an easier place to be than dodging the paparazzi in St. Tropez, or wending their way through the crowds in the streets, as people ebbed and flowed out of discothèques and bars. There was something much more countrified about Portofino, and it had all the charm and ease and quaint beauty typical of Italy. Charlie loved it, as did his two friends.
All three of them wore jeans and T-shirts when they went into town for dinner. They had reservations at a delightful restaurant near the piazza, where they had gone several times before in previous years. The waiters recognized them when they walked in, and knew about the Blue Moon. They gave them an excellent table outdoors, where they could watch people drifting by. They ordered pasta, seafood, and a simple but good Italian wine. Gray was talking about the local architecture, when a female voice interrupted them quietly from the next table.
“Twelfth century,” was all she said, correcting what Gray had just told them. He had said that the Castello di San Giorgio had been built in the fourteenth century, and he turned his head to look at who had spoken when he heard her. A tall, exotic-looking woman was sitting at a table next to them. She was wearing a red T-shirt, sandals, and a full white cotton skirt. Her hair was dark, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. Her eyes were green, and she had creamy skin. And when he turned to look at her, she was laughing. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “that was rude of me. I just happen to know it's the twelfth century, not the fourteenth. I thought I ought to say something. And I agree with you, it's one of my favorite structures in Italy, if only for the view, which I think is the best in Europe. The castello was actually rebuilt in the sixteenth century and built in the twelfth, not fourteenth,” she repeated, and grinned. “The Church of San Giorgio was also built in the twelfth century.” She glanced at the paint splattered on his T-shirt, and identified him immediately as an artist. She had managed to impart the information about the castello without sounding pompous, but knowledgeable and funny, and apologetic about her intrusion into her neighbors' conversation.
“Are you an art historian?” Gray asked with interest. She was a very attractive woman, although not young or eligible by Gray or Charlie's standards. She looked about forty-five years old, maybe a little younger, and she was with a large table of Europeans who were speaking Italian and French. She had been speaking both fluently with them.
“No, I'm not,” she answered his question. “Just a busybody who comes here every year. I own a gallery in New York.” Gray squinted at her then, and realized who she was. Her name was Sylvia Reynolds, and she was well known in the art scene in New York. She had launched a number of contemporary artists, who were now considered important. Most of what she sold was very avant-garde, and very different from Gray's work. He had never met Sylvia before, but had read a lot about her, and was impressed by who she was. She glanced at him, and the two men at his table, with a look of interest, and a warm smile. She seemed to be full of life, energy, and excitement. She was wearing an armful of silver and turquoise bracelets, and everything about her said she had style. “Are you an artist? Or did you get paint on the T-shirt painting your house?” She was anything but shy.
“Probably both.” Gray smiled back at her, and held out a hand. “I'm Gray Hawk.” He introduced the others to her, and she smiled easily in their direction and then back at Gray. She responded instantly to his name.
“I like your work,” she said with a warm tone of praise. “I'm sorry I interrupted you. Are you staying at the Splendido?” she asked with interest, momentarily ignoring her European friends. There were several attractive
All three of them wore jeans and T-shirts when they went into town for dinner. They had reservations at a delightful restaurant near the piazza, where they had gone several times before in previous years. The waiters recognized them when they walked in, and knew about the Blue Moon. They gave them an excellent table outdoors, where they could watch people drifting by. They ordered pasta, seafood, and a simple but good Italian wine. Gray was talking about the local architecture, when a female voice interrupted them quietly from the next table.
“Twelfth century,” was all she said, correcting what Gray had just told them. He had said that the Castello di San Giorgio had been built in the fourteenth century, and he turned his head to look at who had spoken when he heard her. A tall, exotic-looking woman was sitting at a table next to them. She was wearing a red T-shirt, sandals, and a full white cotton skirt. Her hair was dark, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. Her eyes were green, and she had creamy skin. And when he turned to look at her, she was laughing. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “that was rude of me. I just happen to know it's the twelfth century, not the fourteenth. I thought I ought to say something. And I agree with you, it's one of my favorite structures in Italy, if only for the view, which I think is the best in Europe. The castello was actually rebuilt in the sixteenth century and built in the twelfth, not fourteenth,” she repeated, and grinned. “The Church of San Giorgio was also built in the twelfth century.” She glanced at the paint splattered on his T-shirt, and identified him immediately as an artist. She had managed to impart the information about the castello without sounding pompous, but knowledgeable and funny, and apologetic about her intrusion into her neighbors' conversation.
“Are you an art historian?” Gray asked with interest. She was a very attractive woman, although not young or eligible by Gray or Charlie's standards. She looked about forty-five years old, maybe a little younger, and she was with a large table of Europeans who were speaking Italian and French. She had been speaking both fluently with them.
“No, I'm not,” she answered his question. “Just a busybody who comes here every year. I own a gallery in New York.” Gray squinted at her then, and realized who she was. Her name was Sylvia Reynolds, and she was well known in the art scene in New York. She had launched a number of contemporary artists, who were now considered important. Most of what she sold was very avant-garde, and very different from Gray's work. He had never met Sylvia before, but had read a lot about her, and was impressed by who she was. She glanced at him, and the two men at his table, with a look of interest, and a warm smile. She seemed to be full of life, energy, and excitement. She was wearing an armful of silver and turquoise bracelets, and everything about her said she had style. “Are you an artist? Or did you get paint on the T-shirt painting your house?” She was anything but shy.
“Probably both.” Gray smiled back at her, and held out a hand. “I'm Gray Hawk.” He introduced the others to her, and she smiled easily in their direction and then back at Gray. She responded instantly to his name.
“I like your work,” she said with a warm tone of praise. “I'm sorry I interrupted you. Are you staying at the Splendido?” she asked with interest, momentarily ignoring her European friends. There were several attractive
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