The Gilder Read Online Free Page B

piazza. She’d look there for something small and cozy.
    Walking down a narrow alley away from the tourist shops, Marina followed the scent of wine, garlic, and olive oil to the door of a small restaurant with a sign over the door: Trattoria Anita. The menu was posted in a small glass case on the wall to the right of the door. She scrutinized the list, knitting her eyebrows as she read the obvious words: spaghetti, ravioli, tortellini, and vino. The rest was a mystery. Good. No English, no tourists.
    “Stepped on any Medici today?”
    The voice, close to her ear, startled her. She turned. “Oh, hi. Thomas, right? I was just checking out the menu.”
    “About ready to devour it, don’t you think?” Thomas addressed the woman at his side.
    “Hmmm, yes, just about to take a bite, I’d say,” replied the woman, who, like Thomas, had an American accent. She smiled at Marina. “Shall we save her from a nasty paper cut and take her in with us?”
    The woman had deep green eyes set in a pale oval face, and the most remarkable head of hair. Long, the color of rust flecked with gold, strands of it curling out beyond her shoulders as if exploring the atmosphere.
    “Yes, that’s just what I was thinking,” said Thomas. He took Marina’s arm and ushered her through the doorway.
    Inside, a woman who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, if that, came out from behind a counter to hug Thomas and his companion. He said something to her, possibly about the clumsy American girl he’d rescued from the floor of Santa Croce. Whatever it was made her chuckle, then smile and nod at Marina. As she led them to a table, Marina looked around, trying to get a sense of where she had landed. The smell was so familiar she might have been down in the Village at Mario’s, with its red-checked tablecloths and wax-covered Chianti bottles. Here, though, the decor was simple, if not ascetic: white walls and ceiling, simple overhead lighting, and a tiled floor made of gray and white terrazzo. High up on the walls, a narrow shelf overflowed with bottles of wine, while square tables with white cloths and butcher paper filled the room.
    Once seated, Thomas’s companion extended her hand toward Marina with a smile. “I’m Sarah.” She had long graceful fingers and a firm clasp. “And I gather you’re the woman who stepped on the face of a Medici.”
    Marina rolled her eyes. “I can see I’m never going to live that one down. Thomas came to my rescue, then told me a bit of history about the flood.”
    “Yes,” said Sarah, shaking her hair off her face. “You have to watch out for this one.” She indicated Thomas with a lift of her chin. “He’ll give you a full-blown history lesson if you aren’t careful. But you know”—she lowered her voice and leaned toward Marina—“what he’s really good at are all the juicy bits, the things that most people don’t know. Who was cheating on whom, artists stealing each other’s patrons, murder, treason. It’s fascinating, a bit of a medieval soap opera.”
    Marina glanced at Thomas to find him looking at her intently. She blushed and turned back to Sarah.
    Sarah laid her hand on his forearm and said, “Honestly, Thomas, take off the lens and join us for lunch.” Turning once again toward Marina, she continued, “Did Thomas tell you that he’s a photographer?”
    “No.” Marina shook her head, then pushed her hair off her face, hooking it behind her ears, aware that it was not nearly as elegant a gesture as Sarah’s shudder, which seemed to put every coppery strand in just the right place.
    “Sometimes, when he’s struck by an image, he virtually turns into a camera. I can see the look in his eyes, as if they’re actually responding to aperture settings and focal points.”
    Thomas blinked. “Sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but ... your eyes, that fine ring of dark blue at the edge of your iris, it’s as if it’s holding in that pool of pale blue. Amazing. And the shape of