The Last Promise by Richard Paul Evans Page A

then, realizing that he didn’t know the night’s menu, returned and bought a bottle of white as well. He went home, took a quick shower and put on fresh clothes as the Tuscan heat tended to wilt everything before sunset. Even though he usually didn’t give his attire more than a few moments’ thought, tonight he had trouble deciding what to wear. He finally selected a black shirt and jeans. You can’t ever go wrong with black, the woman who sold him the shirt had told him. Black is confident. Black is slimming, she said like a daily affirmation, then added, Not that you need it.
    He knocked on Eliana’s door at the top of the hour. As she opened the door, his first thought was how remarkably different she looked than she had the night before. She was wearing light makeup and her hair was styled, carefully pulled back to accent the curvature of her face. She wore a satin blouse buttoned only halfway up like the young Italian women did and a dark skirt. For a woman naturally beautiful, she was stunning with a little work.
    “You look nice.”
    “Thank you.” She had been thinking the same about him but the words wouldn’t come. “I must have been a fright the other evening.”
    “No, you weren’t. You looked pretty then too.”
    It had been a while since anyone other than strangers had told her that, and she blushed. “You brought wine.”
    Ross glanced down at the bottles. “ Sì . I didn’t know what you were planning, so I brought red and white.”
    “You’re very thoughtful. Here, come in.”
    Ross stepped inside. The house smelled of sage, oregano, basil and other enticing odors, rich and sweet, that he could not identify.
    “It smells buono ,” he said.
    “It’s not frozen pizza, but you might find something you like,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m running a little behind.”
    “You’re right on time for Italy.”
    “Vero.” True. “I’m making spaghetti carbonara, and it’s best if you wait to finish it just when you’re ready to eat. I’ll only be a minute. Look around the house, if you like.”
    “Thank you.”
    As she walked back to the kitchen, Ross surveyed the apartment. It was many times larger than his own and far more luxurious. The foyer opened to a large sala with a vaulted ceiling, a massive, stone-lined fire-place and an ivory-colored piano in the far corner. There were four windows, tall and arched, and they were covered with exquisite drapery, the outer layers in thick velvet fabric with burgundy-and-golden fringe, the inner curtains of sheer silk, glowing amber with the setting sun.
    With the exception of a Murano glass chandelier in the center of the room, all lighting was indirect, behind brass sconces that feathered the walls from mustard-gold to deep umber in the shadows. The home was immaculately kept and expensively decorated with antique furniture, both Italian and foreign. Some of it looked as if it had originally belonged to the home.
    Most impressive to Ross was the amount of art that filled the house. There were paintings or intricate wall tapestries mounted on every wall: landscapes, portraits and still lifes.
    A stereo in the main hallway softly played Mozart. After a while he walked into the kitchen. A pot of pasta was boiling on the stove, the steam rising into the black collector above it. On the back burner a smaller pot simmered with a dark, pungent sauce. Eliana was standing at a wooden cutting board, dicing pancetta with a large cleaver. When she finished chopping the meat, she walked to the stove, lifted the boiling pot of spaghetti and poured it into a stainless steel colander in the sink, tilting her head to one side to avoid the rising cloud of steam. Then she poured the spaghetti back into the pot with a chunk of unsalted butter.
    He looked around the kitchen. It was a blend of old-style decor complemented by modern accessories. Then he noticed, on an oiled wood beam above a shelf of copper pots, a neat row of empty wine bottles. He looked