Page 9 of In the Garden of Monsters

“I must say, you look beautiful. The maestro is lucky to have you for a model.”

I blushed. “Thank you. I do like this dress.”

He chuckled. “And the dress likes you.”

“I wish I were painting instead of modeling,” I said wistfully. “But I do hope I can learn from Dalí while I’m here.”

Jack raised an appraising eyebrow. “Ah, you are a painter?”

At my nod, he grinned. “I haven’t met a woman painter yet. You are a rare breed.”

I gave him a rueful laugh. “I wish it weren’t so.”

“Well, I’d temper your expectations. Dalí is a terrible teacher.”

I laughed. “Maybe I can learn from observation, or perhaps by appealing to his ego.”

A dove cooed from the top of a nearby building and Jack lifted his head to look at it. A blond lock fell into his eye, and he brushed it away. “You are a smart one, aren’t you? That’s exactly the way to manage our maestro.”

I liked Jack. I liked his American-ness, his accent, his manner, his way of dress. He was handsome but wholesome. And while he was a little flirty, he was also polite. To me, he seemed like a bit of normalcy in a place that was very strange, with people who were very strange. There was also something about him that drew me in, made me feel instinctively safe.

“Why are you with the Dalís?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Well, when Gala heard they would be here for a week, she insisted. And if you haven’t noticed, she’s not someone you say no to. But, in theory, I’m to help haul around easels and scare off ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” I asked, concerned. I pulled my wool cape close around me, suddenly cold.

“You are too serious.” He laughed. “But have you seen this place? Surely a ghost or two must roam its halls. I even heard a woman died in the garden a few centuries ago.”

“I hope not.”

As I spoke, one of the church bells gave a loud clang, then fell still. Both Jack and I looked up at the bell tower, startled. And, as if on cue, Dalí emerged from the duomo, Gala and Ignazio in tow, and my heart began to beat wildly at the sight of our host. Had he really placed that tarot card under my pillow?

Spying me, Dalí cried out, “My Proserpina!” Rushing across the piazzetta, he lifted my arms and twirled me around. “You are magnificent, my beautiful goddess—I cannot wait to paint you. Gala, look at this girl!”

“Charming,” Gala said dryly, her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked me up and down with a critical eye. She’d latched on to Ignazio’s arm, which he tolerated only until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Then he discreetly disentangled himself from her. “Though a goddess shouldn’t need costume jewelry and gaudy fabric to make an impression,” she added dismissively, toying with her own ostentatious necklace.

“A goddess can wear whatever she likes,” Ignazio said. He eyed me intently.

“Can we see the garden now?” I asked, hoping to take the attention off me. After seeing the green light the night before, I was nervous about entering the garden, but having Ignazio’s attention was even more nerve-racking.

“Certainly. Come.” He strode forward and we followed dutifully behind, like the story of the Pied Piper leading along the rats.

Paolo joined us just as we were heading down the lane toward the parking lot. He carried a big camera bag on one shoulder and a tripod on the other.

A new Lancia Ardea pickup, with benches built on both sides of the open truck bed, waited to take us down the hill to theboschetto. Ignazio extended his hand to help Gala up into the truck, though she still managed to stumble—clearly on purpose so he’d have to catch her, which he did, righting her without ceremony or any sign of emotion. Then he motioned toward me. I wished I could climb into the truck myself—I didn’t want him touching me again—but the dress I was wearing restricted my movement, and I, too, would stumble without assistance. Fortunately, he extended his arm rather than one of his peculiarly hot hands, and I held the white canvas of his jacket as I raised myself up. He was staring at me, adulation in his blue-green eyes, as though I really were a goddess. I turned my head hastily, just in time to see Gala stiffen. She must have seen how Ignazio had looked at me and didn’t like it.

“Here we are. The Sacro Bosco—the Sacred Wood,” Ignazio announced when we stopped in a little clearing mostly overgrown by vines and half covered by bushes. I looked at the high grass and noted that I shouldn’t have worn one of my nicest pairs of heels.

This time, Jack helped me out of the truck. He nodded at my shoes. “If I have to carry you, I will.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” I said. But looking at the vines ahead, I thought it might. “Besides, you have all the equipment to bring.” I indicated the French easel and stretched canvas that Paolo was unloading from the truck.

“For you, I would drop it all.”

I smirked but was secretly pleased by his gallantry.

Ignazio started down the thin, overgrown trail. He stopped when we were a few dozen or so paces away from the dirt parking area. “Now we are officially in the garden of monsters,” he warned us with a dark grin. “They’re monsters made of stone, but sometimes the creatures may appear quite sinister. Worry not. For the most part, you have nothing to fear.”

---