Page 115 of Marry Me Not
A strange look passed over his face. He seemed suddenly concerned with the placement of the plates on one of the shelves, and he reached over to adjust them. “I’m sorry, I really don’t. Please, have a look around. If you like anything, I’m happy to give you a discount.”
Cosimo and I wandered through the shop.
“He knows something,” Cosimo said quietly.
“Maybe.” I glanced back toward the owner and caught him looking at us. He looked away quickly. “Let’s go. We’ve still got a lot of places to try. We can always come back here if we need to.”
Three more workshops. Three more versions of the same conversation. By the time the shutters started coming down for the afternoon break, some of my earlier optimism had begun to fade.
“Do you want to eat something?” I asked Cosimo. “We can use the time to regroup.”
He nodded, his brows drawn.
We stopped at a café in the piazza and ordered sandwiches and two bottles of Coke. Cosimo’s fingers tapped against the table as he stared out toward the fountain, his frustration written plainly across his face.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Everyone knows who we’re talking about the moment I say the name. Everyone knows there are people collecting Quaranta’s pieces, and yet no one will tell us who these collectors are. How is that possible?”
Cosimo crossed his arms over his chest. “They’ve been instructed not to talk.”
My eyes widened. “By the Santoros?”
“If Rena Santoro is the collector everyone’s thinking of. The Santoros might’ve paid them all off to keep their mouths shut.” He swiped his palm over his lips.
“We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover,” I said. I didn’t want him to give up. “Let’s just see how things go this afternoon.”
We finished our lunch, walked around town for a bit, and then returned to the ceramics quarter when the stores reopened just past five.
The next workshop was tucked away on a narrow side street. It was dimly lit, and the glass display case facing the outside looked like it was overdue for a clean, but even that couldn’t detract from the beauty of the ceramics inside.
They were the work of a master.
“Just look at this technique.” I pointed out a vase to Cosimo. “Do you see how the paint drips down the surface? It’s incredibly precise.”
“Took me about three years to perfect it.”
I turned and came face-to-face with a man who looked to be in his late forties. He wore a gray apron and had clay packed beneath his fingernails.
“Your pieces are beautiful,” I told him. “Did you make all of them yourself?”
“Me and my two sons. It’s a small family operation, but we take pride in our work. Would you like to see our newest collection?”
“I’d love to.”
He led Cosimo and me deeper into the workshop and showed us a collection called Garden Party. Every piece had been painted in a different shade of green, and together, they created the impression of foliage. I was immediately drawn to a statue of a woman’s head.
“This is stunning.” I studied it more closely. “It reminds me of a piece I saw in an article about Emilio Quaranta.”
“Emilio was a legend. So many of us have been inspired by his work. You can see his influence in this collection. You have a very good eye.”
Cosimo stayed silent beside me as the artist and I talked. I’d realized by now that jumping straight into questions about Quaranta wasn’t likely to get us anywhere. If I wanted someone to open up, I needed to build a little rapport first, so I spent another ten minutes or so asking the artist—Nunzio—about his work and his sons before circling back to what I really wanted to know.
“I’ve only seen one of Quaranta’s pieces in person,” I said, doing my best to stay nonchalant. “It didn’t have this particular technique, but the way he glazed the pottery and then shaped it to develop the cracks is just extraordinary.”
The man’s grin widened. “I completely agree.” He glanced around the store with a spark of excitement in his eyes. “I havea piece with his famous crackle technique. It’s not for sale, but would you like to see it?”
It took everything in me to keep my voice even. “I would love to.”
“Follow me.”
