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BACCl's FATHER HAD LEFT TWO VOICEMAIL MESSAGES: ONE at the neurology department of MilanUniversityHospital where she worked, and one at Phoebe Davenport's Milan apartment where she had been staying since Leo ended their engagement exactly twenty-six days ago. In both he had sounded excited and had summoned her to dinner: 'Bella, there's something I want to tell you. Something I want you to be the first to know.'
    When she had called back to confirm, she'd got his voicemail. As she steered the small Fiat through the northern outskirts of Turin she wondered what her father wanted to tell her. The drive from Milan took an hour and a half but in the Fiat, which strained on the autostrada like a souped-up lawnmower, it seemed longer. She changed the CD for a mix she had burned on her Mac and turned up the volume. Pink belted out 'Just Like A Pill' just loud enough to compete with the whining engine. She had bought the tiny car when she first arrived in Italy, almost a year ago, because it was ideal for parking and driving around congested Milan. For longer trips, though, they had used Leo's car. But now Leo had pushed her out of his life, and everything had changed.
    She flexed her stiff shoulders and looked down at the solitaire diamond engagement ring, which she had moved to her right hand. She should take it off altogether -- but not yet. As long as she continued to wear it there was hope that he might return to her. She hated herself for being weak, but she could remember her joy when Leo had proposed to her back home in the States. He was Italian, studying international law in Baltimore, and when he had asked her to follow him to Milan she had agreed, giving up her life in the States without a thought, including a medical and research career at the prestigious JohnsHopkinsUniversity. It had been a romantic leap of faith, but her father was in Turin and her oldest friend Phoebe was based in Milan; Isabella had quickly found a post at MilanUniversityHospital. She had been so certain and full of hope.
    She turned into the neglected drive that led to her father's villa. It was a modest, wisteria-clad house in a pleasant residential suburb, and in the soft golden light of early evening it looked almost beautiful. His battered old Lancia stood in the drive and his Cannondale mountain bike, which he rode every day to the Agnelli business park where he rented a laboratory, leaned against the porch. Looking at the ramshackle scene, it was hard to believe that six or seven years ago he had inherited enough money to allow him to wash his hands of big business in the States and set up on his own here in the Old Country.
    The only time he had allowed her into his laboratory, however, she had seen where the money had gone: his equipment was easily as good as what she had access to in the laboratories at the university hospital. But whenever she probed about his work, he always said: When I'm ready, Bella, I'll show you everything.' Perhaps that was what he wanted to share with her today.
    She parked the car beside her father's and checked her face in the mirror. She brushed her shoulder-length black hair off her face -large brown eyes, full lips and a strong nose. At least her eyes weren't red from crying like the last time she had visited.
    The front door was wide open and the smell of cooking mingled withthat of the blossom. She went into the airy hallway, and headed for the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway. Her father stood over the stove, a blue apron tied round his generous girth, stirring a pot of his trademark pasta sauce. All around him there were discarded pans, onion skins, garlic bulbs and herbs. In the light from the window a tall bottle of translucent green olive oil and a howl of blood-red tomatoes glowed like a still-life painting. LeonardCohen was singing 'Suzanne' on the old Sony sound system in one corner. The scene transported Isabella back to her childhood. Ever since her mother had died, sixteen years ago, a month