AFTER THE RAIN
The rain stopped sometime before morning. By the time she opened the doors, the terrace was empty. Water still covered the old stone, the hills had nearly disappeared into mist, and somewhere beyond the balustrade the landscape was beginning to emerge. She stepped outside. There was nowhere she particularly needed to go. Not yet. Against the weathered stone, the gown seems almost impossibly spare—a long column of ivory crepe interrupted only by roses and those extraordinary sleeves. Chiffon falls from the shoulders in great translucent arcs, gathering again at the wrists before breaking into soft ruffles. The rain has taken the shine from everything around her. The dress doesn't need any. She walks the length of the loggia, occasionally stopping to look beyond the columns. The terrace is slick beneath her shoes. Her sleeves move before the rest of her does. Eventually, the mist begins to lift. She turns back toward the house, then changes her mind. Instead, she takes the ste...
