Gladly Beyond Page 14

  I paused, staring down at my hands. I rubbed my face. As if I could erase the memory so easily.

  “We came out of the regression, still standing in the same glen,” I continued. “I was sobbing. Part of me hugely relieved that Branwell was alive, that it was the twenty-first century and not the fourteenth. But another part of me still screamed in agony over Malcolm’s death. I had felt everything in that moment. Every iota of Dougall’s anguish and horror.

  “Branwell grabbed and held me. Both of us bawling.” I raised my head. “Branwell had experienced it all from Malcolm’s point-of-view, of course. The battle. Dying impaled on a spear, watching Dougall frantically trying to reach him . . .” I took a sip of water. “That is why these regressions can be . . . worrisome.”

  A massive understatement.

  “But something like that could have happened this evening,” Claire frowned and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

  “Perhaps. But I needed you to understand, Claire.” My eyes begged hers. “No, that’s not entirely true. I needed to understand. To make sure the man in your photos was a past life self and not my GUT fracturing further. I’m truly sorry if you feel I played you in any way.”

  “No. I suppose I don’t.” Claire bounced her foot, pink heels bobbing. “I would probably have done the same thing in your shoes.”

  She did have a strong sense of fairness, bless her.

  “Thank you.” I breathed out with a smile.

  Our antipasto arrived. The bruschette were delicious. But I wasn’t letting up on Claire. Not yet.

  “Now tell me something about yourself,” I said. “This has all been about me so far. I want to know about you.”

  Claire snorted. “Log on to YouTube. Or, better yet, google ‘Batty Ray Psycho’—”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. C’mon, Claire.” I nudged her feet under the table. “Why not answer my question?”

  “Dante—”

  “You called me Dante. That’s a good start.”

  She gave a small shake of her head. “Why go there, Dante? You have a terrible reputation with women. I saw that hostess slip you her number.”

  Of course. “Did you see me hand it back?”

  “You did?”

  I nodded. “You’re welcome to frisk me if you want.” I wiggled my eyebrows.

  She rolled her eyes and shifted in her chair. “See. Comments like that hurt your cause—”

  “It’s called flirting, Claire. It’s fun. Try it. You might like it.”

  She hit me with a truck-stopping glower.

  “Why? So I can be another of your discarded conquests?”

  “What have I done to earn your distrust? We didn’t meet until four days ago.”

  “Your reputation does proceed you.”

  “I think you’re wrong about me.” I stared at her, leaning forward.

  She stared right back. Seeming icy and contained.

  But I had seen Open Claire . . .

  Did Claire understand the challenge she presented? The medieval, cave-man part of me saw her as a fortress. Something to be scaled. Put under siege. How did that old song by Sting go? Let me set the battlements on fire . . .

  No way was I letting this woman go without a fight.

  “Are you seriously telling me your reputation is exaggerated?” she asked. “That you’re misunderstood?” The word dripped sarcasm.

  Yep. That pretty much summed it up.

  “You, of all people, should know better than to believe industry gossip, or what you read on social media. I don’t date around, Claire. I’m not that kind of guy. I just have a playboy kinda look and people make assumptions. But I do like flirting with you.”

  “Well, I’m not in a good place right now. Psycho, remember?” She pointed a thumb at her chest.

  “You’re not psycho, Claire.”

  She blinked too rapidly and turned her head away, looking out over the dark cityscape.

  “I want to get to know you.” I angled my head, getting her to turn back to me. “Whatever little tidbits of yourself you are willing to share, I’ll take.”

  Silence.

  It stretched on too long.

  Finally, she reached across the table and tapped my phone.

  “Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands,” she whispered. “E. E. Cummings. Somewhere I have never traveled.”

  All the air punched out of my lungs.

  The quote on my lockscreen. The last line of my favorite poem.

  No one recognized that line. No one.

  The fact that she recognized it . . . that barest glimpse into her soul . . . that she reflected the part of myself the world rarely saw.

  I stared into her blue eyes. An ache creeping down my spine toward my heart.

  Claire leaned forward. “Why?”

  Why that poem? Why on my lockscreen?

  I paused. Would I tell her the whole truth?

  Could I tell her anything less?

  “I want that kind of love.” I answered. “The kind that renders ‘death and forever with each breathing.’”

  Yes. It seemed I would tell the whole truth.

  She sat back. Eyes pensive.

  “Why?” I lobbed the question back.

  Only different subtext: Why that poem? Why do you like it?

  Would she be honest with me? Give me this tiny taste of her.

  A beat.

  “Because it’s comforting to know someone found a love like that.” She bit that plump bottom lip again. “That others have been ‘somewhere I have never traveled.’ I hope to visit that place myself someday.”

  Ah.

  I recited slowly. “Love . . . the breaking of your soul—”

  “—upon my lips,” she finished. Another Cummings poem.

  I nearly forgot how to breathe. This woman—

  She shattered and healed all at once.

  Illuminated places deep within I hadn’t known existed.

  “Oh, Claire.” Voice hoarse.

  I closed my eyes. Opened them. Reached for her hands.

  She pulled back. Shutting me out.

  Fourteen

  Claire

  Dante stared, letting his hands rest on the table. His gaze . . . it cut me.

  Seeing that poem on his lockscreen . . . it had been a sliver of Dante D’Angelo’s soul that I hadn’t wanted to know. It was easier to think of him as a handsome playboy—gorgeous packaging around an empty box.

  Because if that pretty packaging proved to be full of amazing treasures . . . I would fall for this man so hard, I don’t know that I could ever recover.

  With one last look, Dante sat back. Swallowed. Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  His eyes told me that this conversation wasn’t over. That he would be patient. Bide his time. Wait to make his next move.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  He had shed his leather jacket. His cream button-down hugged his broad chest, and he had rolled the sleeves up his forearm, revealing tan, muscular forearms. His dark hair fell forward, lapping his jaw and wrapping over his shirt collar. He sat with a restless energy. As if he would jump up at any moment, call for his sword and horse, and ride off to slay the dragon.

  Every woman in the place had already checked him out at least ten times. Not that I blamed them. One woman at the bar slightly behind him kept staring at his back. Waiting. Probably hoping he would leave the restaurant alone.

  Part of me exulted that he chose to be here. With me. That he had returned the hostess’ phone number. (I thought he had but wanted to be sure. Pathetic, I know.)

  But most of me was tired of the game. Of that prickly sense of being watched. Of worrying that someone was videoing us together and would post it online. Terrified of trusting.

  A quote from Hemingway kept a steady thrum in my mind:

  The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.

  Grammy would say that from time to time.

  He
aven knew I had a hell of a scar right along the part of my psyche labeled Men and Trust.

  I wasn’t sure I believed Hemingway.

  At what point is the scar tissue too deep? When do you become too broken to ever heal? How many times can your heart be shattered before collapsing altogether?

  I had no intention of finding out.

  Dante let out a slow breath and sat back, folding his arms over his chest. Bulging his biceps in the process. The moody restaurant lighting painting his face in a captivating terrain of sharp edges and deep shadows.

  Stupid man with all his stupid hotness (and even stupider kindness) trying to worm his way behind my walls.

  “So how does it work? Your GUT?” I asked.

  A pause.

  “Claire, I want you to know everything about me, but it should be a two-way street—”

  “Dante . . .” I instantly hated the whiny breathy-ness of my voice. “Please. Don’t push.”

  This was as open as I was going to be. As open as I could be, right now.

  He sighed. But nodded. Dark eyes understanding.

  I listened as Dante explained how his GUT worked, the silvery shadows he saw trailing after people, the ability to concentrate and see events moving around an object. Tommaso brought our fettuccine al cinghiale as Dante finished talking.

  “If you can see things that happened around an object, why don’t you use your GUT to solve crimes?” I asked. It was a logical question.

  “It doesn’t work like that. Even when I scan an object, I can only see people who are dead. So I could maybe solve cold cases where all the relevant parties are no longer living, but that doesn’t really help police, per se.”

  I thought that over for a moment. “Okay, so how do you see people’s past lives?” I asked. “Do they just follow them around?”

  “Yeah. Tommaso over there”—he gestured with his chin—“was a World War II soldier, a Victorian farmer, a seventeenth century peasant, a medieval peasant. Most people are just peasants.”

  “What about Rosa?” I nodded toward the other server two tables over.

  Dante looked at her. “A factory worker. A midwife. A mercenary foot soldier—”

  “Soldier? As a woman?”

  “Gender can be somewhat fluid, I’ve noticed. Most people stay the same gender life-after-life, but for a few it can change.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I’ve become extremely adept over the years at using clothing to determine someone’s history.”

  That did make sense, I supposed. “I’m assuming you used your GUT with the Colonel’s Michelangelo sketch. What did you see?”

  “Wouldn’t I be breaking the Colonel’s Sandbox Rule if I told you?” He chuckled around a mouthful of pasta. “No plagiarizing, remember?”

  Seriously?

  “I think having a ‘grossly unusual talent’ is an automatic violation,” I countered, twirling fettuccine onto my fork.

  “I didn’t see anything significant with the sketch. It was blank.”

  I paused, pasta halfway to my mouth. “Blank? Does that happen often?”

  “Never. It’s never happened before. I’m wondering if it has something to do with Caro and Ethan maybe. Who knows.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting. So tell me about your brothers.”

  Tommaso brought our secondo piatti while Dante explained about Branwell and his ability to hear the past.

  “So I assume Branwell ‘listened’ to the Colonel’s Michelangelo sketch?” I asked around a mouthful of divine seabass. “Or was it silent for him too?”

  “No, it had sound. Nothing too helpful, but Branwell did overhear a man with a slight Scottish brogue say.” Dante frowned, trying to remember the exact words. “‘I figure we are even now. You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you. Never forget—I always win the game.’”

  I shivered. I’m sure my eyebrows drew down into a neat ‘V.’

  “That’s fascinating. Branwell was sure it was a Scottish brogue?”

  He shrugged. “Just like I specialize in clothing, Branwell is an expert with accents. If he said it was Scottish, it probably was. Upper-class, he specified.”

  We exchanged a that’s-quite-intriguing look.

  Dante moved on, talking about Tennyson, sitting back as our insalate arrived. He described how Tennyson feels the future. I got the sense that Dante was glossing over the reality of Tennyson’s situation, but obviously some secrets weren’t his to tell.

  Tommaso brought out the cheese and coffee. Dante ordered some tiramisù too, saying the American in him could never resist dessert.

  I sipped my coffee. “Do you see your own past lives when you look in the mirror?”

  “No. It doesn’t work that way.” Dante took a healthy bite of gooey tiramisù. “I usually don’t see anything that pertains to my own past.” He nudged the plate toward me, indicating I should take a bite.

  I shot him an eyebrow, but grabbed my teaspoon anyway. I was American, after all.

  “Okay. But do you see Malcolm clinging to Branwell?” I reached across the table and snagged a bite of tiramisù. Mmmm, the dessert was incredible. “Do you see Caro clinging to me?”

  Dante smiled indulgently, obviously appreciating my reaction. “I don’t see silvery shadows of those I love.”

  “So love is the key?”

  “Exactly. Basically, the more I love someone, the fewer their shadows.”

  Huh. That was interesting. I took another bite of tiramisù.

  “So you see some of Branwell’s past lives, but not all of them?”

  “Not exactly. Branwell is entirely blank. No shadows at all.”

  “Right. Because he’s your brother—”

  “Womb-mate, he would say.”

  I groaned. “That’s a terrible pun.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, Tennyson and my mom are the same. Chiara and my nonna are nearly blank too.” He scooped up some marscarpone.

  “Because you love them.”

  “Yeah. The farther away from me emotionally someone is, usually the more plentiful their shadows.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” I put my spoon down and sat back before I ate his entire dessert. “Do you see Caro’s shadow behind me? Was I a peasant most of the time like everyone else?”

  For some reason, the question troubled him. Dante set his own fork down. Drummed his fingers for a second.

  “You’re blank,” he finally said. “Like Branwell or my mom. Just . . . nothing.”

  It took a second for his words to sink in.

  And then every hair on my body stood on end, chased by a bone-rattling shiver. My alarm level went from danger to high alert.

  “Are you . . . are you saying you l-love me?”

  A loooong pause.

  “No.” His dark eyes drowned in mine. “I don’t love you.”

  My heart . . . sank.

  Really? How could that possibly be disappointing?

  “But you just said—”

  He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Claire. This is completely new ground for me too. Maybe we loved each other in past lives—”

  “Yeah, but you said I’m blank. Nothing, right?”

  “Empty air.”

  I was shaking now, two deep breaths away from a hyperventilating panic attack.

  “You believe we have been in l-love . . . in the past.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  He leaned farther across the table. Reached out and took my hand in his. Swallowing up my smaller fingers in his huge palm. Warm. Comforting. I could feel the scrape of callouses as he rubbed my hand.

  “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “Like soulmates?”

  “Something like that. Life after life, we’ve found each other. The connection so powerful it even spills over into your photos.”

  I stared at our joined hands. A surge of energy flowed through the connection. An aching sense of
rightness. Of us.

  I had been here with him before. We had done this countless times. An eternity of memories just out of reach.

  Part of me wanted to close my hand around his. Hold on.

  But . . .

  “I don’t love you. Not yet,” he continued. “But think about it, Claire. I know I feel a sense of connection with you. You have to feel it too. We have a lot in common. Our shared profession and love of art. The same taste in random mid-century American poets. I’m betting you like offbeat art house films and moody folk rock just as much as I do too.”

  Curse him. I did.

  My five-year-old self wanted to stuff my fingers in my ears and chant la-la-la-la—

  But he wasn’t done. “Not to mention, I think you’re stunningly attractive. Can you honestly tell me you’re not interested in me? Because I absolutely am interested in you.”

  My throat closed, my heartbeat clawing to escape. Choking me.

  I wasn’t ready for this. Not him. Not now.

  I twisted my hand out of his. Gave a weak laugh. “Wow. Talk about a good line—”

  “Claire. Please. You know I’m not just playing you—”

  “Dante, I can’t—”

  I stood up. He rose with me.

  “Don’t be like this.” He barged right into my personal space. Even in three-inch heels, I still had to look up at him. “I don’t know what happened between Ethan and Caro. I don’t know about all those other lives. But there’s something here. I want to give it a chance.”

  Wordlessly, I shook my head. It was too much. Too soon. I could barely trust the man enough to be semi-alone with him. Anything more was going too far.

  “I can’t . . . I’m not in a good place right now.” I stepped away from the heat of his body and snagged my purse off the chair back.

  “Claire—”

  “Thanks for dinner—”

  “Wait for me, at least. Let me pay and walk you down to your room—”

  “No. It’s better like this.”

  “Claire.” His gaze entreating.

  I could feel every eye in the restaurant on us. Was someone videoing us?

  My heart pounded. Sweat teased the back of my neck.

  Calm. Polite. Don’t make a scene. Just get away—

  “Good night, Mr. D’Angelo.”

  And like Lady Caro, I strode off without looking back. Dante’s gaze burning a scorching hole in my head.