Gladly Beyond Page 15

  Fifteen

  Claire

  My phone buzzed me awake the next morning. I rolled over in bed and snagged it off the nightstand.

  I lay next to you again last night. Breathed in your skin. Dragged my lips along your neck.

  My heart tried to escape out of my chest, adrenaline spiking through my veins.

  Ugh! This online bully.

  I dropped the phone on my covers and rubbed a hand over my face. And then spent a solid fifteen minutes chanting my mental, self-help litany . . . theywantyoutobeafraiddontgiveintoit . . . courageyoucandothis . . .

  Though, really, I simply wanted to scream a loud chorus of whymewhymewhyme and crawl back under the bedspread. But I knew from experience (and hundreds of hours of therapy) that it wouldn’t help.

  All I could do was go on with my life.

  I understood only too well how people could live in a war zone. You just got used to the terror, adopted a fatalistic attitude and moved on.

  What would be, would be.

  For now, I would just do what I always did. Ignore the anonymous text, load Fear onto my back and get on with my day.

  Silver lining, though.

  After the events of yesterday, I felt reasonably sure Dante was not my online harasser. There was no logical explanation for Ethan’s appearance in my photos or for the ‘scene’ Dante and I had experienced together.

  Correction. My emotions or heart or intuition or whatever was sure it wasn’t him.

  That part of me wanted to trust, trust, trust. Wrap him up in a bear hug, bury my face in his broad chest and dream of unicorns and rainbows and happily-ever-afters.

  The thinking, sane part of me knew my intuition had the stability of a sorority pledge after twenty rounds of beer pong. Not to be trusted to walk a straight line into the kitchen, much less be handed the keys to my life.

  So . . . not sure where that left me, actually.

  Dante’s remarks about love had really freaked me. Honestly, you can’t just drop a four-letter word like that into a normal conversation. Or even the weird conversation we had been having.

  It had felt like a huge step simply to eat dinner with him. The idea of anything more . . .

  Love.

  My heart rate spiked just thinking about it.

  I snorted, draping a hand over my eyes.

  Yeah. Maybe with another ten years of therapy I might reach a place where I could trust in love and a romantic relationship.

  I mean, I wanted it. Who doesn’t want capital-L love?

  But . . .

  I might shift it to my back, but Fear was still the crippling burden I carried.

  Wasn’t that how the old Sarah McLachlan song went? There’s nothing I’d like better than to fall, but I fear . . .

  Yep. Pretty much summed it up.

  And despite the similarities between Dante and I—that sense of finding a kindred spirit with the same tastes and likes—I was pretty sure we did not share a love of random ‘90s fem rock.

  I had too much self-healing to do before being functional in a romantic relationship again.

  After another twenty minutes of pep-talking, I crawled out of bed and into the shower. And then blow-dried my hair completely down, hiding my neck.

  Passive-aggressive? Probably.

  I brushed on a little make-up, wishing I had my PH lipstick. I was sure I’d return home to Boston and find it sitting on the bathroom counter. In the meantime, I just had to wear my favorite lemon berry lipgloss sans color.

  Moving around my hotel room caused my brain to churn over the events that had happened in this same space two hundred years ago.

  Who had Lady Caro been?

  I booted my laptop and did a basic google search for her but pulled up nothing. Granted, trying to find a woman named Lady Caro who lived in Florence, Italy, after the fall of Napoleon was difficult.

  I did find plenty of information about Louise, the Countess of Albany, the woman who was Caro’s guardian. Louise had indeed been married to Bonnie Prince Charlie, just as the Colonel had mentioned. Louise had gone on to separate from Charlie and had lived most of her life with Vittorio Alfieri in this palazzo. She had died in 1824, which meant that the scene Dante and I experienced had happened after Napoleon left Florence in 1814 but before Louise’s death.

  That was all the information I could deduce.

  I was still puzzled over the appearance of the Battle of Cascina in Caro’s drawing. It seemed such a strange coincidence. Was it Fate, like Dante said, pulling past threads together?

  I finally opened my research folder and added a separate page of notes, trying to organize my thoughts:

  The Colonel’s sketch of the Battle of Cascina doesn’t match any known copies of Michelangelo’s cartoon. Is the Colonel’s sketch Michelangelo’s original modello for the cartoon? Or, at least, a copy of the modello?

  Lady Caro (who was the ward of the Louise, Countess of Albany, who was the wife of Bonnie Prince Charlie) liked to copy the Battle of Cascina from another source. Was she imitating Sangallo’s copy or the alternate version of the Colonel’s? And, if the latter, what was her original source and where was it located?

  The words that Branwell heard in English around the Colonel’s sketch imply that there might be a connection with Caro and Ethan: 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 studied my list for a moment, but couldn’t think of anything else to add. I would just have to wait for the mass spectrometry results. Having dates on things would tell me a lot.

  I spent the rest of my morning responding to email and did more research on the Michelangelo, starting a meticulous comparison of line between the Colonel’s sketch and known Michelangelo drawings. The similarities were compelling.

  In the middle of it all, the Colonel called, inviting me to have dinner with him the next night. I was pretty sure he hadn’t extended similar invitations to Dante or Pierce.

  His dinner invitation filled me with mixed emotions—elation that I was perhaps winning the contest, but also worry that the Colonel had Intentions where I was concerned . . .

  But as I needed this job more than anything else . . .

  I said yes.

  The sun climbed higher, flooding my room with light. And then my rumbling stomach reminded me I had missed breakfast and, if I didn’t get a move on, would miss lunch too.

  I snagged my purse, wrapped a scarf around my neck and waved to Martina behind the reception desk as I strode out the portone.

  A blast of sun and noise greeted me as I stepped onto the sidewalk—cars and motorbikes buzzing across the Ponte Santa Trinità and down Lungarno Corsini. I was immediately engulfed in the smell of diesel fumes and cigarette smoke—the scent of Europe.

  Tourists waited for the stoplight, crowding around the base of Caccini’s enormous statue of Summer across the street. White tennis shoes on the Americans; brown loafers for the Germans; black dress shoes for the Japanese. I swear you can identify nationality by footwear alone.

  Pigeons cooed and fluttered around the statue, only to scatter toward me as two school kids startled them.

  And then I saw him.

  Straddling a gleaming chrome BMW motorcycle. Right in front of me.

  Of course. He would be a motorcycle man.

  That same tailored leather jacket and battered jeans. A tight gray t-shirt underneath. Expensive oversized sunglasses.

  My heart lurched. Stupid, excitable thing that it was.

  Dante saw me. And smiled.

  The world went slo-mo.

  His grin, spreading like honey. The wind in his dark hair as he lifted a leg and swung off the bike. The shake of his head as he tipped the sunglasses off his face and pocketed them. The swagger in his shoulders as he walked over to me.

  All exaggerated and slow. Movie-trailer perfect.

  My heart was jumping up-and-down, clapping like a crazed idiot. There had to be a better way to g
et my cardio.

  Then all too predictably, Fear came stomping along, trampling the stomach butterflies. I swallowed.

  “There you are.” Dante shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “Martina said you hadn’t left, but I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come out.”

  He stopped in front of me. So tall he blocked the sun. Or was it just because he was, once again, in my bubble.

  The pigeons on the sidewalk shuffled and moved around him.

  “You could have just texted.”

  “Yeah, I could have. But I did promise not to contact you via phone, and I don’t want to be accused of breaking any Sandbox Rules.”

  A pause.

  And then we both spoke at once.

  “I’m sorry I freaked out last night—”

  “I’m sorry I freaked you out last night—”

  “Jinx.” Again, both of us speaking together.

  He chuckled.

  “I am sorry things came out like they did.” He loomed over me, expression contrite. “So I’m here to apologize. If you’re going to trust me, I need to be as trustworthy as possible.”

  I shot him a skeptical eyebrow.

  His smile widened, crinkling his eyes.

  “Well, all that and my mom insisted I invite you to lunch,” he continued. “I figured you would find it harder to say ‘No’ if I showed up in person.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your mom said you had to invite me to lunch? That seems . . .”

  “What?”

  “You just don’t strike me as a mommy’s boy.”

  “I am Italian, remember? We’re all momma’s boys.”

  “Half-Italian.”

  He shrugged. “When it comes to Judith or my nonna, I’m entirely Italian. One hundred and ten percent. They tell me to jump; I ask how high.”

  Right.

  “As much fun as a cozy lunch with you and your mother sounds—”

  “Uffa!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Branwell, Chiara and my grandmother will be there too. C’mon. You’ll enjoy it. Trust me.”

  Trust? That’s what I just couldn’t bring myself to do.

  He read my hesitation.

  “Claire. Hey.” He bent his head. Got even more in my space.

  “Personal bubble.” I waved my hands, causing several pigeons to scoot around.

  Though it was half-hearted at best.

  Both my waving and the pigeons’ scooting.

  Dante sighed. Took a small step back. “You clearly have a lot of wrong impressions of me. How’s about you toss those aside and start fresh?”

  If only life were that easy. “Dante, like I said last night, I’m not in a good place. I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. And then you dropped that L-word—”

  “I understand, and I’m sorry my explanation came out like that. Let’s back up. Why don’t we start with being friends?” He held out a hand to me. “Please. Just consider me a neighborly guy-friend.”

  I would say about sixty-percent of me wanted to shake his hand and agree. Another seventy-percent wanted to run fast and far. A solid fifteen-percent wanted to wrap myself around him like static cling. The remaining five percent wondered if Dante was always like a bull in a china shop when it came to women.

  Or something like that.

  Math had never been my strongest subject.

  “Please.” He smiled and that fifteen percent edged up to seventeen. “Or if not friend-friends, will you at least entertain the possibility of becoming friends?”

  “I think the Colonel will have a problem with us being on friendly terms.” I chewed on my cheek.

  Dante shoved his hands into his jean pockets. “The Sandbox Rule just says no plagiarizing, nothing about friends.”

  “Yeah, but I’d hate for us both to get tossed—”

  “Not going to happen, ’cause that would leave the Colonel with Pierce. And we both know Pierce is only here because the Colonel was contractually obligated to invite him. You can’t think the Colonel actually wants to hire Pierce?”

  Okay. That was a valid point.

  “Fine.” I nodded. “I’ll consider the possibility that we could become friends at some point, but if the Colonel has an issue with it, I’m ratting you out.”

  He chuckled, warm and rumbly. “Great. Let’s go.”

  “Wait—I didn’t agree to—” I started.

  But Dante had turned toward his bike and then froze. Staring at the sidewalk.

  No. Not the sidewalk. A pigeon on the sidewalk.

  The poor thing hopped on one foot, its other foot bent at an unnatural angle.

  Dante tracked it, like a hunter.

  Uhmm . . . okay . . .

  He backed the bird up against the wall of the palazzo. Crouching, he slowly reached for it.

  But this was a street-wise pigeon. It hopped frantically away, flapping its wings and fluttering across the street to settle next to the statue of Summer holding her cornucopia of fruit.

  Grimacing, Dante pivoted around, following the bird with his eyes.

  I grabbed his arm.

  “Whoa there, tiger. It’s just a pigeon.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Uhmmm.” I swung my head. Studied it. It cocked its little pigeon head at me. Batted its beady eyes. “Yep. Pretty sure it is.”

  “I mean, yes, it is a pigeon, but I think it was a nun in a former life.”

  What? “You see past lives of animals too?”

  “Occasionally.” His head swiveled, waiting for a break in traffic to cross the street. “Only when they were once people.”

  “What will you do once you catch it—”

  Dante darted out in front of an orange city bus, barely making it across the street in time.

  The bus zipped past, and I saw him hunched over, trying to catch the poor pigeon . . . nun . . . whatever. It had fluttered down from the statue and Dante had it up against the large stone railing.

  The stoplight went red and I threaded my way across the street to join him.

  He made a sudden quick jab and then straightened, face triumphant. He raised the struggling pigeon in his large hands, showing me his catch.

  “There has to be an easier way to get lunch,” I called as I stepped around the last car and joined him on the sidewalk. “Besides, I’m fairly positive eating a pigeon who used to be nun is some form of cannibalism.”

  That little comment caused two tourists to take a hasty step back from me. (White Adidas. Americans. Wusses.)

  Fortunately, Dante had the pigeon cradled against his chest by that point, stroking its feathers and making soothing noises. Stupid lucky nun . . . I supposed he didn’t intend to eat it/her after all. He had walked around the base of the statue onto the bridge and was leaning back into the stone, facing the Ponte Vecchio up river.

  He raised his head as I drew near. Eyes drilling into me.

  The world suddenly lurched. The smell of auto exhaust and cigarette smoke fading into horse manure and dust.

  Dante’s body morphed. A long skirt clung to my legs.

  Please, please be there, I thought. I am quite desperate to see you.

  Sixteen

  Caro hurried around the base of the statue and onto the Ponte Santa Trinità, Mary following discreetly behind.

  Hallelujah.

  He had waited for her.

  Dr. MacLure—Ethan, she shyly whispered in her mind—leaned against the stone, ostensibly checking the time on his pocket watch. His beaver top hat shadowed his eyes, longer curls escaping, lapping his ears and rolling over the high collar of his dark coat.

  Her heart thumped—painful, aching, yearning.

  What an impossible dream.

  His head snapped up, face lighting as he saw her.

  “Dr. MacLure, what a surprise.” Caro curtsied.

  A wry smile tugged his lips. He bowed, tipping his hat. “My lady.”

  Caro always sighed internally when someone called her a
lady. She wasn’t . . . not precisely.

  But her mother had, technically, been granted the title of duchess. And her great-uncle was powerful enough that, if he decreed she be called Lady Caro as befitted the daughter of a duchess, then so be it.

  Lady Caro she was.

  “Imagine meeting you here,” Caro said. “And after all your fine talk of us not seeing each other until . . . summer.”

  “Indeed, Lady Caro. But I should always hope to see you in summer.” He winked and glanced up at the statue beside them—Summer with her bountiful cornucopia.

  Caro risked a peek behind her. Yes, she was safe. The large statue blocked the front of the Countess’ palazzo, hiding Caro from its view. Mary stood slightly behind her, ensuring propriety.

  Nothing improper or scandalous.

  Just two friends who had happened upon each other. Utterly accidental.

  And, yet, it seemed the most clandestine assignation. Each stolen moment with him precious.

  “Did you enjoy the book I recommended?” Ethan leaned forward. Perhaps a little too close, that flutter scattering through her stomach again.

  The scent of wool and clean soap swirled around her. She could feel the heat of his warm body. Or maybe the heat was all her own . . .

  “Yes. Mrs. Radcliffe’s stories always curdle my blood. They are quite scandalous.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “Says the shocking young lady who sketches unclad Michelangelo drawings—”

  “Hush, Doctor. You shall set me to blushing.” Caro pressed a gloved hand to her cheek.

  “Are you pleased with the final sketch?”

  She sighed, thinking about the hour she had spent that morning, tweaking the shadows one last time. “I believe so. I wish to perfect the shading more, but—”

  “But at some point, you must declare the work finished.”

  “Precisely.”

  A long moment passed. Standing near him felt like basking in the glow of the warmest sun. Summer indeed.

  She hoarded the tiniest revelation about him. Like a child on the beach, gathering prized seashells. Putting them up to her ear, listening to what they told her of him.