Gladly Beyond Page 17

  One more steadying breath. Maybe she had been wise to resist riding with me . . .

  But I wanted Claire’s trust more than anything else.

  There was so much . . . possibility between us. I could see it. Glimmering in the distance, drawing nearer. An eternity of love and devotion and together. My heart pounded at the thought.

  I was all-in with Claire. Determined to prove myself worthy of her trust.

  Though that didn’t stop the Italian in me from taking more than one corner a little faster than strictly necessary. Just to force her to hold on that much tighter.

  Shameless, you say?

  Why, yes. Yes, I am.

  Eighteen

  Claire

  I’m not going to lie.

  I’ve always had a thing for guys with motorcycles.

  That heady rush of g-forces as the bike accelerates, the wind tugging at your clothing, the shameless excuse to cuddle close to the man driving.

  So, let’s just say there was something oddly magical about riding through the narrow medieval streets of Florence clutching a hot Italian-American playboy with one hand and a wounded pigeon who used to be a naughty nun in the other.

  Okay, so maybe the nun part was more offbeat than magical . . . but you get the idea.

  I may have leaned into Dante more than was strictly necessary.

  He was just so . . . big. Solid and strong. I could feel his abs flexing under my hand with each turn.

  I may have even relaxed into him for a minute. Indulged in a fantasy where I wasn’t damaged and shattered and fear-ridden. Where I could simply take a man like Dante at face value and not doubt his every action.

  And then I remembered who I was and who he was and how that was extremely unlikely.

  This last regression had been more . . . powerful.

  Ethan may have been madly in love with Caro, but she wasn’t far behind. She teetered on a precipice, where the tiniest motion would send her tumbling down a waterfall of love and adoration.

  Part of me wanted to shake her. Rattle her cage. Force her to clearly see the heartache and pain waiting just past the signpost for Love. Caro was so unbearably innocent.

  But just as I wanted to unnerve her, Caro’s trust and adoration of Ethan jarred me.

  Had I ever been that . . . free? I couldn’t remember a time in my life where I hadn’t viscerally understood the cutting force of love.

  And yet Caro, whose life had been neither easy nor kind, possessed a heart much more open than my own.

  Her emotions still swamped me—blurring the line between Dante and Ethan.

  When I leaned into Dante on his bike, was I Claire, eager to be close to the hot twenty-first century playboy?

  Or was I Caro, hungry for a stolen moment with her nineteenth century Scottish gentleman?

  I honestly couldn’t tell you.

  Basically . . . these regressions were royally messing with me, and I couldn’t see myself willingly participating in any more of them.

  I had to know my emotions were my own.

  We zoomed along the Arno and then darted back into the rabbit warren of narrow streets around Piazza Santa Croce. It took us less than five minutes to arrive at a palazzo.

  An enormous double-doored portone stood flush with the narrow street, D’Angelo Enterprises etched into a brass plaque next to it. Again, the doors were big enough for a full-size SUV to pass through. Dante pulled what looked like a garage door opener from his pocket, and the huge portone swung inward.

  The doors opened into a wide arched corridor running the depth of the building, leading into a small courtyard beyond. Several cars were parked there, nestled in between lemon trees in enormous terracotta pots.

  Dante nudged the motorcycle through to the courtyard, parking it between a battered Jeep Wrangler and a gleaming Mercedes E350. A mini Cooper, BMW sedan and vintage VW bus rounded out the cars.

  We unbuckled our helmets, and Dante led the way back into the arched passageway, unlocking another large door. He took Sister Floozy and then gestured for me to walk through.

  I stepped into a stairwell, paved in old flagstones with an aged dark railing, smooth plastered walls and ancient exposed ceiling beams. No later than the sixteenth century, I’d say. Were they original?

  Dante climbed the stairs ahead of me, Sister Floozy squirming in her bag.

  “So how old is this palazzo?” I asked.

  “Around four hundred years. Been in the D’Angelo family the entire time.”

  Wow.

  “It seems . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Old and yet not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My brothers and I are big on modernization without losing the sense of antiquity.”

  We arrived at a landing with two steps up to another huge wooden door on the left. Dante unlocked it with a long skeleton key that seemed more movie-prop than an actual functioning tool.

  The interior opened into a vestibule with soaring gilded ceilings. Dante walked through a set of double doors on the right.

  I followed him into a large room which, again, had a coffered ceiling and even fresco-painted walls. All clearly dating from the mid-seventeenth century. An eclectic mix of modern and vintage furniture dotted the space, including an enormous flatscreen TV against one wall.

  “My apartment that I share with Branwell.” Dante gestured as he set down Sister Floozy on a side table. “My nonna’s apartment is directly above us. Mom and Chiara are on the top floor.”

  He pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, leaving him in just a tight gray t-shirt and jeans.

  I slowly turned around. The room felt historic and yet fresh all at once.

  Modern chrome lighting nestled into the coffers; crystal sconces dotted the walls. Sleek mid-century modern chairs mixed easily with sculpted Parisian couches. That effortless blend of modern and vintage that Italy pulled off with such flair.

  “I assume it meets with your approval?”

  I nodded. “Not quite your typical bachelor pad.”

  “We finished up an extensive remodel about two years ago. Hopefully it will hold for a while. That’s the thing with these old palazzi.” Dante shrugged. “It seems like you finish one restoration just to start on another.”

  He picked up the paper bag with Sister Floozy and motioned for us to head back out into the stairwell. We climbed a further flight of the twisting stairs to another huge door, this one slightly ajar. Voices floated out.

  The door swung open just as Dante reached for the handle. A tiny dark-haired young woman strode out, a huge bowl of pasta in her arms.

  “Dante! You made it. Dammi un bacio.” She presented him with her right cheek.

  Smiling, Dante bent down and pressed his right cheek against hers, kissing the air next to her ear. He repeated the action on the other side, left cheek to left cheek. That typical Italian greeting I had seen repeated countless times on the street.

  Why had he never tried that with me? I mean, the man was Italian, right?

  I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or jealous.

  Honestly, could I be any more of an emotional mess when it came to Dante D’Angelo?

  “Watcha got there?” She looked pointedly at the bag where Sister Floozy squirmed.

  “Pigeon. Nun.” Dante held the bag up.

  She nodded. As if that explained everything. Which, I suppose, it sorta did.

  “Hi. You must be Claire,” she said, turning to me.

  “Yes. Claire, my sister, Chiara.”

  Chiara shot me a bright smile. “Nice to finally meet you. I would hug you or something, but as you can see . . .” Chiara lifted the pasta. Penne with a hint of red sauce. It smelled divine. “Love your name, by the way. We’re name-twinners.”

  “Twinners?”

  “Yep. Claire and Chiara. Same name. Different languages.”

  I blinked. “Really? Chiara sounds so . . . modern.”

  She shrugged, jostling the pasta she was holding.
“Beh, Chiara is super traditional. Ya know, like St. Clare of Assisi. Santa Chiara di Assisi. Anyway, we’re ready. I’m sure Nonna could use some help.” She nodded her chin back through the open door behind her.

  Chiara turned for the stairs, heading up.

  Dante rotated with her. “Wait, are we eating outside—”

  “La pasta é pronta.” An elderly lady walked out of the door, carrying a basket of bread. Housecoat, blouse, wool skirt, nylons . . . gray hair meticulously styled. She balanced effortlessly in—

  Yep. She was wearing heels.

  She presented her cheek to Dante who dutifully exchanged kisses with her, just as he had with Chiara.

  “Nonna, questa é la mia amica, Clara.” He gestured my way, introducing me, I assumed.

  “Hi. Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Ciao, tesora. Nice to meet you too.” Though heavily accented, her English was understandable. “Dante, dai. Fa bel tempo. Mangiamo sù.” She moved past us and up the stairs.

  “The weather’s good, so I guess we’re eating on the upstairs terrace. Let’s see if there’s anything else to take up.”

  Dante walked into a long hallway with doors evenly spaced along it. The door on the right led to another grand sitting room. He walked through the door on the left.

  I followed and found myself in a narrow galley-style kitchen. Stove, sink, fridge and small counter on the left. Tall, paned window straight ahead. A narrow table pushed up against the tiled wall on the right.

  Two men filled the space. Branwell was seated at the table, back to the window, a bowl of pasta in front of him, gloved hands on the table. Another man leaned back against the counter perpendicular to him, arms crossed.

  “Tenn!” Dante grabbed the unknown man in a crushing hug, thumping his back with one hand, still carefully holding Sister Floozy in the other. “Saw your Jeep downstairs. You didn’t mention you were coming into town today.”

  Ah. The elusive third brother. Tennyson.

  Tennyson returned his brother’s embrace and then looked past Dante at me, a wry smile on his lips.

  “Claire, I presume?”

  All three brothers turned their attention my way.

  Seeing them together highlighted the similarities between Dante and Branwell. They were identical twins after all. Large men with strong faces that would be called handsome or attractive.

  Tennyson, however, could only be described as beautiful. Weird, I know, to call a guy that, but sometimes there’s just no other word.

  Carelessly styled dark hair worn moderately short, a face that defined the word chiseled, startlingly blue eyes. Several inches shorter than his brothers and clean-shaven, he clearly favored his father’s Italian heritage—more soccer wiry than football bulker. He sported casual shorts and a black t-shirt which clung to his lean frame.

  He was the kind of guy you wanted to stare at. Too pretty for everyday use, but nice eye-candy for an afternoon.

  “Hi. You must be Tennyson.” I took a step forward and offered him my palm.

  His smile broadened. He shifted past Dante and took my hand. But instead of shaking it, he leaned in and pressed his right cheek against mine, kissing the air near my ear. He repeated the action on the left side.

  “When in Italy . . .” he said.

  I looked into his eyes as he pulled back, expecting a teasing warmth.

  Instead, I saw mocking brittleness. As if all the world had let him down and only bravado held him together. He settled back against the counter.

  “How long are you here?” Dante tightened his grip on the paper bag while reaching for a bowl of grated parmesan cheese. He seemed to be doing everything possible to make the question appear casual, but something about the tense set of his shoulders told me it wasn’t.

  “Si trovi sempre quelle belle, no?” Tennyson leaned forward and picked up a large bowl of mixed greens from the table.

  Dante frowned. Branwell chuckled.

  “Tenn just called you pretty,” Branwell said to me with a wink. He motioned Dante to lower the cheese so he could scoop a spoonful onto his pasta. Dante shot a frown at his twin.

  “Seriously, Tenn. How long are you here?” Dante angled the cheese toward Branwell.

  Tennyson shrugged. “Until I can’t handle it anymore. Same as always.”

  He moved around Dante, the salad bowl cradled in one arm.

  It was only when he started walking that I noticed his left leg. Or, rather, the jointed prosthetic which was his left leg.

  He noticed my noticing.

  “Afghanistan,” was all he said as he walked out the door, slapping the frame with his free hand.

  Dante’s eyes followed his brother. Pensive. As if Tennyson were an ache he didn’t know how to soothe.

  “Better hurry.” Branwell stirred the cheese into his penne. “Pasta’s getting mushy.”

  Dante glanced back at him. Nodded.

  “Claire, would you mind grabbing the oliere?” He motioned toward a cruet of oil and vinegar still on the table.

  I followed him out the door and up the stairs, Sister Floozy in her bag still wiggling in his hand.

  “Is Branwell not eating with us?” I asked as we passed another landing and continued up another floor.

  He shook his head. “Bran hears the last moment of alteration with food as he eats. Pasta, obviously, constantly changes as you scoop it up. He says eating pasta at a table with everyone talking is like listening to a TV show being played randomly, multiple times at once with sentences overlapping and repeating. So he’ll eat in the quiet of the kitchen and then bring the secondo up with him.”

  “There will be a secondo too?”

  “There’s always a secondo.” He chuckled as he pushed open a door at the top of the stairs.

  I stepped out onto an enormous rooftop terrace. The roofs of Florence stretched in a sea of orange terracotta, defunct chimneys and TV antennas. The enormous dome of the Duomo rising above them all.

  Oranges and lemons in huge planters dotted the terrace. A large wisteria vine curled around and over a stone pergola, sweet-smelling purple blossoms hanging like clusters of grapes.

  Under the pergola, a table was set for lunch. Chiara and Nonna were scooting things around, making room for the pasta and bread. Another woman, who I could only assume was Dante’s mother, placed napkins on the pasta bowls with a . . . why, yes, . . . a white rat perched on her shoulder.

  “Here you are.” She looked at us and smiled.

  “Hi. I’m Claire.” I took a step toward her, holding out my hand.

  “Judith.” She shook my hand with a firm grip.

  Maybe in her late fifties, Judith radiated warmth and kindness. Tall and curvy, she had curly, shoulder-length hair and the same deep blue eyes as Tennyson. The rat scampered around her shoulders.

  Judith arched an eyebrow at the bag Dante still carried. “You brought me a present?”

  “A pigeon with a hurt leg.”

  “And?”

  “Nun.”

  Like Chiara, she nodded, as if that explained everything.

  He gave his mother the bowl of cheese and took the cruet from me, handing it to her as well.

  He motioned for me to follow him around a row of lemon trees to the opposite side of the terrace where a large room sat. I could hear squawks and meows and snuffles coming from inside.

  Dante opened the door and I walked into an animal hospital. Cats, birds, rodents and even a dog or two sat in comfortable cages lining one wall. All of them sporting bandages of some kind. The room smelled of fur, antiseptic and sawdust. He absently scratched the head of a cat through the bars of the cage as he passed.

  “My mom was a veterinarian before she retired.” Dante lifted a clean, empty cage off the shelf, setting it on a metal table in the middle of the room. “She treats injured animals and then releases them back into the wild, in the case of birds, and finds homes for the others.”

  “You bring her animals often?”

  “Sometimes
. I seem to be drawn to ones who used to be people.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.”

  Gently, he opened the bag and set Sister Floozy into the cage. The pigeon hopped around, looking at me with weary eyes. “Mom will deal with her leg after lunch.”

  I looked around the room. “So all these animals were people in a past life?”

  “Some. The cat there was a pirate.”

  “Please tell me his shadow has an eye patch.”

  Dante chuckled. “Nope. Just scraggly hair and missing teeth.” He stepped too close to me and motioned for us to leave.

  The cat meowed as I passed by. I tried to feel sorry for it, but a scurvy pirate? It didn’t take much imagination to understand the things a pirate had done to end up reincarnated as a cat.

  Dante led me out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

  Two minutes later, I was seated next to Dante at the table under the wisteria vine, eating some of the best pasta of my life. How could simple penne, tomatoes and parmesan cheese taste so good?

  Conversation bounced around the table. Dante talked about our project with the Colonel. Judith asked questions, the rat still perched on her shoulder, twitching its nose at the pasta. Tennyson ate mostly in silence, but I got the impression his eyes missed nothing.

  Chiara was the life of the table. She focused all her energy on you when she spoke, asking and answering questions. Laughing too loud at my lame attempts at humor. Darling. It was the only word I could think of to describe her. She was just this darling bundle of life.

  She worked as a researcher of sorts. “I’m the person you come to when you have a historical question no one else can answer—I do everything from genealogy to dramaturgy.”

  It all felt casual and normal, but I could sense an undercurrent. A lingering tension.

  Somehow Tennyson being here was meaningful. I definitely got the impression he didn’t join the family often.

  Judith asked him questions about the family villa near Volterra where he lived. Dante mentioned a hiking trip they were planning to Mont Blanc at the end of summer.

  Everyone drawing Tennyson into the conversation and, yet, tiptoeing around him at the same time. As if he were a bomb that needed to be handled with care.