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  He froze.

  “You sure?” he asked around the mouthful of cheese.

  “Uh, yeah. I stared at her long and hard during the meeting. I think she was a phone call away from a restraining order by the end.”

  “No shadows.” Branwell pursed his lips, reaching for more pecorino. “Is that possible with someone who isn’t a relative?”

  “I have no idea. She’s blank, that’s all I know. Granted, the Colonel and Pierce were both a little sputtery too.” I cut a wedge of cheese for myself. Salty and tangy. “It makes no sense.”

  “Weird. So Claire looks like me or Tenn? Empty air behind her?”

  “Yep. Not a hint of anything.”

  For some reason, I couldn’t see the past life shadows of those closest to me.

  Mom, Branwell and Tennyson were completely blank. Sometimes I would get a flicker from Chiara and Nonna, but they were generally absent too. Aunts, uncles, cousins, close friends . . . I tended to see more, though there was the static with them as well, like I had seen with the Colonel and Pierce.

  “How do you feel about her? Claire?” Branwell asked.

  I shrugged. “She’s pretty. You’ve seen the photos. Tall. Built like a runway model. Blond. Gorgeous blue eyes—”

  “You’ve always had a thing for tall blonds.”

  “True.”

  “So that’s . . . relevant, I suppose. Claire seems a little standoff-ish.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And then there’s the psycho video. She’s all ice until she cracks and the crazy sneaks out.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Not your type.”

  “Exactly. Look,”—I waved the cheese knife at him—“I get your subtext and the answer is no. I’m not in love with Claire. I barely know her.”

  Up until now, the family explanation for lacking shadows had been based on available evidence—blank persons were people I loved.

  Basically, the more I loved someone, the fewer their shadows. Love had been the criteria. We reasoned that people I loved were emotionally too near. It was like holding a pen to the side of your eye. If you were looking straight ahead, the pen was too close to be seen.

  But now . . .

  I sighed. “Assuming my GUT is not fracturing or changing, we might to have to reassess our assumptions.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Branwell nodded. “We know one branch of reincarnation theory states that, life after life, you tend to associate with the same souls. You become bound to each other. I’m your brother in this life, but in other lives, I have probably been your father, son or best friend. We know, empirically, that mom and I were vitally important to you in at least one past life.”

  That was true.

  My GUT is generally benign, but if all the stars align just right, it can be powerfully terrifying, sparking a bonafide past life regression. It’s only happened twice in my life.

  The first occurred when I was a kid. My mom had decided to take us boys to visit an old friend in London.

  I was just ten-years-old, so I don’t recall where we were exactly.

  All I know is this—one minute, I was walking through a perfectly modern British doorway with my mom.

  The next—I was rushing into a Victorian bedroom, thrusting a bowl under the chin of a pretty woman just as she vomited bright red blood.

  Suddenly, I was thirty-year-old Michael Strickland—London MP—and my sister, Anne, was dying of consumption. A terrified maid hovered nearby, wringing her hands around a handkerchief.

  I was fully immersed in the past.

  I could smell the metallic blood. I heard Anne’s labored breathing as she lay back, trembling hands clutching her cotton nightgown. Felt the cool wet of the washcloth Michael used to wipe her face. Spoke Michael’s words of love and support.

  I had been at her bedside for nearly a week, tending to her, watching her slowly slip away. So much grief and frustration and loss. The heavy weight of silence filled the room. I focused on Anne’s chest, stuttering up and down. Tasted the tears on my upper lip.

  I watched, spellbound, as Anne gave one last gasping, rasping breath. Blood bubbled from her mouth. She choked and then lay still.

  The agony of that moment . . . I collapsed over her body, weeping . . . ugly, soul-wracking.

  I surfaced from the regression into the same room. Only back in the present.

  Shocked. Stunned. Sobbing uncontrollably.

  I turned to see my mother with a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  She had experienced everything with me. But from Anne’s point-of-view. Mom had been Anne. Felt the agonizing pain, the terror of drowning alive. The knowledge that she was leaving her beloved brother alone in the world . . .

  Branwell, who had seen us pause, said it was just like a blink. A stutter of only milliseconds.

  But for me and Mom, it had been much longer. Minutes. Maybe even half an hour.

  The experience was traumatic. It had taken months before I could even talk about it without crying. I clung to my mom, worried that she would die like Anne.

  The whole episode was a watershed moment for everyone. Our ‘talents’ had never affected anyone but us three boys. But now we knew the GUT had fractured so much it could involve outside people.

  I had experienced another past life regression with Branwell in college. That one . . . well, let’s just say I still had nightmares about it.

  Fortunately, the regressions implied that most of my past lives had occurred along my mother’s Scottish and English heritage, not my father’s Italian one.

  Which was a relief. I probably had experienced few, if any, past lives in Italy. Which meant the chances of walking down a street with Chiara and suddenly watching her die from a knife through the chest were slim.

  It’s the little things in life.

  But what did this mean for the present situation with Claire?

  I looked at Branwell while eating another bite of pecorino, pondering.

  “Love might still be key.” He shrugged. “We’ve always assumed that love in this life was the connecting factor. But what if that’s wrong?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Maybe love in past lives affects it too. So if you loved someone in the past, you can’t see the shadow of that life, which would result in someone looking sputtery.”

  “Are you saying I loved Pierce and the Colonel in some past life?” I snorted in disbelief. “Because that seems . . . unlikely.”

  “They’re your past lives, dude, not mine. You must have some freaky stuff in there.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “There are two options here.” Branwell reached for another slice of cheese. “One, your GUT is going haywire. Or, two, our previous assumptions about how your GUT works are incorrect. Aside from the shadow thing with Claire and the rest, has everything else been normal?”

  “Yeah.”

  I told him about testing the table at the Colonel’s.

  “Look, Dante, there’s no manual for our GUTs.” Branwell waved his hand back and forth between us. “We’ve always been in figure-it-out-as-we-go mode. Up until now, maybe you hadn’t met anyone outside friends and family who had been emotionally important to you in other lives. But you probably loved people other than your current relatives and friends in the past.”

  “It is possible, I’ll give you that.”

  “Possible? No, it’s brilliant. For example, if you’ve known and loved me in all your past lives—’cause, let’s face it, how could you not?—” He shot me a wink. “—then that could explain my missing shadows.”

  “Yeah, but Claire is dead air space. Not a trace of a single shadow.”

  Branwell just grinned—salaciously, I might add—and rolled a gloved hand. Ergo . . .

  I stared at him. Blinked.

  “Are you suggesting Claire Raythorn is my woman?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “That I have loved her—Batty Ray Psycho, mind you—lif
e after life after life? Loved her so much that I can’t see the tiniest trace of a shadow?”

  A chill chased my spine—the sensation that my words rang with truth.

  I shook the feeling away. No way I was getting involved with Batty Ray Psycho.

  “Soulmates, brother.”

  “That seems so improbable . . . I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Branwell laughed, low and wicked.

  “I’m not sure I even believe in soulmates,” I grumbled.

  I had never experienced any transcendental, soul-esque connection with any of my past girlfriends. It probably explained why I didn’t date much, despite my reputation.

  “C’mon, it would be a great story,” Branwell said. “Your eyes meet across a crowded room, instant happily-ever-after—”

  “That’s one-too-many Disney movies talking there.”

  “No deflecting. Seriously, what’s your take on Claire Raythorn? You still haven’t answered my question.”

  I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Despite the almost electric shock earlier when I touched her wrist, I wasn’t sure she was that woman. Physical attraction did not equal emotional attraction.

  I preferred women who were more animated and open. Ready to flirt as hard as I did. WYSIWYG women—what-you-see-is-what-you-get.

  Which in no way described Claire Raythorn.

  I flaked off another bite of cheese. It needed some fruit. I grabbed a pear sitting in a bowl on the table and snagged a paring knife. Branwell’s eyes lit up.

  In silence, I sliced into the pear. Branwell reached for the knife, intending to cut some for himself. I waved him away.

  He sighed. I ignored it.

  I sliced the pear into bite-size chunks, being careful to make as little noise as possible. I arranged the pears on Branwell’s plate.

  “Thank you,” he said dryly. “You do realize I am perfectly capable of cutting my own pear.”

  “Just helping where I can.”

  And then I winced. That was always the wrong thing to say.

  “No, you’re going all nonna and coddling me. Barreling into my space. Treating me like I’m somehow less-than.” Branwell gave another hefty sigh and reached for a slice of pear, along with the pecorino.

  “Branwell—”

  “Broken as I am, I wouldn’t change myself.” He dropped the pecorino/pear chunk in his mouth. “The GUT . . . it’s like diabetes, brother. It’s manageable.”

  “You really haven’t hung out with Tenn lately, have you?”

  “Point taken.”

  “You live in a cage.”

  “Don’t we all?” With a roll of his eyes, Branwell reached for more cheese and pear. “Besides, you’re still deflecting about Claire—”

  “Who’s deflecting?” Chiara bounced into the room. Our sister was perpetually in a state of bouncy-ness.

  “Branwell,” I said.

  “Dante,” he said.

  Without missing a beat, Chiara strode over to the stove and stirred the pasta sauce. She had years of practice of ignoring us.

  Where Branwell and I took after our mother’s Scottish ancestry in build, Chiara was one hundred percent Italian. Petite, dark and constantly in motion.

  “I think I’m going to side with Branwell on this one,” she said as she turned around. “What’s up, Dante?”

  “Is something up with Dante?” That came from our mother, Judith.

  Mom strolled into the kitchen on Chiara’s heels, a white rat on her shoulder. Tall and curvy with vivid blue eyes, it was obvious why our father had fallen so hard for her.

  “He’s deflecting.” Chiara waved a tomato-sauce covered spoon in my direction.

  “Dante is an expert deflector.” Mom stroked the white rat fidgeting on her shoulder.

  Mom had sold her veterinary clinic in Portland four years ago and moved to Italy. Given the situation with Tennyson at the time . . . she had been desperately needed. Once here, she had converted part of our rooftop terrace into a makeshift animal hospital for strays. Most she re-homed. But every now and again, she kept one.

  Like the white rat, Boney, currently on her shoulder.

  I was nearly a hundred percent sure Mom’s rat was the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte. Though people always had silvery shadows, animals only occasionally did. And you just can’t part with an animal who had once been the Nightmare of Europe.

  Boney liked being petted and running on his wheel. But every now and again, he would stand on his hind legs and press a tiny paw to his chest. His entire body coming to attention.

  In those moments, the resemblance was uncanny.

  “Com’è il sugo?” Nonna waddled into the kitchen, walking over to the tomato sauce. The small space was getting crowded.

  My grandma was a truly traditional Italian nonna. The ultimate love child of Sophia Loren and Martha Stewart, as Chiara described it.

  Nonna cooked and cleaned in a knee-length tight skirt, nylons and heels, her short silver hair always curled and thoroughly sprayed into place. She wore a mink fur coat to do her grocery shopping. In other words—your average, elderly Italian woman.

  “Would you like me to cut the bread, Nonna?” I asked, switching to Italian.

  “Please.”

  I slid past Branwell—careful not to brush his skin—and grabbed a bread knife from a magnetic strip on the tiled wall.

  “We’re not done discussing Claire,” he murmured to me. “I won’t let you deflect this away.”

  Seven

  Claire

  Claire, darling, could you hold on a second?” My mom’s breezy voice sailed through the connection.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Phone to my ear, I stood on the Ponte Vecchio, nestled between overhanging medieval houses and under the arched Vasari Corridor. (Sixteenth century. The Medici’s private commuter lane.)

  Mom’s voice murmured in the background, talking to someone.

  Jet lag had caught up with me after the Colonel’s meeting. I had returned to my hotel room and crashed. I awoke this morning with a clearer mind and managed to get some preliminary work done—research on Michelangelo’s composition in the Battle of Cascina and building a list of items to examine. I couldn’t really do anything more until I physically examined the sketch.

  So now I was rewarding myself with a jaunt through my favorite parts of Florence.

  Which led to thinking about Grammy.

  Which led to wondering if Grammy had known the Colonel.

  Which led to calling my mom.

  Which might have been a mistake.

  “Claire, are you still there?” Mom’s voice came back.

  “Yeah. I’m here. I just had a quick question for you—”

  “No, no, Micky. The gauze needs to be over there, nearer to the light.” Mom’s voice faded out as she pulled the phone from her ear to talk to someone. Micky, I assumed.

  Finally Mom came back to me. “How hard can it be to get gauze wrapped correctly around pink flamingos?”

  “Right? Gauze.” I gave a strained chuckle. “Look, I just had a question—”

  “Oh, good. I have a question for you too. Did I tell you about the installation, darling? The one with the Rockefellers?” Mom had this odd east coast accent that wasn’t completely American or British, but something in between. It should have been off-putting, but most people simply considered it bohemian.

  “Uhmmm, I think I heard someone mention it—”

  “It’s going to be brilliant. The music has taken us months to get right.”

  “Music? But, you guys don’t do music—”

  “I know, I know. We hired a composer. She’s brilliant, but I think your stepfather finds her brilliant in other ways. You know how he is.” Mom laughed her brittle laugh. The one that was anything but amused.

  Figured John-Baptista would be giving my mom fits.

  I had no memory of my real father, Tom, Grammy’s son. He had died in a car accident when I was three. Mo
m remarried JB when I was five. I called him Dad and we got along fine.

  Fortunately for me, my mom and Grammy had always had a close relationship, even after my biological father died. Grammy loved people so hard, you had no choice but to love her back.

  “Anyway, the music has to be timed with the gauze,” Mom continued, “and we just don’t have the resources—Micky, Micky! No!”

  Mom’s voice drifted back to that low hum . . . I only caught the occasional word . . . too high . . . more flowy . . . not now . . .

  “Mom. Mom!” I tried to pull her attention back.

  Mom and her fabric. You can still find postcards of her Lady Liberty: Mourning in New York City even though the National Park Service only allowed the black cloth to remain on the statue for twenty-four hours.

  I studied the tourists window-shopping along the bridge, gawking at the goldsmith shops. Everyone looking for that special something.

  A metaphor for my life.

  “Mom!” I said one last time.

  “Oh, Claire.” She was breathless now. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, but Mom—”

  “So you got all that about the Rockefellers, right?”

  “About the installation?”

  “Yes. The supplier and the media people need to be paid beforehand, and you know how JB is with money. Anyway, I’m sure you still have that inheritance Grammy left you . . .” Her voice trailed into hint, hint, hint.

  I sighed. There was no inheritance from Grammy. Just the house, which I had no intention of selling. Mom never listened to my explanations.

  “Mom, how much do you need?”

  She named a sum equal to about half my current month’s salary from the Colonel.

  I needed that money. Grammy’s house required repairs and after so many months without employment, I had plenty of credit card bills of my own. But . . .

  “I promise I’ll pay it all back as soon as the Rockefeller’s settle our invoice,” Mom said, correctly reading my hesitation.

  Right. And the day I believed that . . .

  “Promise you’ll pay it back?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  The lies we told each other.

  “Fine. I’ll transfer what I can into your account,” I said. Sometimes I hated that I loved my mom.