Runaway Tide

by Julie Carobini

  Not that she was in any particular hurry. She’d woken up with the odd reminder that nothing pressing awaited her—no phone calls or emails or hysterical bosses. The line crept forward, and reflexively, she felt for her phone in her crossover purse. Still dead. She had mixed feelings about charging it, though she would have been able to buy her ticket in advance. The other part of her didn’t care to know who might be trying to reach her.

  Once inside, she wandered with the throng down the long corridor, taking her time to view Michelangelo’s sculptures described as enslaved, their bodies seeming to struggle to make it to completion. Surely, the museum curators would save David for the very end of the tour, like a decadent dessert. She determined to be patient, to savor the trill of foreign voices speaking in whispers in their native tongues, to listen to the past as she took in the undulating figures lining the hall.

  Then she spotted him. At the end of the first corridor, the marbleized David rose above the crowd, his head and body illuminated by nature’s light. Her throat caught. She reached out involuntarily, as if to steady herself. Already? Perhaps this is what the gallery’s creator had planned all along—to take one by surprise.

  Those whispers around her accelerated, yet did not rise above unacceptable levels. A reverence filled the space beneath that dome where Michelangelo’s David stood mighty and unashamed. Nothing was held back in his depiction. The smooth, veined stone displayed strength and valor, confidence and focus. He was about to slay a giant, and he was … breathtaking.

  Meg thought of the magnificent David and her ensuing impressions for some time as she traversed the streets of Florence. All around her history expressed itself, in the art, the architecture … the faces of the old women sweeping the sidewalks outside of their shops. Several times she found herself voicing her observations to strangers. Affection for the abundance of beauty flowed out of her. Some would smile and nod, while others would look at her as if she had mistaken them for someone else. She continued to walk and see and smell and take in her surroundings.

  After stopping at Mercado Centrale for a salad with rocket, tomato, and mozzarella, she continued on until reaching the Duomo. The hint of soreness on the top of her foot she had experienced in the morning had grown to a decided throbbing, so she found a spot on a curb outside of a busy gelateria to sit and watch the flow of tourists through the piazza. Others lounged beside her, feasting on cones of gelato. If it were not for the stifling heat, she might have stayed put all afternoon.

  A pregnant woman stepped onto the curb next to her, her cotton sundress clinging and unforgiving. Poor thing. She swallowed back a sudden thought. Liddy! She had been so lost in her wound-licking that she had not bothered to let her best friend know she had arrived safely. She bit her lip and glanced around the piazza partially obstructed by the Duomo itself, hoping but not fully expecting to find a store where she might buy a phone charger.

  Meg turned to a woman in a floppy hat next to her. “Scusa?” She held up her iPhone. “Dov'è il Apple Store?”

  The woman smiled. “Allora cinque minuti.” She pointed at Meg’s feet. “A piedi.”

  A five-minute walk. Surely that would not be too difficult?

  “Look,” she said, her phone screen open to a map. “You see.”

  Meg nodded, taking in the route. “Grazie, grazie!”

  Her walk took her along Via dei Calzaiuoli, down Via dei Pecori, until a Prada store on a side street caught her eye. She detoured to take in the colorful handbags dangling from arms of expression-less mannequins in one of the tall display windows. An Italian woman stopped next to her, exclaimed at the price, and shook her wrist at the lifeless models in the window before walking away.

  She cracked up. Liddy would have loved that. Meg turned back toward her original route, suddenly concerned about how long the store would stay open. Uninjured feet would grow weary from all this walking, let alone one that had atrophied from non-use. She rounded the corner back to Via dei Pecori, taking note of the street she had just ducked down: Via Roma.

  Something niggled at her about that street name. She rethought her decision not to stay at least one night in Rome before moving on to Florence, but hindsight was 20/20, they say. Who knew she would chicken out about calling Domenic and Elena? A piece of her heart sank. She could not leave without seeing them. She determined that once her phone was back in use—and once she had found the nerve—she would give William’s old friends a call.

  * * *

  His body had taken all day to adjust to the time change. Near-constant yawning made him question whether he really had been successful. It was late afternoon, and while Domenic took a nap and Elena puttered, Jackson pushed off sleep and decided to go for a walk. He had worked plenty already, answering emails—and checking his texts for any sign of Meg. The narrow street in front of the apartment building teemed with tourists now. He waited as a tour group passed by, its leader holding up a flag to keep her travelers from becoming separated.

  She could be anywhere. He frowned. Stepping into fresh air was meant to clear his head, not break his heart. Unfortunately, everywhere he looked, he saw her. A woman speaking to a friend near the corner … a young woman leaning up against a wall, gesturing wildly as she spoke on her phone … a petite woman peering into a store window a long block away. Everywhere.

  Get a grip on yourself, idiot. A walk. A long walk away from here would help him shake off the reality that he had traveled across the world for a pipe dream. The more he thought about her, though, the more he longed to explain himself. Would she even give him the chance?

  He turned the corner from the apartment on Via Roma and made his way west toward Via Pellicceria stopping to check the map on his phone once. Left turn, right turn, until he made it to the bridge overlooking the Arno River, across from Ponte Vecchio.

  The river’s water reflected its surroundings, windowed buildings and the bridge’s archways like watercolor paintings. The bridge bulged with walkers, the current weather doing nothing to dissuade the crowds. Of course, he had been inside Domenic and Elena’s fully air-conditioned apartment all day and only now realized that the temperature had probably cooled some from earlier. Despite the abundance of life in the streets, a sense of loneliness engulfed him. And fatigue. He questioned himself again, knowing that no matter how he had tried to spin this, he had no other reason for coming all the way here except to find her.

  He snapped a look at his phone, in case a text appeared from Liddy. Though empty, he stared at the screen, a sudden roiling in his gut. Meg had not bothered to tell her mother exactly where she was going. Neither had she contacted her best friend to let her know that she had made it safely. She certainly had not been in touch with Domenic and Elena, two people who would have opened their arms and their home to her.

  He inhaled a thick breath of Florence air and blew it back out again, his fist pressed into the railing of the stone bridge. Meg did not want to be found. Then why, he implored of himself, did he come all the way here?

  Jackson shoved himself away from the bridge and began to walk. He walked past vendors and shops and restaurants bulging with boisterous diners. Yet hunger eluded him. He had a company to run, a company losing money by the day, and like a dolt he had flown out here on a whim, telling himself he would do “research” while here.

  He couldn’t very well add a spa to a business that was failing, now could he?

  By the time he reached the carousel that stood in a piazza, he had made a decision. He would be back at the Marino’s in time to eat the evening meal—he did not care to inspire the wrath of Elena by not showing up for dinner—and while he charged his phone, he would book himself on the first plane out of Florence tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  Meg stepped into her rented apartment, the interior stifling. She dropped her purse onto a vinyl chair and reached for a window, throwing open its sash. The familiar aroma of truffle oil wafted inside, along with the clink of dishware from the nearby restaurant kitchen. M
aybe she should have left the windows open all day, but then again, how many gnats would have found their way inside? Not to mention her rental was on the first floor, which was technically above street level, but not by much.

  She plugged the charger into the wall and then into her phone. While filling a glass with tap water, she made a mental note to pop outside again later to pick up bottles of water and snacks. Fortunately, she had picked up a “take away” of spaghetti on her way back to the apartment.

  A buzz and several dings let her know her phone had been reactivated. It had, in fact, lit up like a Vegas slot machine. How much were these texts costing?

  * * *

  Hey, girl, let me know when you’re there

  * * *

  Living vicariously through you. You there yet?

  * * *

  Meg! Getting worried

  * * *

  This is NOT healthy for little Bruno (Current name pick, you know, like Bruno Mars. You like?)

  * * *

  p.s. Jackson is a wreck. Has it bad for you

  * * *

  p.p.s. Don’t let that last text keep you from calling me. Seriously worried, Meggie.

  * * *

  Oh no. She shut her eyes, guilt pelleting her like hail. If she didn’t answer soon, Liddy would kill her. She would haul her pregnant self onto a plane and hunt her down in the streets of Florence. And Meg would deserve it! It was late morning at home and Liddy should be at work. She lowered herself into the lone vinyl chair in the room, picked up her phone, and ran her thumbs over the text box.

  * * *

  So sorry. Phone died—no charger! Bought new one today

  I am fine. Stop worrying

  She paused before texting again.

  Florence is beautiful. Very sorry I scared you

  * * *

  She ignored the text about Jackson, wishing his interest in her whereabouts rang true. It was more likely that he took one look at her hit list and wished he hadn’t been so harsh. She made a mental note to find Wi-Fi and check her email tomorrow so her clients wouldn’t feel neglected.

  She peered at her phone to see if Liddy had responded. Nothing. The aroma of spaghetti and meatballs reached out to her, so with a sense of satisfaction that she’d done her duty and alerted her BFF that all was well, she unstuck herself from the chair.

  But on her way to the kitchen, her foot landed funny. Ouch! Knife-like pain emanated from her foot and up the front of her leg as she limped into the tiny kitchen. “Oh no.” She swallowed against the sharp pain and hopped to the freezer where she found a few crusted-over ice chunks. Was ice supposed to be beige? At least she would not be consuming them.

  Meg reclined, that plate of spaghetti on her lap, her rogue foot up on a small coffee table, soothed by the ice wrapped in a towel. She had made it her practice to carefully plan her trips to include weather-appropriate clothing, necessary electronics, and backup medicines. So far on this trip, though, she was zero for three.

  She savored another bite of dinner, thankful for its sustenance. Her foot was another story. Not only had soreness reared its presence, but there appeared to be swelling where earlier today there had been none. Possibly a byproduct of doing more walking in one day than she had in a month—but a niggling of fear persisted. She glanced around, taking in the plain walls. The thought of being stranded in Italy held an air of romanticism, but stuck inside these four walls? Not so much.

  Chapter 12

  “Are you sure you must go so soon?” Domenic asked, wincing at the noise Elena was making in the kitchen behind them. Pans crashing. Silverware thrown together. He gestured toward his wife. “She is unhappy that you are not staying … had many meals planned for you.”

  Jackson called out to her, “I will come back. I promise, Elena!”

  She mumbled something in response and Domenic simply shrugged. “She will get over it.”

  Jackson stuck out a hand. “Thank you again for your hospitality. I’m sorry to have fallen asleep so early last night—and to cut my trip short, but duty calls. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I will walk you to your car.”

  Jackson held up a hand. “No, not necessary. I’ve already received a text that my car is here and cannot wait long, so I’ll just run down and take off.”

  The driver sped off the second Jackson threw his bag in the car. “The authorities don’t like it if you drive in this section of Florence, do they?”

  The man shook his head. “No. But for you, I make an exception.”

  “Appreciated.” Jackson sat back and attempted to relax. He allowed his eyes to shut. Surely, he had made the right decision. Email had been stacking up. He had only brought clothing for a week. The profit-and-loss reports in his bag painted a sad picture. Yes, yes, he assured himself, his decision was correct.

  A moment of pause came over him.

  What if something really had happened to Meg? What if she wasn’t simply being hardheaded—but had gotten lost, like he had mentioned to Liddy?

  He swallowed a groan. No sense drawing the driver’s attention to this sudden onset of indecisiveness in his life. Liddy had said she would let him know if she heard from Meg, but no call had ever come.

  * * *

  Meg awoke to the buzz of passersby outside her window, warmth and light streaming through the curtains. She pictured brioche and cappuccinos. Eager for her own breakfast, she kicked off the thin cotton sheet she had slept under, rolled over—and yelped.

  Her foot, tender and puffy, greeted her. With a regretful sigh, she rested her head in her hands. She had only paid for this apartment through the morning. She had no desire to stay in this low-cost sauna any longer than necessary, but if she could not continue her sightseeing, where would she go?

  She glanced out the window, not caring that her bedhead might be spotted through the gauzy curtains. A world of tourists and locals mingled just beyond those windows, but she doubted she could traverse the streets with the same gusto that she’d carried on with the day before.

  When she switched on her phone, a ping startled her. And again. Four times in all, the screen of her phone lit up like Christmas:

  * * *

  Thank the Good Lord! I was at the doctor’s office when you texted, btw! Baby is growing!

  * * *

  Have you seen Domenic and Elena?

  * * *

  How about that yummy statue of David?

  * * *

  Oh! Jackson is AWOL. Nobody has heard from him. Probably out looking for you. Lol

  * * *

  She doubted that last one. More likely, he was out looking for her replacement. She grunted and forced herself to stand. Her room looked like the inside of a dryer, her clothes and other belongings tumbled everywhere. No more of this! She had allowed herself to act quite out of character, but it was time to pull herself together.

  She made a call on her phone.

  “Pronto?”

  “Domenic? Good morning—buon giorno. This is Meg calling.”

  “Meghan! It is you!”

  She chuckled. “I am here—in Florence. I know that might come as a surprise—”

  “Beautiful news. You must come to our home on Via Roma. We are so happy to see you!”

  Tears pooled. Why had she waited so long? “Grazie. I am so sorry for not calling you sooner, but I will be there later today.”

  “How far could you be?”

  “Not very. I am just moving slowly today after too much walking yesterday. My foot is very sore, so I will call a taxi after I am able to pack and get downstairs.”

  “Nonsense! I will come to meet you. Please stay put.” His voice muffled, as if he had turned away. “Elena! Our Meghan has hurt her foot. We will need ice!”

  She laughed out loud at this. “Grazie, grazie, Domenic. I will shower and be ready in an hour.”

  “Cara?”

  Her heart tugged at his endearment. “Yes?”

  “I am sorry to tell you this but Ja
ckson just left here.”

  “Jackson … is here? In Florence?”

  “He was here. But he only recently left. I believe he was looking for you.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but I am certain that he was.”

  A barrage of questions crowded her thoughts. Jackson. In Florence. How did he know where to look? She shook her head tightly. Of course. Pepper had thrown a fit when she heard Meg on the phone with Domenic. Sibling pressure must have driven him to fly all the way out here to see what she was up to.

  Would these people never give up with the antics? With the accusations?

  With newfound energy, Meg rolled her wayward clothes and tucked them into her suitcase. She would not allow this unexplainable turn of events to ruin her vacation to one of the most beautiful places in the world. Gingerly, she stepped through the rest of the apartment, looking for belongings she might have left in a corner or under a chair. She took a shower, grateful for more than a trickle of water pressure, and towel-dried her hair, realizing that for the second time in years she would have to let it dry naturally. She was glad he had gone—thankful she had narrowly missed letting Jackson find her. The woman staring back at her in the mirror, the one with the wavy hair, looked refreshed. Hopeful, even.