A couple of very handsome and very young men sipped something at a nearby table. One spoke, an invitation perhaps. She ignored him. The other’s lifted glass and toast of “Bella” slipped through the language barrier. She appreciated the compliment—who wouldn’t—but she’d read that Italian men flirted with anything female, no matter her age. Ducking her head between bites, she tried to emit no-talking vibes. No men allowed. No chatting or smiling or speaking. Period.
Thank you very much.
Wine with lunch meant a nap. After her tramp through the streets and her visit to the Colosseum early that morning, bed sounded like luxury. She left a hefty tip for the waiter and wandered back out into the sun.
Her stomach did a little lurching thing, as if it knew home, when she turned the corner and saw the sign for her quaint hotel. Retrieving her key from the desk, she thanked the bent and smiling clerk and climbed the marble steps to the second floor and her room, which overlooked a small courtyard. There, she eased out of her sundress and slid between the cool sheets.
Sleep should have been inevitable. She lay with closed eyes until images she’d tried to bury danced across her lids: Jack laughing as Alice bucked on a wave, reaching for her. And India, standing in the background, furiously pointing a finger. “He’s mine.”
Sam tossed off the sheet and grabbed her book. Sophrina had tracked the jewel thief to Bologna and was hot on his trail, but the words began to jumble and mix with India’s voice crying Jack’s name, with India’s voice screaming Sam’s.
Oh, God, please.
Noises filtered through her window. Siesta had closed the shops. In the interlude, pots clanged and people talked and laughed. Sam wished she could be a fly on the wall, one who grasped this foreign language and could share the humor. Here, in Italy. Not there, in North Carolina, in the life she’d left behind.
By morning, she felt ready to try the touristy bits again. She breakfasted in the hotel’s parlor on espresso and a pane al cioccolato. Sweet chocolate in a semi-sweet pastry. She could get used to this. And get fat from it.
Well, maybe not right away. She still had pounds to put back on before she looked normal.
The crisp morning air made the trek to the other side of the city invigorating, and she lined up with the hordes to visit the Vatican. She’d never seen anything quite so awe-inspiring as the Sistine Chapel ceiling, although craning her neck while cheek to jowl with those hordes did nothing for her comfort level, in spite of the guards who stood everywhere, shushing all to silence.
She imagined Michelangelo, flat on his back, high above the floor with a paintbrush in his hand. How could he have had enough prospective to create such paintings when he couldn’t move back far enough—without climbing down and then up again—to make sure that hand fit where it ought and that robe hung as it should? How had he imagined the scenes? God’s finger reaching out, God breathing life. The history of mankind that had led to the coming of a Savior. The scenes from Christ’s life. And there, at the front of the chapel, a crucifix.
The death. The resurrection.
What hours of preparation had gone into the planning, the drawing, the crafting of a vision that still sent people to their knees? She’d have fallen to hers if she’d been alone.
And then a shout startled her and everyone else in the room. “My money!” In American-accented English, no less.
The crowd did its best to part as a guard rushed forward, and Sam could hear the man’s words along with the frightened mewling of a woman who must have been his wife. “Look here. Someone unzipped my waist bag. How? I didn’t feel a thing!”
Sam touched the small purse that dangled between her breasts and under her shirt. As she watched the crowd, another worry added itself to her load: pickpockets clever enough to lift valuables with no one noticing.
She exited the Vatican and headed back across the Tiber using un ponte— a bridge—slightly upriver from the first. Repeating the Italian word, she committed it to memory as she stared down at the narrow canal that was the Tiber River. The water looked deep and brown and very unappealing.
She tried to focus her attention on the streets, the bridges, the buildings, but a dark head or a certain look—or even the sight of water flowing past—brought a rush of memory. Jack, finger combing his dark hair. Jack, calling her to sail, to play, to forget her world of hurt.
The trouble with trouble was that it didn’t go away just because you wanted it to. Why had she imagined a foreign place would automatically do the trick, as if the miles would wipe clean her brain’s hard drive?
So, she walked. And then walked more. Finally exhausted, she carried a slab of onion pizza back to the hotel instead of braving another elegant dining experience at a table for one.
Perched on her bed, she opened the pizza box and bit into the thick crust. It was laced with rosemary and sprinkled with Romano cheese. She did her best to enjoy all the flavors that zapped her taste buds, putting off those phone calls.
They had to be made. And her daughter’s needed to be first.
Stefi asked again when Sam would get there. “Soon,” Sam promised, unwilling to limit herself to a specific day. She’d reserved a rental car for Thursday, but she might want to stop somewhere between Rome and Florence. An entire country lay before her.
Son Daniel must have been distracted by his pregnant wife when Sam called him. Or perhaps he took his tone from his twin sister, knowing his mama had actually made it to Europe and so out of range of his control. At any rate, he began to cheer her on.
The conversations with her children had almost worn her out, but her managers needed to hear her voice. Or she needed to hear theirs.
Rhea answered at the Raleigh shop, her warm tone like honey flowing over Sam. “I’ve checked in on the girl to see how she’s making out. Seems to be fine. We have a date to meet next week.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve got no call to worry about either of us. You just take care of you. Hear? You know what you gotta do, so stick with it.”
Sam wrinkled her nose at the phone. “Yes, ma’am.” She was trying, wasn’t she?
“You don’t make it back in time for the quarterly reporting,” Rhea said, “I’ll do it for both stores.”
Tears filmed Sam’s eyes. “How did I ever get so lucky as to find you?”
“Honey, wasn’t you finding me. It was the Lord rescuing me by sending me into Samantha’s that day.”
Neither of them would win that argument, because Rhea had always given more than Sam could ever repay. It was probably time to make Rhea a partner, at least for the Raleigh store.
The talk with Rhea buoyed her enough to punch in the Beaufort number. Tootie zipped right on past the small talk. “I know you probably haven’t had time to call my uncle yet, but did I tell you how to pronounce his name in Italy? They call him Teo instead of Theo. Isn’t that cute? They spell it T-e-o, so I guess the e makes a long a in Italian? I should study the language. For when I visit him. You won’t lose his number, will you?”
“I’m sure I won’t.” Obviously, Tootie wouldn’t let her.
The girl giggled, reminding Sam how very young she was, barely older than the twins. Had Tootie undone her bright orange hair yet? The one constant delight was Tootie’s ever-changing palette.
“How’s the house? Are you comfortable?”
“I love it. I’m taking really good care of everything. Holland’s coming over this afternoon to work on Alice. And he said he’d take me sailing this weekend. We’ll be extra careful. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“I’m glad he’s there to teach you. He’s a keeper.” Sam wished he could stay at the house as protection for Tootie. “Just be sure you set the alarm every night, okay? I don’t want anything happening to you.”
“We don’t get who might have wanted to hurt you.”
One sharp-eyed flight attendant? Sam didn’t answer, but she had another excuse for staying far from home—the thought that India might esca
late damage beyond Sam’s stuff.
6
Teo
Strangers touch, and strangers see.
Lowering the bar, holding out a hand, that’s the part that’s up to me.
Teo returned to the pebbly beach, glancing over his shoulder, hoping his mystery woman would reappear. He laid his cane beside his shoes, waded out, and climbed up on a rock, his bare feet dangling on the shore side of the breakwater. Behind him, waves dumped their spume, splashing up, backing out, up and then out.
And suddenly he heard a whisper. “I need,” she said. “I need.”
The sound licked his ears, her trembling words barely audible over the persistent splashes. He turned but saw only rainbows in the water drops.
What did she need? If only she’d raise her voice, let him hear the timbre, the heft of it.
“Sono qui,” he called, his voice pitched to carry over the water.
Oh, right. She spoke in English. He translated. “I’m here.” And then, “Speak to me.”
A sob tumbled out of the nothingness.
No, not nothingness. Something crafted the words, those sounds. But who wept? How could he comfort her if he didn’t know? “Please, let me help.”
Prismed colors collided, and there she was. For a moment, her eyes stared into his. The lids lowered, and another sob caught on a breaking wave.
He sat there while the rock beneath him cooled and his trouser legs siphoned water up his calf. But she did not return, and eventually the chill in his feet and buttocks forced him up. Damp toes slid grudgingly into loafers. He ignored sand that scraped at his heel, kept his head bent forward as he trudged up the hill.
The soles of his shoes flapped against concrete. The tap of his cane joined a cacophony of cars and motorcycles and voices that all centered him in this place. Her voice, though, remained silent, even as he pushed open his apartment door and settled his cane against a chair.
He’d be heading to the States soon to meet with his editor and grab a little family time. He should let them know. He sat down, dusted the beach remnants from his feet, and picked up his cell phone.
It took only the sound of Tootie’s lilt to draw a smile from him. “Uncle Teddy! Where are you, what are you doing?”
He laughed. “Still in Reggio, my pretty. I’ll be knocking on your door in a matter of days.”
“You’ll have to come see me at the store. I’m just visiting Mom, because Sam left me in charge of Samantha’s and her house.”
“She did, huh? And why is that?”
“Oh, she’s gone to visit her daughter. I don’t think things were going well for her, you know, since her divorce. And other stuff.”
“Ah.”
“I gave her your phone number and your new book. I told you Stefi was in Florence. You remember I sent you her number so you could call her.”
“I haven’t had a chance to yet. And after my visit stateside, I’ll be heading to Greece for research.”
“Greece! Oh, I wish I could come!”
Wouldn’t it be fun to see the islands through young eyes? “I wish you could, too, but as newly appointed head honcho, you won’t have much free time.”
A sigh came through the phone, and then the chirpy voice returned. “Sam’s in Rome right now. I know she’d like to meet you.”
He shook his head. His niece, the matchmaker. “And I’m sure I’d enjoy meeting her.”
“Well, you want to talk to Mom?”
“I do. See you soon.”
As he waited for his sister to pick up the phone, he began plotting the stops for his trip, rebooting his computer to figure logistics. He’d bought his plane tickets, but he needed to confirm the rental cars, decide his route.
He had places to go and people to see. That was the best way to live. To keep moving. Think about the task at hand and not the would have been, could have beens.
7
Samantha
An indented circle of naked flesh,
Where banded gold once staked a claim,
An unadorned finger wiggling at air...
Does this proclaim freedom or merely contempt?
Sam handed her reservation number to the man behind the counter at the EuroCar Rental Agency.
“Lei parla inglese? English?”
“Un po’. A little,” the agent answered as he waited for his computer to upload Sam’s information.
A woman in a smart lemon-colored suit spoke in Italian with another agent. She seemed to be having some sort of difficulty.
“Signora,” Sam’s agent said, “it seems we find a mistake. This reservation was for yesterday, sì? And so we have it no more.”
“Yesterday? No, that’s impossible. I asked for a car for today. I’m sure of it.”
The man slid the paper across the counter and pointed at the date, then at the flip calendar at the end of the counter. Sam looked at both and then at her watch. She had to squint carefully to see that it said the same thing. Today was not Thursday, as she’d thought, but Friday.
A day had vanished. How had she lost an entire day?
“But I must get to Florence. My daughter expects me.” She had checked out of the hotel. Her bags were here, at her feet.
“Mi dispiace.” He shrugged with his face as much as his shoulders. “An auto for today is not possible. Perhaps the train?”
She wanted to be angry at him, but how, when the fault was hers? She pressed the palm of her hands flat on the counter and glanced around helplessly. The other customer, the well-dressed woman, watched. And then she spoke.
“My dear,” she said with an accent Sam couldn’t quite place. “May I perhaps be of some assistance?”
Sam merely stared back. How? By waving a wand to procure an extra car? “I seem to have misplaced a day.”
The woman’s laugh was a soothing gurgle. “So I heard. Do you know how to drive a gear stick, by any chance?”
“You mean a manual? I do indeed.”
“Then perhaps we can help one another. My reservation was for an automatic. It seems to have vanished into the same black hole that took your car. But, I do have one with a gear stick—I mean, a manual transmission—and no way to drive it. And today I go to Firenze.”
“Really?”
“This is today’s destination. I will ultimately need to be in the north, but I am sure I can exchange for a better car first. This kind lady,” —an arm swept toward the agent in front of her— “assures me that there will be a very fine automatic car awaiting me at the agency there.”
Sam held out her hand. “My name is Samantha Ransom, and I would be pleased to act as your chauffeur.”
The woman’s eyes twinkled. “Delighted, my dear.” She shook Sam’s hand once. “Martine Paoletti.”
Sam’s companion pointed the way with a casual wave and asked, “You travel to Firenze to see the sights?”
“Yes, and because my daughter, Stefi, is studying interior design through her college’s semester-abroad program.”
“It is a wonderful city for art.” Signora Paoletti smoothed her fine white hands down the yellow skirt. “I married while una studentessa in Roma thirty years ago.”
“Married?” Sam swallowed. Stefi and dashing Italians?
“Do not worry for your daughter. She will return home, I am certain. But I, I am European. This was not such a change for me.”
“Europe is bound to seem glamorous even to modern American girls.”
“Would it be so terrible?”
Sam bit her lip. Losing Stefi to Italy might not be the end of the world, but it would come close.
Signora Paoletti spoke into her silence. “My darling Tonio awaits me at our home. It is near the sea.”
“Ah.” And wasn’t that lame? But she hated that a daughter could grow up as quickly as her twin brother and make choices that distanced them all.
She had to let it go. Let them go.
But only yesterday they’d been dimpled and in diapers.
The signora’s abrup
t gesture focused Sam’s attention on her driving. “There, to the right! You must follow that road.”
Sam made the turn, grateful for fast reflexes and traffic that eased enough to let her in.
“I am so very sorry,” Signora Paoletti said. “I was not paying the proper attention. So, do you stay long with your daughter or will you continue to travel?”
“Stefi has classes, and you know the hours students keep. I want to see the city and then perhaps rent another car and just wander.”
“We are in Portofino. You must come. It is very lovely, and the tourist season will soon be at an end, so it will not be as crowded.”
“Thank you, Signora.” How fun. A destination.
“Martine. You must call me Martine. May I call you Samantha?”
“I prefer Sam.”
“Sam.” Martine rolled out the word with a cadence that had much of the Italian in it.
“You know, you sound more Italian than English. I love the accent.”
“English is merely my second language. I am one of those odd creatures who was born in France and schooled partly in England. My father was an Englishman who married into a French family. He wanted me to have both, you see.”
“And so you speak French, English, and Italian?”
“Yes, and also German and some Spanish.”
“My goodness. I can barely manage a school-girl French.”
As they zoomed north, Martine described places that remained names on signposts. Too soon, they were off the autostrada and into Firenze.
Sam pulled up in front of the rental agency. “Thank you for making this trip so delightful.”
“The feeling is mutual, my dear. Do you know where you must go now?”
Sam dug out Stefi’s address. “I’m sure a taxi driver will be able to help me.”
“Perhaps your destination is on the same route I must travel to my hotel.”
Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4) Page 5
