To Good-girl Erica, it was the pace of her life. The ticking clock. Business on the move. The next task achieved ahead of the deadline. Always gaining time against the clock.
She liked that part of herself and didn’t want to lose it. It helped her see the world as a good and orderly place.
But New-girl Erica liked it as well. It was one of the first times that the two of them had agreed.
She imagined each clock as the curator had led them to it. She would tap a mechanism and name a town. “Stesso. Stesso.” Same. Same. This one in Genoa. That one in Rome. The next in France somewhere. One she’d unbelievably insisted, “Patagonia.”
And as more and more of them came to life, Erica could feel the unexpected connections between the towns wrought on the ticking of their clocks. Over a hundred years, multiple generations of Bergallo clockworks built connections and tied the country together in unexpected ways. Each bell that rang. Each clock that ticked. Each mechanism that turned day in and day out created a layer of connectivity that she could feel in her own heart as if it too was a piece of Bergallo clockwork beating the rhythm of Italy.
She’d finally broken down and asked, “Corniglia? Bergallo?”
“Sì. Sì.” Having so few words that seemed to work between them, the curator always said them twice.
“Yes,” she told Ridley, and placed a kiss in the middle of his back—which turned out to be the inside of her own helmet, but it was the thought that counted. “I very much liked the ticking.”
Chapter 9
But Bardino Nuovo hadn’t cleared away the deeper silences behind Erica’s eyes. Ridley saw shadows of it slipping in and slipping away over the next few days. He tried to coax it out a few times, but Erica didn’t even appear to be aware of it. He was right, it had gone deep and he didn’t have any experience in this kind of fishing.
One day, she simply came to a halt. She sat in a chair at that tiny table they’d first shared and simply stopped moving except for occasionally sipping the cup of tea that Hal had served her.
“You okay, Princess?” he had settled beside her.
“Sure. Just thought it might be fun to sit and watch the world go by rather than racing through it.” And that was all she’d done. He’d have believed her, if not for her fingers idly rubbing the stones of her necklace.
That night, she’d come to his bed, curled up against him, and gone to sleep. Whatever it was, it had gone so deep that there hadn’t even been any bad dreams—he’d been awake holding her all night and would have noticed.
Before she woke, he slipped out of bed and dressed. No sign of Bridget or Hal but he didn’t have to go far. The woman who sold the purses across the street was just opening up. She was able to fill in some local history for him. And sell him what he needed. A friend of hers took care of the rest of it. He made it back before Erica woke up.
Had he ever been so happy to see a woman in his bed? In her sleep, she’d curled up around his pillow. The days in the Italian sun had pulled more of the dark reds out of her brown hair, and spattered more freckles across her nose. Her light skin had turned to the palest shade of honey. The covers had slid down enough to reveal most of one splendid breast—barely a handful, it was a handful he’d come to deeply appreciate. She had an athlete’s body and was fast ruining him for any other kind.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Rise and shine.” Then he nipped it sharply with his teeth.
“Yikes!” Thankfully, he remembered how fast she woke up and managed to get his face clear before she bashed him with the top of her head as she sat up. The sheet slid down revealing that truly fine breasts came in pairs. “Oh. You’re dressed.”
“Yep!”
“Come back to bed,” she collapsed back on the pillow and pulled the sheet back over her. “Make love to me. Get dressed some other day.”
“Tempting, but no.” Instead he yanked back the sheet, scooped her up, and carried her into the shower. He flipped on the water—which shot out an initial blast of freezing cold that had her yelping in distress. “Sorry,” he slid the handle to the right position and left her to it.
He missed her departure while he was doing a couple of quick online searches, but whatever she did upstairs, she did it fast and efficiently.
“Is this okay?” White capris, a flowing top in swirls of soft gold and warm bronze that matched the tissue-thin scarf tied to the side about her throat—the ever-present sea glass necklace just dipping into view. Again the flat sandals revealed unpainted toes. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a clip that left her face (and ears) open to see.
“Damn, you do look good enough to take back to bed.” Even better than usual. As if she was somehow shining with an inner secret.
“Missed your chance. Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Okay,” and just that easily she trusted him. Not some bimbo’s acceptance that whatever the rich boy wanted was fine. It was simply that she trusted him. He hadn’t earned a lot of women’s trust over the years and it still surprised him every time.
“Nothing big. Just a bit of a lark.”
“Downplaying it already. Bad sign, Ridley. Must be a real stinker of an idea.”
“Well, not that bad. But it’s not like I discovered another fort or anything. Just a few old Italian women that I think I have a chance of taking on in a fair fight.”
“If I hold their hands behind their backs.”
“Hey! Now I know for a fact that my manliness was insulted that time.”
She’d taken his hand as soon as they were out on the carruggio. They’d reached to the top of the long steps down to the train platform.
“Let me say this about your manliness.” And she turned into his arms—right there at the very top of the steps, on full display to any ascending or descending—wrapped her own arms about his neck, and pulled him into a kiss with plenty of body contact spillover.
His arms came around her of their own accord, sweeping up her back. It took him a moment to notice what was missing…no bra strap. The colors of the blouse had dazzled him too much to notice, but the material was so thin that she might as well have been naked beneath his palms. He dipped his fingers inside her waistband. Nothing there either.
Erica had gone commando—sans underwear of any kind! Erica Barnett! He’d never have bet on that in a thousand years. But it fired his libido onto full high.
As the kiss heated, there were calls and teases from passersby. Ultimately…applause! It was Italy, he supposed, a land that had elevated love to an art form.
By the time they broke apart, both her ears and her cheeks were bright red. His may have been too. She hid her face against his shoulder until the applause died off.
She mumbled something against his shoulder.
“What was that?”
She just shook her head and stayed snuggled in until the crowd dispersed.
* * *
She should never have said it aloud. She never should have even thought it. But it had slipped out after that amazing kiss. Never in her life had she been kissed like that…and definitely not so publicly. Ridley had given her a great kiss, until he realized that she’d left her underwear behind—a choice she’d made only after several long minutes of internal debate in front of her mirror. Erica had done it to tease him for not coming back to bed.
But what that choice had changed after he discovered her subterfuge had made any prior kiss, ever, dim by comparison. The memory of any prior lover paled before that kiss. Except Ridley, of course. The thought of that kiss and his lovemaking coming together had melted a number of very careful locks in her brain. They were barricades she’d set up long ago, a word she never used because to her mother it was just a weapon to be wielded.
If it had been just the kiss and the lovemaking, the combination wouldn’t have been enough. But adding in the considerate man who had joined in her explorations—even driving her half across Liguria because he thought she’d like the clock
museum. That he listened when she had something to say was a shock. That he offered thoughtful replies in return was unheard of. He had forced her to lighten up each time she’d thought the world had gone heavy. His instinctual kindness—against all his carefully honed habits—had somehow set the final latch free.
Erica had never expected it to come true, had never believed it possible. But the words had stumbled out of her mouth as Ridley held her against the storm of emotion inside. There was no doubt at all. It hadn’t been a question. It had been a deep, clear truth.
Until she managed to say the words again, they would always be there, resting safe upon his strong shoulder. And they’d always be true.
For the first time in her life, she’d said the words, “I love you.”
In that moment, she wouldn’t have believed anyone if they told her it would also be the last time.
* * *
He’d have preferred the water taxi, but it didn’t stop at Corniglia. There was no harbor as such. No pier into the water. The train was how they’d started, so maybe it was appropriate if the train was how they continued.
At Manarola, he shooed her off the train, but when she turned for town, he hooked her hand about his elbow and led her the other way.
“This is how you conned me into walking with you that first day in Corniglia,” she rippled her fingers inside the curve of his elbow. “Because it’s ‘what they do in Italy,’ you said.”
“It worked, didn’t it? Besides, some Italians do.”
“You’re a con man, Ridley Claremont III.”
“I’m all into good cons.”
She offered him a haughty princess “Humph!” But she didn’t remove her hand or look put out.
Unlike most of the Italian paths, the trail leading south out of Manarola was a slate-paved walkway never less than twenty feet wide and sometimes closer to fifty.
Along the cliff face, small restaurants were scattered. A few had tables out, but most were closed. He knew why, so instead turned to look the other way.
The wire railing was all that separated them from the sea. The Mediterranean splashed against the rocks close below. They moved to the railing and watched the spray shoot up and rain back down on the wet stone with each wave that came in.
When they started walking again, he asked her, “Do you know what this is?”
“The Via dell’Amore,” her voice was a whisper no bigger than the waves.
“Right. The Path of Love. Turns out that these two towns were the closest, but also the last to be connected by a trail. For centuries, commerce moved by boat, but there was no easy way for the marriageable young to meet. Once they cut this trail, the youth of the two towns could meet and it became, literally, the Path of Love. I think that’s kind of cool. Sure beats sneaking out into the high school parking lot.”
Erica continued to walk beside him, though her steps slowed.
“There’s this whole funny tradition here. Kinda sweet, I guess. Like that bridge over the Seine in Paris. A couple will come here, snap a padlock on the fence, and throw the key into the ocean. Hearts locked together and all that.”
They’d reached the tall gate that blocked the trail. Another damn chiuso sign, but at least this time it was no surprise. There were hundreds and hundreds of locks snapped onto the fence of the gate.
“Trail washed out in some big rock slide a few years back, so it’s closed until they can figure out how to fix it. Kids are fine, I suppose. Train still goes through. Probably less fun though.”
Erica looked up at him and he could see that silence lying there. But he couldn’t read her expression at all.
“Anyway, I thought it would be kinda fun. You and me.” Then he pulled the lock out of his pocket and showed it to her. He’d bought it from the purse lady, who’d offered him an amazing smile. A local jeweler had carved both of their initials into it in great, loopy swirls.
Erica didn’t react.
Instead she studied it lying there in his palm. Really studied it. The whole furrowed brow thing came into full play.
Then she looked up at him ever so slowly. “You said it was ‘Nothing big. Just a bit of lark.’”
“Sure I did.”
“And you meant that?”
“It’s just a lock on a fence. What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal?” He’d seen a lot of emotions on Erica’s face, but not this one.
It didn’t mean he wasn’t familiar with it. Oh shit!
“What’s the big fucking deal, you asshole?” She screamed it at him—even fury couldn’t make her ugly. “This is the Path of Love. This is a place I’ve dreamed about since I was a little girl. To stand here, with the One Man. To hell with all the rest of Cinque Terre. This is the spot that matters!”
“It’s just a damn five-euro lock that—”
“It’s not the lock that matters. It’s the message.” She clapped her hands so loudly together into a doubled fist than he half expected her to call down thunder and lightning from the heavens to cook his ass. “Two hearts. Locked together. Then you throw away the key. That makes it forever. It’s the Via dell’Amore. The true path of love in the romantic center of the entire world.”
“Okay, forget the lock.”
“Forget the lock?” Erica stormed away from him up the walkway for a half dozen paces before turning and storming back.
She jabbed a finger in the center of his chest, sending him stumbling backward against the gate where all the locks rattled and clanked together like chains on a prisoner bound for Hell.
“Forget the lock? Don’t you understand, Ridley? I’m in love with you. Knowing what you are didn’t stop me. I fell in love with you anyway. Your kindness. Your compassion. The way I can hear in your voice how much you loved your mother. The way mine never let me love her. It spills out of you in an unstoppable wave and it swept me up.”
She pounded the side of her fist against his shoulder, right where her face had been after this morning’s kiss atop the stairs of Corniglia. Hit him again. Then twice more.
Tears streamed down her face. He’d never seen her cry.
“I would beat it away if I could. But the words are there, on your shoulder. And I can’t.”
And now he knew what she’d said this morning.
She ground down and looked sadder than he’d imagined possible.
“But that’s my problem. You never promised me a thing. Your honor is intact. You have given me…such a gift.” Her big eyes closed and she clasped her hands over her necklace.
He was half afraid she’d tear it away, but she didn’t. Instead her voice was barely a whisper.
“Such a gift.”
Then she turned on her heel and was gone.
Somehow between one eyeblink and the next she was simply gone. A figure away far down the walkway—walking, not running. But he didn’t recognize her.
He knew Erica’s walk when she was happy, sad, teasing, even playing at wantonly sexy.
He hadn’t known her walk when she was mortally wounded.
At least he hadn’t until now.
Chapter 10
Erica finally came back to her senses when she heard the sound of church bells. A different song, distant and far away. Notes were lost on the breeze and then brushed back in different places.
“That would be Sant’Antonio. Don’t get to hear those bells often as the church lies in the next town beyond Monterosso.” Bridget sat beside her on the tiny balcony of her top floor room.
A table roughly the size of a postage stamp bore a small pot of tea alongside cheese and crackers.
“I can get you some grappa or even whisky if you’d like, but I don’t recommend it. It doesn’t do piss all for a broken heart and hurts just wicked on the morrow.”
Erica shook her head. “Tea’s fine.”
Bridget sat quietly beside her. Every ten minutes or so another set of church bells would offer up its own tune in its own time slot and Bridget would name
the church or the town.
It reminded Erica of the clock museum. Of that ticking beat of time that she’d so naively thought pulled everything together. It also pulled everything apart.
She’d known that about Ridley. She’d known it, but her heart had forgotten.
Climbing aboard that train this morning, some voice had whispered in her ear. When they’d exited at Manarola she’d almost spoken aloud. When he’d turned away from town to walk the Via dell’Amore, she’d known.
The two of them were always so perfectly in sync. And hadn’t she just kissed him like a promise atop the stairs of Corniglia and hadn’t her heart answered by offering up the words, even if she’d only managed to whisper them once.
How like him to play down the most important moment of all by claiming it was “no big deal.”
Except it wasn’t one.
That’s what love was to Ridley: no big deal. A plaything.
If it hadn’t been the Via dell’Amore, she could have shrugged it off as typically Ridley. A lock snapped on the bridge over the Seine? Sure, why not. They’d be locking these last two precious weeks onto the fence as a happy memory. And they’d have gone on. Another week. Another month. Who knew?
In the years to come, she would come to regret the lost moments. The longer time they should have had here together. But that had been lost into the sea.
“For now all you can do is hurt,” Bridget whispered softly. “It’s okay. It’s what you’re supposed to do.” She rose to her feet, squeezed Erica’s hand tightly as she placed a kiss atop her head.
She paused at the doorway off the terrace. “If he had come to me for the lock, I would have stopped him. I don’t know if I would have been right, but I would have.” And then she was gone.
It was when the bells of Corniglia rang the opening notes that the first sob unsnarled from around her heart and speared its way out of her chest like shards of glass.
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