Thanks to my handy-dandy contraband backpack, I’ve got all the bases covered.
Alessandra is already waiting for me in my room when I get there, sitting poised as ever at the foot of my bed. I close the door behind me, thread my fingers behind my back, and lift my nose in the air as though I’m about to impart some important wisdom.
“The first rule of a sleepover is you must be willing to loosen up.”
She nods her head solemnly, then crinkles her forehead in confusion. I smile, grab a pillow off my bed and bonk her on the head.
“Second rule, anything said here will be held in the strictest of confidence. But with us, that’s pretty much a given, anyway, unless you want people to think you’re a nut job. And the third rule, well, I don’t really have a third rule, but things just sound better in groups of three.”
A rapid, purposeful knock sounds on my door. “Come in,” I call, flopping onto the bed beside Alessandra. I turn to her and point to the tray Lucia’s carrying. “There we go, rule number three. Caloric consumption. Thou must not thinketh or worry about the circumference of one’s thighs while at a sleepover.”
Alessandra eyes the tray and repeats the phrase “caloric consumption” over and over.
Lucia sets down the tray of pinecone goodness and mini pies, and I nod in approval. “Excellent work, Lucia.”
She quickly turns and closes the door behind her, and I reach under the bed. “Now, girl,” I say, dropping my backpack onto the mattress between us, “I believe you expressed some interest in ‘exploring my satchel of pleasantly scented items’?”
Alessandra claps her hands spastically—well, as spastically as Less gets—and bounces on the bed as I dump everything out. After a few spritzes of perfume and sniffs of my various floral- and fruit-smelling body creams, she reaches for the battered copy of Us Weekly, running her fingers almost reverently over the glossy cover picture of Taylor Swift.
“That’s a magazine—practically a tabloid, actually. It dishes the dirt on celebrities. In fact,” I say, taking the magazine and flipping to the picture of Dad at his premiere, “this is my dad. And that right there is my elbow. I’m pretty photogenic, don’t ya think?”
She picks up the magazine and lifts it to her face, eyeing the picture closely. “Your father is very handsome. And the beautiful signora beside him, is she the betrothed you spoke of?”
I stick out my tongue and start rifling through my toiletry kit. “Yep, that’s the evil step-witch-to-be.”
“Evil? As in my role in the play you taught us in the meadow?”
Pulling out a tube of neon green facial mask, I sigh and meet her gaze. “No, she’s not that bad. And really, I’m no Snow White, either. Jenna just bugs the crap out of me.” I wiggle the tube in front of her face, not wanting the thought of my dad’s fiancée or anything else depressing—like impending marriages to skeezy older men, or handsome guys giving up their life dreams for me—to ruin my first-ever girls’ night. “Time to make ourselves gorgeous, darling.”
Once our faces are covered in the sticky goop, I pick up my digital camera, lean my head against hers, and snap a picture for posterity. I don’t know why I haven’t tried to take more. I’m still clinging to the hope that somehow I’ll find a way back home, and when I do, documented proof that this wasn’t just a dream will be nice.
I glance down, smiling at how silly we both look. Having this picture will also help when I’m all alone again and desperately missing her.
“Is it expected,” Alessandra asks, twitching her nose, wiggling her eyebrows, and working her jaw simultaneously, “that I should find it difficult to move my face?”
Sniffling, I laugh and hand over the camera so she can see how she looks. “Yeah, that’s part of the charm.”
Her mouth forms an O when she looks at the photo. “How marvelous, an instant painting! Just as in your colorful magazine. Does this magic box contain others?”
“Not many of people. I’m not exactly what you’d call social back home, but I do have a lot of pictures of buildings, bridges, sunsets, that sorta thing.” I reach over and scroll through the gallery, stopping every few to explain. “That is from one of Dad’s movie sets. The blonde next to him is Carlie Williams, second only to Mom in box-office popularity and divaness,” I tell her, blinking my eyes and smiling with pretend pride.
She sits up and holds the camera higher. “That lovely woman is an actress?”
I laugh when her eyes widen as much as her tightening face mask will allow, absorbing everything she can about the picture. It’s so easy to forget how our contemporary views on acting and women in general can shock someone like Alessandra, especially since she’s so passionate about theater. Suddenly I snatch up my iPhone and battery pack, remembering that I downloaded Kisses and Disses off iTunes last month.
“Yep, and if you want, I can even show you the movie,” I say, thumbing through the icons on my newly juiced phone. “I have no plans to follow my parents’ footsteps into the business, but I like downloading Dad’s movies and breaking them down. I visit his sets a lot, so it’s fun remembering when they filmed each shot and trying to figure out why he chose a certain angle.”
I find the movie and tap the thumbnail, and the bright green rating system screen appears. Alessandra is immediately lost in the wonder of “moving pictures” and female actors, and I plump a pillow behind my head to watch her. Here sits my great-great-great-great-great-great aunt or cousin, watching one of my dad’s movies from the future, sporting a funky green beauty mask. I have to be breaking at least a bazillion time-travel laws, if such things even exist, but seeing the look of rapture on her face is so worth it.
A memory springs to mind before I can squelch it of Jenna buying me that tube of face mask, hoping for a girls’ night just like this. It was a couple of months ago, not too long after she and Dad got engaged. Dad was out of town shooting on location, and I came home to find beauty products laid out on the counter, piles of pillows and blankets on the sofa, and the coffee table overflowing with chocolate gooeyness. There was a wary look in her eye, but when she presented the idea, her voice was as bubbly as ever.
Of course, I declined. I didn’t know what trick she had up her sleeve, but I wasn’t gonna fall for it. So instead, I locked myself in my room listening to music and reading, bored out of my ever-loving mind. When I went to the bathroom later, I nearly tripped over the plate of brownies she’d left by my door.
But as I pinch a corner off one of Lucia’s pastries, I can’t help but wonder…if I had stayed, would I’ve had a night like this? Fun, silly banter and pampering that Dad could never get, regardless of how hard he tries? Dudes don’t seem to understand the inbred desire—a desire I’m only just fully realizing—that girls have to pour our hearts out, eat sweet treats, and cover ourselves in high-priced goo in the name of beauty.
Is it possible I could’ve been having this all along with Jenna?
I look up at my painted ceiling and reflect over the past nine months as Alessandra giggles at the movie. Besides Jenna’s misguided attempt to throw me the Sweet Sixteen, she’s never actually done anything that bad. Dad adores her—as does almost everyone else she comes in contact with—and Alessandra and Aunt Francesca honestly do remind me of her a lot.
I glance over at my cousin sprawled out on my bed, her mask now dry and crusty, her hair pulled up on her head in one of my clips, and I make a vow. If—no, when—I get back home, I’m gonna give Jenna a break.
Heck, if I get back, I’ll even agree to the stupid Sweet Sixteen and MTV coverage.
Sitting up, I grab the magazine and flip back to the picture of her and Dad. Jenna’s smile holds all the qualities I’ve grown to love in my Renaissance relatives. Maybe if I can find a way to break the magic, I can grow to love her, too.
Chapter Sixteen
The streets are cold and quiet as I make my way to the church, my heart pounding in rhythm with my steps. I’ve had almost twenty-four hours to think about Lorenzo’s pro
posal, and though I’ve waffled a few times, scared this is my only out, I know what I have to do. Staying here and marrying Lorenzo isn’t an option…not that I’m exactly itching to get hitched, anyway. Even if his parents go for his offer to become a stuffy banker, my aunt and uncle will never agree to let me marry him. Marco and Francesca think Niccolo can rope the freaking moon.
The only other option I have besides sticking around, keeping my mind open for Reyna’s lessons, and/or praying I’m suddenly struck with an epiphany to get me out of this mess is to run away with him.
But can I really let Lorenzo give up his dreams for me? Leave my aunt and uncle without a word or an explanation? With zero guarantees that the gypsy magic will even work if I leave Florence?
I turn the corner and see the Cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore ahead. Out of habit, I glance both ways before crossing the street, wondering if Lorenzo’s already inside waiting for me and praying I make up my mind before he asks. I wrap my arms around myself tightly for warmth and pick up the pace, putting my head down despite the empty streets, not wanting to take the chance that anyone will recognize me.
“Signorina D’Angeli.”
I gasp at the low hiss, and the cold evening air causes my breath to form a puffy white cloud. A few feet away, Niccolo steps out from the shadows.
“I must confess that I am surprised your uncle allowed you to wander the streets without a guardian. If I did not know better, I would assume you were here without his permission.”
I suck in my lips and bite down to keep from screaming. Every single instinct I have suddenly goes on red alert, screaming that perhaps meeting this creeper unchaperoned on the dark, empty streets of Florence isn’t a good thing.
Niccolo circles me like some kind of wild animal. “And the only reason I could think of for you to go out without permission,” he continues in a steely voice that makes me shiver, “is that you have ill-advised intentions.”
I don’t blink, and I don’t open my mouth. With my heart hammering in my ears, I straighten my spine and meet the challenge in his eyes, refusing to rise to his bait. He’s just jealous and lashing out—the only thing I can do is act calm.
He stops in front of me and gives me a tight, fake smile. He wraps an arm around his chest and fingers his lip. “Patience, I believe I should share a story with you. It’s a sad story, one you probably have not heard, but it is regrettably quite common with the youth of our city.”
His eyebrow quirks as if asking for permission to keep yammering—a first for him—before he settles into lecture mode. “You see, our young women seem to fall victim to an unfortunate habit when they reach your age, a habit of disobeying their families when it comes time for them to marry.”
My spine locks in suspicion. Alessandra has filled me in enough over the last few days to know the scenario he’s describing is anything but common. Most girls—all of them, actually—seem to go along blindly with whatever their family or society tells them to do.
Which means Niccolo’s story is not about women at large—it’s about me. And if the cold gleam in his eye is any hint, things are about to get ugly.
He nods as if I asked him a question. “Sì, it is a sad story, is it not? But I fear it gets worse. These same women also often choose to accept the propositions of young men.” He leans closer and whispers, “Offers to run away.”
A deep chill runs through me. My heart sputters, and then pounds.
He can’t know. There’s no way that he knows about Lorenzo’s plan—unless Niccolo had spies follow me and listen to our conversation at the church yesterday. I think back, trying to remember if I saw anyone suspicious, but there were too many people and too many faces for any one person to stand out. And I’d assumed that with the bells clanging and the hum of whispered prayers, no one could hear us, anyway.
Apparently I was wrong.
The set of Niccolo’s jaw and the arrogant look in his eye leave no mistake about it—regardless of any decision I have or haven’t made, he knows what Lorenzo offered me. I break away from his cruel gaze and the possessiveness in his stance and glance around. We’re alone.
Okay, all I need to do is get inside the church. Lorenzo will be there.
I clear my throat. “That is a sad story, Signore,” I say, forcing false confidence into my voice. “And I thank you for sharing it with me. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go into the church and pray.”
I take a step forward, and he matches it, blocking my path.
I swallow, take a breath, and give him a tight-lipped smile.
“Signore, if I didn’t know better,” I say, turning his words back on him, “I’d assume you were trying to keep me away from God. Now that doesn’t seem very honorable.”
Niccolo’s lips twitch, and I even hear a slight chuckle. I pull myself up and take another step, but his arm shoots out and knocks me across the chest.
“Of course, you must pray. You will be my wife soon, and I expect you will come to me unblemished. But before you go, I thought you would like to hear the end of my story.”
I close my eyes and count to three, the whole idea of running away with Lorenzo and never having to see this guy again seeming awfully tempting. When I open them, Niccolo is practically standing on top of me, looking down his long, pointed nose. I jerk back.
“What is the end?” I whisper, inwardly kicking myself for showing weakness.
“The young men who promise safety and dreams of running away? They all seem to meet the same disastrous end.” He lowers his voice and leans his head close to my ear. “They are never heard from again.”
…
“You came.”
Lorenzo’s relieved whisper in my ear gives me chills. Ever since escaping Niccolo’s clutches, I’ve been kneeling near a painting of the Virgin Mary. I collapsed here among the flowers and gifts left behind from others in anticipation and gratitude for answered prayers, my shaky knees refusing to carry me any farther. Just moments ago I calmed down enough to place my own offering beneath the frame, a ripe green pear from the kitchen.
If ever a symbol characterized me, it’s that fruit. It began my love affair with Renaissance art, it inspired my tattoo, and once Reyna saw it on my hip, it somehow led me here. I intended to leave it with the other tokens, hoping it will grant my prayer for a miracle that’ll send me home or a sign to make my decision easier.
But after speaking with Niccolo, my only prayer now is for Lorenzo’s safety.
Turning my body toward him, I notice the haggard look in his eyes. I push past the lump in my throat and say, “Of course I came.”
The right side of his mouth lifts in an attempt at his usual smile as he sinks to the floor beside me. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. When he looks at me again, there is hope mixed with panic in his gaze.
“My father has agreed to my proposal. I am to leave in a fortnight for an apprenticeship with his associates in London.”
I can’t help but notice the way his eyes tighten when he mentions leaving his beloved Florence, the mecca for art in his world. If I hadn’t already decided not to accept his offer, that look in his eye would have done it.
My stomach twists at the thought of leaving him. But regardless of whether we run away tonight or not, we’ll have to say good-bye eventually—because I will make it home one day—so better to do it now, while I can make sure that he’s safe.
Closing my eyes, I draw up the strength to do what I need to. Growing up, I’d watched my mother’s example and believed that love could only lead to hurt—and here I am, about to hurt the guy I’ve come to care about more than I ever thought possible. But at least this time, unlike all the times with my mother, it’s not out of selfishness.
In this case, caring about Lorenzo means letting him go.
I reach into the top of my dress, watching his eyes widen, and pull out my camera. “Lorenzo, before we talk about the future, will you do one thing for me?” He nods slowly, ey
eing the slim plastic box in my hand, and I fight back a sob. Clearing my throat, I say, “Can you give me one of your breathtaking grins? It seems like forever since I’ve seen it.”
He tilts his head and stares at me a moment before giving in with a small laugh. “Anything for you, Cat.”
And then it’s as though someone lifts a veil, because the somber, anxious, frantic look about him vanishes, leaving behind the confident, happy, sexy boy I’d started to fall for. I snap the picture before reality hits again, sending him back into hiding, and stuff the camera into my dress.
His eyes narrow, questioning, and he opens his mouth, but I shake my head. I don’t want to waste a second of my remaining time with him explaining gadgets from the future. With tears building, I ask, “Can I ask one more favor?”
Lorenzo’s grin grows wider as he nods. “But of course.”
“Can you kiss me again?”
His head jerks back, and then he looks around, reminding me we are in church. I bite my lip, understanding that kissing here definitely wouldn’t be appropriate, but unwilling to deny myself this last request. I grab his hand and pull him up and out the double doors of the cathedral, not stopping until we are around the corner and away from prying, gossiping, spying eyes.
“Now?” I ask, not caring that I sound pathetically desperate at this point.
He nods, the passion in his eyes turning into liquid pools of melted chocolate, and wraps his strong arms around me. “Now.”
Lorenzo’s kiss is full of the desperation and longing of the past two days, along with the hope of what he thinks is our future. We pull at each other, needing to be closer, and neither of us getting close enough. He deepens the kiss, and I shudder against him, exhaling a half sigh, half sob. The taste of salt fills my mouth, and I realize tears are pouring down my cheeks. He breaks away to look down at me.
My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 18
