A Little Too Far

by Lisa Desrochers

  “Alessandro,” he answers after a beat.

  “But I can’t call you that.”

  It’s not a question, but I still see him contemplating his answer. “It would probably be for the best if you didn’t,” he finally says, and his expression is hard to get a handle on—his full red lips pressed into a determined line but something in his deep charcoal eyes indecisive.

  I look back at the Pietà. “I could stay here all day.”

  “I understand the sentiment, but,” he says, pressing his fingers gently into the small of my back and shepherding me off to the side of the crowd, “there’s lots more to see, including another great work of Michelangelo’s.”

  “The Sistine Chapel,” I breathe as tingles run up my spine.

  And I realize Abby wasn’t exaggerating about the creaming-the-knickers thing, because this is downright orgasmic.

  I’VE HAD TWO weeks to come up with something that will keep kids interested in ancient art. Between that and the start of classes, my mind has been pretty occupied. Which is a good thing. Already, I’ve seen some amazing works on my “field trips” in my art history classes, and I’ve begun to feel comfortable enough that I’ve done some exploring between my apartment and campus on my own. Like, just yesterday I finally saw the famous thirteenth-century mosaics at Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere. And I’ve stumbled on some places completely by accident. This whole city is the big black X on a treasure map.

  But nothing can keep my mind totally off Trent.

  We’ve been texting back and forth, but not for hours like we used to, and it’s all been surface stuff. He tells me about his classes and his profs, and I tell him about some of the things I’ve seen around Rome. We’re both avoiding anything deeper, and as much as it hurts that we can’t talk like we used to, at least we’re getting back to something resembling normal.

  It’s a start.

  And I hear from Sam and Katie here and there. My last text conversation with Sam went something like this:

  Sam: You getting any Italian ass?

  Me: I spend all my free time with a priest. What do you think?

  Sam: How old a priest?

  Me: Twenty-four.

  Sam: Hot?

  Me: Yes (In hindsight, I should have lied.)

  Sam: Don’t know, Lex. Yrs of pent-up sexual frustration? Could be totally hot.

  Me: O_O

  Whether I have class or not, I set my alarm to call Dad and Julie every morning at eight so I catch them before bed, and every morning they grill me for details on everything I’ve seen and done. I text them pictures as I go, so they pretty much know where I’ve been, but Julie says it’s more real when they hear it from my mouth.

  Alessandro (which is what I call him in my head even though I can’t to his face) and I have e-mailed back and forth several times while I’ve been working on the presentation, but I’ve only seen him once since the day in St. Peter’s and the Sistine Chapel, and that was only for a minute, when I stopped by the rectory to pick up a book on the Vatican Museums he wanted me to read. When I’ve suggested meeting to go over my notes, he’s begged off, saying we’ll do a dry run when I have the whole thing hammered out. But, like it or not, the good reverend is going to have to see me today. I did some sketches I’m thinking of incorporating into the tour, and I need his input. I’ve e-mailed him every day this week asking to meet, and he hasn’t answered.

  I get the distinct feeling he’s keeping his distance for some reason.

  It’s probably because I pissed him off when we walked into the Sistine Chapel, and I looked up at the ceiling, and hissed, “Holy shit!” at which point everyone around us gaped at me, and a grumpy Swiss Guard tried to throw me out. Alessandro had to intervene on my behalf, and he looked none too pleased about it.

  It’s not my fault I’m a Michelangelo groupie. Or maybe it is, but he’s the one who said, and I quote the good reverend himself: “Only someone authentic, with a deep love of art, will radiate the enthusiasm needed to keep them engaged.” He got what he wanted. He can’t bitch about it now.

  I am going to have to rein back my “enthusiasm” around the kids, though. The tours don’t start for a few weeks, so I have some time to get over the orgasmicity of it all before then.

  The Roman streets are always crowded, but Saturdays are the worst. I elbow my way through the pedestrians and street vendors clogging the sidewalks and spilling into the narrow roads, and finally make it to the rectory. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and knock.

  No one answers.

  I knock again.

  Still nothing.

  I spin and look across the street at the church. He could be there, but the truth is, after what happened in confession three weeks ago, I’m not really keen on running into Father Reynolds, so I’ve pretty much avoided the place.

  Time to man up.

  I march across the street and through the door, which is propped open. There are a few obvious tourists walking the walls and inspecting the frescoes, and there is a middle-aged woman kneeling in a pew, praying.

  And there’s an open confessional.

  Damn.

  I breathe deep and move in that direction. I breathe deep again as I step through and close the door behind me, and one more time as I kneel at the red curtain.

  “Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo. Amen,” the sandpaper voice that I now know is Father Reynolds’s says, and I cross myself.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession … and I’m sure you remember that one, so we’ll just skip to the new stuff, okay?”

  “Ah. I do. And I also remember I sent you on mission with the Reverend Moretti. How is that going?”

  “Well … that’s really the reason I’m here. I’m looking for him, and he’s not here or at the rectory.”

  “So, you have nothing to confess?”

  I snort out a laugh. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, then. First things first. The act of contrition.”

  I bow my head as we mutter the prayer together. When we’re done, he says, “So, what have you to confess?”

  “I’m trying to be more careful with my … okay, that’s a lie. I just lied to you. I’m not trying to be more careful about anything. I still take the Lord’s name in vain. All the time. Probably another hundred times since my last confession. And when I was at St. Peter’s Basilica with the Reverend Moretti, I went all idol worship on the Pietà. And I cursed in the Sistine Chapel, and the Reverend Moretti had to sweet-talk the guard into not throwing me out.”

  “Sounds like the reverend is getting you in all sorts of trouble.”

  I point at him even though he can’t see me through the curtain … I hope. “Right! That’s what I said. It’s all his fault, but … he hasn’t answered my last few e-mails, and I need to see him, so …”

  “One thing at a time, my child. Anything else you find yourself in need of confessing?”

  “You know,” I say. “Surprisingly, that’s all I can think of at the moment.”

  “Very well. Do you come to the Lord with free mind and heart, ready to accept Jesus’ guidance and absolutions of these sins?”

  “I am sorry for my sins and ask Jesus to forgive them as well as any I have forgotten to confess.”

  “Very well. Once again, please be more mindful of your thoughts in regards to taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And that includes times when you are inside churches with fine works of art.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  I cross myself as he says it.

  “It is Saturday. You will find the reverend at the youth center.”

  “Which is … where?”

  “Take a right outside the door, then a left on Vicolo del Polverone. You’ll see it one short block up on the left. Gray buildin
g with no windows and a blue door.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Go in peace.”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  If I’d ever bothered to learn my left from my right, following directions would be so much easier. As it is, three lefts and four rights later, I finally stumble on Vicolo del Polverone. As luck would have it, right in front of me is a gray building with no windows and a blue door. Just to be sure there aren’t two, I walk a block in either direction. When I’m fairly certain this is the place, I cross the street to the door, which is ajar. I push it open wider and peer into the gloom.

  Around the edges of the room, there are weight benches with stacks of free weights, and punching bags hang from the ceiling. There are a few boys—teens as best as I can tell—working the bags. The middle of the room is dominated by a small boxing ring, complete with ropes. Two shirtless boys in protective headgear and gloves are sparing.

  As my eyes adjust to the poor lighting, I scan the room for Alessandro, but he’s nowhere. So maybe there really are two gray buildings with no windows and blue doors. As I’m turning to leave, I glance again at the fight in the ring.

  The boy facing me sends a jab at the other boxer’s face. The boxer ducks and shuffles to his left. The movement is so fluid, so graceful, that he makes it look effortless—more like a dance than a fight. The boy who threw the punch staggers a step, thrown off-balance by his miss, and the other boxer lays his gloves on the boy’s shoulders to steady him and says something low in Italian. The sheen of sweat covering the boxer with his back to me shimmers, catching the little bit of light in the room, and I realize he’s older than the boy he’s sparring with. He’s cut, his defined muscles rippling under smooth olive skin as he moves.

  “Padre, c’è qualcuno qui,” someone calls from the punching bags. I turn and see all three boys there staring at me.

  I look back at the ring in time to see Alessandro let go of the boy he’s sparring with and turn. When he sees me standing in the door, his eyes widen for an instant. He pulls off the gloves and headgear and moves to the ropes, grabbing a towel that’s hanging there and wiping his face and chest. He tugs a T-shirt over his head, and I feel a twinge of disappointment as that spectacular body disappears behind brushed gray cotton.

  “Lexie,” he says as he steps through the ropes. “What brings you here?”

  “I …” I glance around and all four boys are still staring. “I had something I needed to show you … for the tour. You didn’t answer my e-mail, so …”

  An expression that could be either chagrin or regret passes over his face, but it’s gone the next instant. “Yes … I apologize for my inaccessibility. I have several missions, and time is not always on my side.”

  “Could we maybe …” I look around, and everyone is still staring. “… go somewhere?”

  He nods. “Just give me a few minutes to close up here and get cleaned up.”

  I wait outside on the sidewalk, and, a few minutes later, the four teens come straggling out. It’s fifteen minutes later, and I’m just about to go back in after him, when Alessandro steps through the door in his crisp, black clerical shirt and slacks, collar snugly in place. His hair is damp, and he smells like soap. Fresh from the shower, obviously.

  “Espresso?” he asks, turning to lock the door.

  “Sure.”

  We walk up the sidewalk side by side. And, because the sidewalk is narrow, his arm brushes mine as we walk. Something buzzes in my chest as I picture him half-naked in the ring—the ripped muscles of his arms and back; the way sweat glistened off his pecs and abs when he turned. I shake the image out of my head and hope he doesn’t notice my blush.

  We find a seat in a nearby café and order. I can’t resist getting a few of the currant croissants. I’ve already gained two pounds, and I’ve only been here three weeks. I can’t imagine what I’m going to look like by the time the school year ends eight months from now.

  I tear a corner off a croissant and pop it in my mouth. I close my eyes and give a little moan as it melts on my tongue.

  When I open my eyes, Alessandro is staring at me, his expression totally unreadable.

  “Did you always know you wanted to be a priest?” I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

  He sips his espresso and rests his cup on the table before answering. “No, not always.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” I say with a shake of my head.

  His eyebrows rise. “No, you couldn’t.”

  I glare at him as he takes another sip.

  “You’re a woman, Lexie. That’s all I meant,” he says, lowering his cup. “Women can’t be ordained.” He hesitates and quirks his head at me. “But there are other ways you could serve.”

  “Such as?”

  He leans back in his chair and spins his cup slowly on the table, but his gaze stays fixed on mine. “The convent is always looking for faithful to serve God and the masses.”

  I snort a laugh. “That’s just about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He lifts his eyebrows at me again. “Then you don’t get out much. Why would you find devoting your life to God funny?”

  “It’s just … me as a nun?” I scoff. “I mean”—my face scrunches like something smells bad—“how does anyone survive with the whole no-sex thing?”

  He holds my gaze for a moment, then watches his hand swirl his espresso. “I’ll grant you the calling isn’t for everyone.”

  “Have you ever … you know?” The second it leaves my mouth I feel my cheeks start to flame. I can’t believe I just asked that, but I really want to know.

  He looks at me hard out from under long, dark lashes, and, for a minute, I think that’s the only answer I’m going to get. But then he flashes a glance at the nearby tables—probably to decipher if anyone is listening in—and looks back at me. “Yes.”

  My heart pounds faster at his answer, and out of the blue the reason my body is reacting like this slams into me. Since the day I bumped into him at the church, I’ve thought he was a beautiful man, but seeing him in the gym, rivulets of sweat trickling over hard muscles … Yep. The tingle in my groin is unmistakable. I’ve got the hots for the good reverend.

  I thought I was going to hell before, but this pretty much cements it.

  But still, I want details: Who did he sleep with? How long ago? Was it good? Did he love her? Instead of asking what I really want to, I breathe out a shaky breath, and ask, “So how did it work? You just decided one day that sex was overrated, and you could live without it?”

  He glances around us again, then leans toward me, his elbows resting on the table and his cup perched between his fingertips. “Believe it or not, Lexie, sex had nothing to do with my decision.”

  “So you never thought about what you were giving up … a wife? A family?”

  “It was more about what I was gaining than what I was giving up. My path to the service of the Lord was long and convoluted.”

  I lean back into my seat, kick off my flip-flop, and tuck a leg under me. “I’ve got time. Hit me.”

  He breathes deep, then settles back into his chair, watching his finger trace circles on the glass tabletop. “My father was assistant chef at Windows on the World.”

  From the look on his face, I think that’s supposed to mean something to me. It doesn’t.

  His haunted eyes lift to mine. “The restaurant on the top floor of the World Trade Center.”

  “Oh my God,” I gasp as I finally understand the significance. I was seven when the attack happened. I remember watching on the TV in our kitchen that morning as one of the towers crumbled to dust. Tears streaked Dad’s face as he poured milk on my cereal. I’ll never forget it.

  “His body was never recovered,” Alessandro continues.

  “I’m so sorry, Alessandro. That must have been horrible.”

  It’s not until his gaze snaps to mine that I realize I used his first name. He smooths his white collar with a finger and thumb. “I was only eleven at
the time and, at first, I didn’t understand.”

  “It must have been hard to accept he was gone when you had no body to bury.”

  He shakes his head. “No … I understood that my father was dead, but I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand that the Lord had a plan.”

  I just look at him.

  He sighs and crosses an ankle over his other knee. His long, slender finger traces the inseam of his slacks mindlessly as he talks. “My mother … she wouldn’t accept he was gone. At first, she poured all her time and energy into finding him, posting signs and scouring the city. Then, when she finally realized he wasn’t coming home, she just curled up and stopped living. My older brother and I were left to our own devices much of the time. I was angry—at the world, at my mother. I lashed out. By the time I was thirteen, my brother and I were both in juvenile detention. That’s where I learned to box.”

  I feel my eyes widen.

  “While we were in the detention center, my mother tried to kill herself. My grandparents brought her back to her native Corsica, where they could care for her. They petitioned for custody of Lorenzo and me.”

  “So you came here when you got out of juvie?”

  He shakes his head. “Not at first. Because our grandparents were French citizens, there were visas and legal issues that needed to be cleared up before we could go. I’d just turned sixteen when my brother and I were released into a group home.”

  “In New York?”

  He nods, and his wandering gaze locks on mine. “That was where I met Hilary.”

  I just look at him, but then I feel my eyes widen when I get what he’s saying. Hilary. That’s the who.

  “She was with my brother for a short time, and when he was”—he winces a little—“done with her, she came to me.”

  “Oh.” So … wow.

  His whole face is pulled tight, and I wonder how painful it is for him to remember all this. “She was very young.”

  “But you were only sixteen, right? I mean … you were both young.”

  “That’s no excuse.” He breathes deep, and I watch his expression change from tortured to resolute as he puts it out of his mind and changes tack. “In any event, shortly after that, our visas came through, but my grandparents’ caveat to taking us in was that we go to Catholic school when we got to Corsica. Until her breakdown, Mom had always made sure we were raised in the Church. Despite everything that I’d done, and that I didn’t feel I deserved to be there, going back felt familiar—comfortable. Father Costa took us under his wing—became a father figure to us. He changed my life.”