“Your wife is afraid of flying?” A woman’s voice asks from across the aisle, but I’ve finally found a spot that works, so I don’t move.
“Yes, she is.” Alessandro’s voice vibrates into me from where my ear is pressed into his chest, and I’m more than a little surprised that he didn’t correct the woman—tell her I’m not his wife. But instead, when I burrow tighter into him, he tips his face into crown of my hair, and I feel his warm breath.
I like this Alessandro—the one without the white collar.
Chapter Eighteen
MY NERVES, BY the time we land forty minutes later, have less to do with hurling through space in a tin can and more to do with meeting Alessandro’s family. I’ve found the key to flying. I just need to worry about something else.
We taxi to the terminal, and the pilot parks the plane. After few more minutes, fresh air wafts through the open door, and I know it’s okay to peel myself off Alessandro.
“That wasn’t so bad, yes?” he asks when I look up at him. I’m sure I’ve left a Lexie print in his chest.
“If you say so.” I breathe a deep, relieved breath as I duck under the door and out of this death trap. Alessandro escorts me down the stairs and into the terminal with a gentle hand on my back.
The airport is small, and our plane seems to be the only one here at the moment, so the bags come up fast. I look at Alessandro as we climb into a taxi on the curb. “Please tell me Corsican taxi drivers aren’t suicidal.”
He leans into the cab. “Êtes-vous suicidaire?”
The driver, a good-looking man in his thirties with horribly crooked teeth, cracks up. “Non,” he says.
Alessandro turns back to me. “Apparently, this one is not.”
“That didn’t sound Italian,” I say.
“This is France, Lexie,” he says with an amused smile, urging me into the taxi with a hand on my back. “They speak French here.”
I slide in and scoot across, and Alessandro folds himself in next to me. “What about your family? Do they speak English at all?”
“My mother obviously does, but my grandparents don’t.”
I hadn’t thought of that till just now.
“It’ll be fine, Lexie,” Alessandro says with a squeeze of my hand, reading the anxiety that I’m sure is plastered all over my face. He leans forward. “Cardiglione,” he tells the driver, and we’re off like a shot.
The taxi driver lied. I know this because we almost died three times before we ever left the city limits and another three as we twisted up the narrow, windy road carved into the hillside rising away from the ocean. My heart is beating in my throat half an hour later when the driver finally skids to a stop. Next to the car, a set of steep marble stairs leads up from the road to a path that wends through a few rows of budding grapevines toward a white, two-story house built into the side of the hill. Alessandro pays the driver, then climbs out and retrieves our bags from the trunk before the driver fishtails off.
I do a 180. “This is beautiful,” I say, taking in the view back toward the expanse of cobalt blue ocean across the street from the house.
“It is,” he answers. He loops his bag over his shoulder and takes mine in his hand, then grasps my hand in his other and leads me across the street toward the stairs.
Once we get to the top, I realize the grapevines are just the tip of a huge garden. There are fruit trees to the right, past the vines, which are just starting to flower, and on the left is a large patch of freshly turned earth.
“Who is the gardener?”
“Pépé. My grandfather,” he says, leading me past.
An older, pear-shaped woman bursts from the front door, holding up her arms and shaking them at the sky as she spouts French so fast I don’t catch anything but, “Alessandro!” Her face is covered in soft wrinkles, and her dark hair, twisted into a bun on the back of her head, is shot through with silver. But she has Alessandro’s eyes. She waddles to us before we can reach the door and, after hugging Alessandro, grasps my face in her hands. “Jolie fille, jolie fille! Bienvenue!” She plants a wet kiss on each of my cheeks then takes my hand and tows me toward the house, yelling something at the door. As we step through, a short, stout man with gray hair and a cane steps into the hall. “Alessandro,” he says, clapping his grandson on the back and kissing both cheeks.
“Pépé, c’est Lexie,” Alessandro says, taking my hand and pulling me closer.
His grandfather grasps my shoulders and kisses both my cheeks. “Bienvenue.”
“Merci,” I say. And that’s all the French I know.
“Lexie,” he says to me, “these are my grandparents. You can feel free to call them Mémé and Pépé, as I do.”
His grandparents lead us deeper into the house to a living room. Knitting in a chair near the window is a woman who can’t be anyone but Alessandro’s mother. She’s long and slender, in a flowing black skirt and a white top, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun. She has his same high cheekbones and arched brows over charcoal eyes. His same straight nose and full lips. And when she looks up and smiles softly, I see him in that gesture too.
She lays her knitting aside and stands. “It’s nice to have you home, son.”
He leads me to her and kisses her on both cheeks. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Lexie Banks.”
She reaches for my hand and presses it between hers, and I start a little at the scars on her wrist. Ten years later, they’re still twisted white knots. It looks like she meant business, and I catch myself wondering how she survived. “Alessandro has told me much about you.” Her voice is deeper than I would have expected, and soft, and her words flow smooth and slow as molasses through a musical French accent.
I flash him a glance, wondering exactly what he’s told them. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Can we offer you a cool drink after your trip?” she asks, releasing me. As she moves past us toward the kitchen in the back, I notice how deliberate her movements are. She’s got Alessandro’s grace, but it’s as if it’s in slow motion.
Alessandro takes my hand. “I’m going to show Lexie to her room, then we’ll be back down.”
His mother nods.
His grandmother says something else I can’t understand and pats my arm as Alessandro leads me to the stairs. I smile and nod because I have no idea what else to do, and she smiles back and grabs my face, kissing my cheeks again.
“What did I just agree to?” I mutter as we climb.
“To eat.” He grins at me. “She says you’re skinny, and she’ll fatten you up.”
“Great.”
At the top of the stairs, he pushes open a door. “This is the bathroom.”
I peek in. It’s small, not more space than will hold a sink, toilet, a small tub, and maybe a person, but it’s clean. “Good to know.”
I follow him to another set of stairs, and he points down the hall. “Mémé and Pépé sleep down there, and my mother’s room is here,” he adds, tapping a knuckle on the door next to the bathroom. We start up the tight spiral staircase to a third floor that I didn’t know existed. At the top of the stairs is an open door into a small room with a gabled ceiling—so probably the attic. There are two twin beds with an old wooden chest of drawers in between that take up the entire space.
“This is where you’ll stay,” Alessandro says, putting my bag on the bed nearest us.
“What about you? Where’s your room.”
His eyes flit around the bare walls. “This is my room. Mine and Lorenzo’s.”
“Oh.” I step between the two beds. “Which one’s yours?”
He moves behind me, and I can feel him, so close. “This one,” he says, pointing to the one away from the door.
I turn to him. “So, where will you sleep if I’m in your bed?”
“I’ll be on the sofa in the family room.”
“There are two beds in here,” I point out with a tip of my head toward Lorenzo’s. “I trust you to be a gentleman.”
His eyes go distant
for just a second before he breathes deeply and turns away. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine on the sofa.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon and evening eating and talking … or at least Alessandro’s grandmother is talking. She’s obviously very happy to have him home. I assist her in the kitchen as best I can, with help from Alessandro to translate, and she makes this dish that, even though I have no idea what it is, melts in my mouth.
His grandfather lights a fire in the fireplace after dinner, and his grandmother talks some more as we sit around it drinking something warm and sweet from mugs. Occasionally, Alessandro looks at me when he’s talking, and I hear my name, but I don’t know what he’s saying.
But it’s his mother I watch. She sits in her chair near the window, knitting. She hasn’t stopped since we got here except to eat dinner, and her eyes never leave her work. At the dinner table, she rocked herself gently as she ate, like the rhythmic motion pacifies her—keeps her focus off bigger things, like life.
It’s late when everyone starts looking like they’re heading to bed. Alessandro walks me up the two flights of stairs to his attic bedroom.
I turn to face him at my door and hear people shuffling around a floor below. “Your family seems really amazing.”
He nods. “My grandparents are extraordinary people.”
“And your mom?”
He breathes deep. “She’s better.”
I think of the things that happened to her to bring her to this place. “I’m glad.”
The sadness clears from his eyes, and he rubs his temple as if it hurts. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you up the mountain to the Natural Park of Corsica. It’s like your national parks. I’ve told Mémé we won’t be back for dinner.”
“But it’s your last night at home. Shouldn’t you spend it here with your family?”
“I’ll see them again after the ordination.” He takes my hand, and his gaze becomes deeper in the dim light, seeming to search my soul. “I want to share the places I love with you before I don’t have you anymore.”
I swallow back my hammering heart. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“No. I think I’m fine. Unless … do you want to …” I lift my fingertips to his temple. “I could massage that.”
His eyes darken as they gaze into mine. I push the door open behind me. An invitation.
His fingers brush over my cheek as he leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’m so pleased you came, Lexie, but I can’t go in there.”
I look up at him, and his hand pauses on my face. His fingers tighten slightly, urging me toward him, but just as he lays his other hand on my hip, someone closes a door downstairs.
He lets me go as if I’ve burned him and steps away, lowering his smoldering gaze. “Good night.” Then he’s hurrying down the stairs.
THE SMELL OF espresso and something baking wakes me from a sound sleep, and my stomach growls. Mémé kept shoveling food onto my plate last night, and I kept eating it, so I can’t possibly be hungry, but that’s not going to stop me from eating anything that smells this good. I roll out of bed and pull jeans on under the black silk sleep shirt I brought as an alternative to what I normally sleep in, which is nothing, then grab the towel Mémé left for me and skip down the stairs to the bathroom. Thankfully, it’s unoccupied.
There’s no actual shower, just a hand spray attached to a hose from the spigot of the tub, but it will have to do. I sit in the tub and do the quick washup, then dry myself off, brush my teeth, and throw my jeans and sleep shirt back on.
When I open the door, I hear the deep hum of Alessandro’s voice speaking French with his grandparents from downstairs. I start my feet toward the spiral stairs to the attic, smiling, but when I turn to look where I’m going, I have a minor heart attack.
Because Alessandro’s mother is standing in her doorway, watching me.
“Oh … hi. Were you waiting for the …” I trail off with a vague gesture at the bathroom door, a little creeped out by her blank stare. “Well, sorry to take so long in there.” I start to hurry past her. “It’s all yours—”
Her hand darts out as I pass and grabs my arm, scaring the snot out of me. My eyes are about to pop out of my head when I turn to look at her. Her expression is still blank, but her grip is surprisingly strong. “He is in love with you.”
Chapter Nineteen
“WHAT?” I’M SO shocked by her words that I don’t even move to shake her hand off.
“Alessandro is in love with you.”
“No … I mean …” I’m so rattled I can barely form a coherent thought. “We’re just friends.”
“I can’t help him. He only feels guilt when he sees me.”
“I’m … he …” My head is spinning. What am I supposed to say?
“You can help him see,” she tells me, and finally there’s some animation to her features. Her brow furrows, and her eyes take on a desperate sheen.
“See what? What does he need to see?”
“He’s doing this for me—for his family. Not for himself.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What’s he doing for his family?”
“Lexie?” I start at the sound of Alessandro’s voice on the stairs, but his mother’s only reaction is to drop her hand from my arm. He splits a wary glance between us. “Is everything all right?”
I nod and look back at his mother. “We’re fine.”
He mounts the last stair in a T-shirt and sweatpants and watches his mother disappear back through her door, then comes to where I am and rubs his warm hands up and down my upper arms. “Are you okay? What did she say?”
I shake my head. “She wasn’t really making any sense.”
He bites the corner of his lower lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry if she scared you.”
“No. It’s okay.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me, which he’s probably getting from the fact I’m shaking a little. He pulls me into his arms and rests his chin on the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”
We stand here until my shaking slows, then he takes my hands in his. “I just came up to tell you breakfast is ready. Are you hungry?”
After what just happened, no. But I can’t tell him that. “Yeah. It smells amazing.”
He leads me down the stairs, and the smell gets stronger—yeast and something sweet. “If you think those currant croissants are good, get ready to hold on to your taste buds.”
Alessandro’s mom doesn’t come down for breakfast, so Alessandro and I eat with his grandparents. He translates as Mémé grills me on my family. When she’s satisfied I’ve eaten enough and divulged all my family secrets, she lets us up from the table.
Alessandro walks with me to the stairs. “As soon as we’re ready, we should go. There’s a lot of island to see.”
“Great. Just let me change.” I scamper up the stairs, moving quickly past his mother’s door, up the spiral stairs to my room, then dig through my bag for the sweater and jeans I’d packed. I slip them on and pull my hair back, then rub a little foundation on, blend in some blush, and brush on mascara. The whole production takes less than ten minutes. On my way back down, I run past his mom’s door again and find him waiting in the hall in a pair of jeans and a dark blue hoodie. He looks like half the guys on Notre Dame campus … except much hotter.
“We have one stop on our way up the hill,” Alessandro tells me as he ushers me to the front door.
Mémé follows behind us, talking in rapid-fire French. I smile and wave because I’ve discovered that makes her happy.
“Where are we stopping?” I ask as we hop into a small brown sedan in the driveway.
“Father Costa asked me to stop by when I was on the island.”
“Oh.”
Alessandro navigates down the winding drive to the narrow road and takes a left up the hill. Houses become more frequent as we weave over the switchbacks of the hill until we come to an actual town. “This is the town of Cardiglione,” he tell
s me, slowing as the streets become busier. We wind through town, past markets and cafés, and he rolls to a stop in front of a white church. He steps out of the car, and when I don’t move, he holds his hand out to me. “The Father will want to meet you.”
“Why?” I ask, getting out.
He gives me the skeptic’s eye. “He’s a friend. You’re a friend. He’ll want to know you.”
I follow him up the walk to a small house beside the church, and he knocks. We wait for a moment, but when there is no answer, he turns for the church. “He’s probably readying for Mass.” He lays a hand on my back and ushers me to the front of the church, but we’re not even through the door when someone calls out, “Alessandro!”
He smiles and turns as a slender, older man with white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a bit of a hunched posture under his cassock skips across the sidewalk toward us.
“Alessandro! C’est votre dernier voyage avant le grand jour!”
“It is,” Alessandro answers. “Father Costa, I’d like for you to meet my good friend, Lexie Banks.”
Father Costa takes my hand in both of his. “Ah! Lexie!” he says with strong French accent. “Alessandro has told me of the work you have done with the children.”
I smile. “I really love it. It’s been an amazing opportunity.” I glance at Alessandro. “It’s probably the thing I will miss most and remember longest when I leave Italy.”
“It is a worthwhile mission and one that Alessandro has taken to heart. Children are our most treasured resource.”
Alessandro is beaming at me. “Lexie is a natural with the children. Her love pours out in her work, and it’s contagious.”
There’s a long pause as I flounder for some response to that. Finally, Father Costa breaks the silence. “When will you be returning home?” he asks, and there’s a slight edge to his voice that wasn’t there a second ago. His eyes move warily between Alessandro and me.
“Um … I’m not quite sure yet. I’m hoping for an internship at Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, and if I get it, I’ll be in Rome until August. Otherwise, I go home in May.”
A Little Too Far Page 19
