The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1)

by M A Clarke Scott

  A sly grin slid across Jacopo's face, and he chuckled silently. "I'm afraid so."

  "I want her back, Lapo."

  "I can't believe I'm saying this, but, let's get her back. And maybe Valentina while we're at it."

  Guillermo smiled. "Or go down trying." He sighed. "But what can be done?"

  "The problem is one of perception primarily, as far as I can see," Jacopo said.

  "We can come up with something, as long as we work together." He inhaled, standing straighter. "You've been shouldering the burden by yourself for too long. And I hate what it's done to you. I would have done anything to avoid the same fate. But I believe we are stronger if we work together, and share the load. We can do this."

  Their eyes met, assessing each other. "You've changed. I can see you digging in," Jacopo said.

  It was true. Something had shifted in him. He felt taller, and stronger, if a little older. He smiled wryly at his brother. "Someone's got to."

  "Anything for the love of a good woman."

  Look who has come to see you, Clio." Dr. Jovi hunched just outside the open doorway of her office, his hands clasped together.

  Guillermo? Clio sat up straighter, throwing off the cobwebs that clung to her groggy brain.

  The long hours at her computer writing were numbing. She had just one goal now, to finish writing her thesis so she could get out of here and move on with her life, whatever that might turn out to be. Now that Pia and Bibi were helping Guillermo finalize the numbers for the business plan, she knew he would be alright, that he didn't need her help anymore, and she had forced herself to focus on her thesis, but concentrating was torture.

  Dr. Jovi's eyes sparkled. His jowls flushed. But no, he wouldn't be so excited to announce Guillermo, about whom he continued to express skepticism and concern. At least until a week ago, when Memmo had stopped coming by after their fight.

  A sigh escaped her. Of course it wasn't Memmo. She had told him she didn't want to see him, didn't want to help him. Lies, yes, but he couldn't know that. And even if he did suspect how much she cared for the villa—for him—there was still the small matter of his Italian pride. What have I done? Why am I choosing to inflict this pain on myself?

  "Clio?"

  She looked up. Dr. Jovi was still standing there.

  "Father?"

  "Si! The Dottores have arrived. Right on schedule."

  Both of them? "Where are they?" Maybe she could slip out. Buy herself some time. Or just disappear forever. "I-I'm not exactly prepared, Dr. Jovi. You know that."

  He scratched his long nose with a hooked finger. "It's not your final defense, Clio." He smiled. "Think of it as a dress rehearsal."

  Except she hadn't even learned her lines yet. Presenting to her parents was worse than presenting to her advisory board. Far worse. Far less forgiving. The old traitor could have put them off if he'd had the courage to stand up to her father. But then she was one to talk. She shot out of her chair, grabbed her handbag and took one large stride toward the door before skidding to a stop.

  Father loomed in front of Dr. Jovi, completely obscuring the old man. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! "Father."

  "Clio." He stepped toward her and squeezed her shoulders between his large palms, leaning in for a kiss. His perpetually squinting blue eyes assessed her. She squirmed, feeling like a lowly undergraduate under his critical gaze.

  She stretched up to peck his bearded cheek and pulled away. "You surprised me. I was just heading out. My goodness." She turned back to her desk, dropped her bag there and rummaged around in it, looking for nothing short of excuses. "Did I hear Dr. Jovi say Mother was with you?" She faced him again, her heart racing.

  "Yes, she–"

  "Why don't we go out for a coffee? Is Mum at the hotel? Let's go there."

  "Ah, Clio. I was hoping to sit–"

  She lunged forward and scooped a hand through his arm. "There's loads of time, Dad. Let's go. Dr. Jovi, would you like to join us?"

  His face brightened, then fell. "Certamente, ah, but no. I-a have a student-a coming in shortly."

  "Oh. Well." It might have been easier to break the news to Father with her advisor present. Not that he would defend her, but he had a gentling effect on Father. She wasn't going to do it without Mother, though.

  Clio managed to make small talk and get Father to talk about his own work, never very difficult, en route to the Hotel Albani. Once there, she got a table in the restaurant and prodded Father into going upstairs to fetch her mother, who was lying down. Her stomach churned. What was she going to say? How was she going to say it? How would they react?

  Her parents appeared at the restaurant door. He, large and imposing, Mother, rigid and pale, as though she had one of her migraines. Clio felt detached, as though she were viewing her parents in the abstract for the first time, the way someone else, a stranger, would see them.

  The moment of truth had arrived. Clio felt dizzy. She knew her shallow breathing was depriving her brain of oxygen, and contributing to the sharp shooting pains in her side. This wasn't going to help her pull her arguments together coherently, so she tried to slow and deepen her breaths, expanding her ribcage and calming her pulse.

  She stood to embrace and kiss her mother, who carried an air of distraction, as usual. "Are you well, Mum? Do you have a headache?"

  "Oh, no, Clio. I'm in the middle of writing a paper. I have a–" She shook her head as if to clear away the unsolved problem or the half-written sentence.

  Ah. That was Mother. Never entirely in the moment.

  Father ordered a carafe of wine, and while they waited, she felt them scrutinizing her.

  "You've either gained weight or lost it, I can't tell," Mother said. "But you look healthy, dear. Your complexion is bright. And I rather like your hair loose like that."

  Father grunted, his eyes scanning over her, as though he hadn't noticed the changes until Mother mentioned them.

  Clio forced a smile. "Really? Good." Surpising. A week ago she might have attributed it to the frequent and amazing sex. But not now. She felt Guillermo's absence from her life like a gaping void. Like a wound. Like a cold ashen hearth. Forlorn.

  The waiter served the wine, and Clio grabbed hers and tossed it back with a desperate thirst. Father raised an assessing brow and refilled her glass.

  "I was expecting you could run through your defense presentation for us, Clio. Between Mother and I, we could pick up any weak points and advise you. It always helps to practice a little before the big day."

  Clio drained another glass, set it down and licked her lips. The soft buzz from the wine took the edge off her dread.

  She cleared her throat.

  "Father." She swallowed, gathering her nerve. "Mother?" She knew there was no sympathy to be found from either parent. And no point postponing the inevitable. "The fact is, I'm not ready. I'm… almost ready. But I won't be able to defend on Tuesday as scheduled. Dr. Jovi knows. I'm not sure why he didn't tell you before you flew over. I'm sorry to waste your time." She pressed her lips together, waiting.

  Mother averted her eyes, pressing her manicured fingertips to her temple, pruning her mouth with a sucking motion, and focusing on some distant object. That was her way of expressing her dissatisfaction. Detachment. Even more detachment than usual. It was only really accomplishment that got a rise out of her. Anything less simply couldn't be processed. Clio could hold up her prizes and awards in exchange for love and affection. Attention. Approval. Or not.

  The skin of Father's large nose was stretched taut, altering its shape, making it broader and more flared. A look she knew well. Through his compressed nostrils, his slow, deep, even breathing was emphatic. Clio always focused on his nose, for some reason. A fleshy island in a sea of judgment. Maybe it was to avoid the downturned corners of his proud mouth, or the shattered feeling his cold, flinty eyes inflicted on her. Like a thousand sharp knives slicing, slicing all over, leaving her feeling shredded and bleeding. And he hadn't even spoken yet.

  "W
hat have you got to say in your defense?

  It was a question she'd heard a thousand million times. She must defend herself before the judge. A vibration, a kind of resonance, slowly built up from the center of Clio, rising, and filling her. It became audible to her, at first a hum, building to a dull roar. She lifted her eyes to her father's cold gaze. And she felt… still. Stillness in the midst of a storm of emotion. "I don't have to defend myself to you."

  The outline of her father seemed to waver. As though a projected image had suddenly flickered, or the surface upon which it was projected had rippled, causing a distortion of the solid, familiar image she had expected to see.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Mother sat upright, suddenly alert. Her head tipped to one side, like a skinny bird that had just noticed an odd colourful bit of fluff. A tiny red flag.

  "I'm twenty-eight years old. Whether I succeed or fail at my doctoral thesis should be entirely my own concern."

  "Who do you think has paid for this education of yours, young lady?"

  Clio narrowed her eyes, trying to reconcile the disconcerting, conflicting images of her parents. The way they appeared in her mind, with the people who sat before her. She knew they loved her, in their own rigid, narrow way. Everything she'd ever had was given to her by them. "You of course, Father. And I'm grateful. Although I wonder if… if maybe…"

  "What?"

  She swallowed. "I'm not sure you've done me any favors by choreographing my life so…so completely."

  Father sucked in a breath, his mouth downturned, his eyes bulging. "Well I never…"

  "Clio you don't mean what you're saying." Mother's sharp eyes were fully on her now. "We've given you every advantage."

  Father bristled. "This is some kind of rebellion so close to your deadline. You're feeling stressed, obviously, but I don't see the need to be disrespectful. I expect better of you, Clio."

  "Father. Most people my age are fully independent. They've long ago embarked on careers, families, lives of their own. Why do you persist in micro-managing me?"

  A long moment of silence passed, during which they stared at each other, as if seeing each other for the first time.

  "You're going to deliver the final draft of your thesis? You plan to defend?"

  Clio shrugged. Some demon urge prevented her from agreeing with him. She lifted her chin and met his icy blue eyes. "I don't know what I'm going to do next."

  Father's face filled with blood, reddening like a thermometer building pressure, going taut. "This is not to be born. I can't believe it. I'm fed up with you."

  "I need more time, Father. I need to finish this thesis on my own terms. I need a little time to gather my thoughts, that's all."

  "You need. What makes you think you can have everything just the way you like it, missy?" He tossed back his wine and pushed his chair back. "More time? Ha! We've given you extra time already, Clio. I'm fed up. You never took your academic career seriously. We've lost faith in you. I don't know what else to do. I don't know how to impress upon you the importance–"

  "Father! You don't need to do anything. That's my–"

  "You're twenty-seven years old and never lived on your own. Never had a permanent job. You think you can make it on your own? Fine. You take care of yourself from now on. You're cut off." He stood up.

  "Donald," Mother murmured. "Perhaps, you're being too hasty."

  "No! I'm through with her." He straightened his large frame, looming, and glared down at Clio. "How do you like that?"

  Clio sat back, expecting to feel devastation. But she wasn't as crushed as she thought she might be. Strangely, she felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She felt as though the steel bands of a cage had broken open, and suddenly she could see the sky. She felt as though she were floating upward, as if she were one of those angels drifting heavenward, glowing, ecstatic, secure in the knowledge that all was as it was meant to be. She wanted to giggle.

  Instead, a steely determination and a strange detachment from her father's wrath, and her mother's pinched disappointment, filled her. Or rather, washed over her, like a halo of light, or an epiphany of recognition, leaving her feeling very warm all over.

  "You know, I'm really alright with that, Father," she said, suppressing the smile that pulled at her lips.

  He drew back. "You'll be cut off. You'll have to earn your own keep. And I can't guarantee that position will be held for you at Ohio if you ever manage to graduate."

  Clio blinked. He really didn't understand at all. "Oh. How will I live without that?"

  "This is hardly the time for sarcasm, Clio."

  "I never wanted to go to Ohio, Father! You never even asked me if I wanted that position." Clio thrust out her chin.

  His icy blue eyes bulged, and his arrogant mouth seemed frozen into its downturned scowl of disapproval.

  "I'm finished with you."

  "So you said."

  The color drained from Mother's pinched face. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth. "Oh, Clio. A wasted opportunity. If you abandon your career now, you'll lose all the advantage of our reputations. Moreover, your failure will reflect poorly on us. Our only child. People expect such great things from you."

  Clio glanced from Father to Mother and back again. And she felt… nothing. Nothing at all. She was numb. A powerful heaviness pulled down her limbs, weakening her so that she couldn't move a muscle. What had just happened? Perhaps it was inevitable, the conflict she felt with her parents had been bound to explode one day. But she couldn't help but feel a profound disappointment. She had never been the daughter they wanted her to be. And they had never been the family she yearned for. What would she do now?

  She realized in that moment that she felt more for Guillermo and his family's home than she did about her thesis, or about pleasing her parents. In the past month, she'd felt more committed, more passionate, more alive than she had at any point in her university career. For the first time in her life she had taken on a cause of her own choosing. And it was about bloody time.

  True, she loved her thesis. It had taken a few false starts, but she'd finally stumbled upon an idea that she believed in. Something she could champion and carry through. But it was the research itself that propelled her forward, rather than completing the thesis and getting the degree. About what came afterward, she felt nothing. About Doctor Clio Sinclair McBeal and her illustrious academic career, following in the footsteps of her accomplished parents, she felt nothing. That was not her future.

  "I suppose you'll want me to withdraw from the program."

  Father's face contorted even further, his eyes pinching to narrow slits in a field of crow's feet, like cracks in a dry lakebed. "What's the point in staying if you don't intend to finish?"

  "I didn't say that. I just want to do it in my own time, on my own terms."

  "Well I can't pay another Euro to keep you. You can't expect Jovi to hold your position open any longer while you dawdle. You've been taking up space for far too long, and he's kept you on only as a favor to me."

  "Well, that is good to know. However, it doesn't matter. I've been talking to another academic, at… Perugia. Someone who supports my research." Clio's neck felt like twisted steel, it was so taut and cramped. She lifted her shoulders to ease the cramping.

  "What?" Mother said. "Who?"

  "You planned this?"

  "You always taught me to have a backup plan, Father." A shudder shot through her from top to bottom, rattling her. It was a bald-faced lie, but it could be true. She knew people. She pressed her elbows tightly to her sides to quell the tremors, and gripped the edge of the table until her fingertips turned white.

  "You talked to them? And kept this from me?"

  Clio jigged one shoulder up. "I don't want your help anymore, Father. I'll manage my career and my life on my own."

  He pushed his chair out of the way with a jerk, his breathing raspy. "We'll be leaving then." Mother shadowed him, looking a little stunn
ed. She had her own opinions, not necessarily in alignment with Father's, but he seldom left her an opportunity to express them.

  "Clio," she hissed. "Oh, Clio, please. A little more effort–" Her face folded up and she turned away, her eyes casting after Father.

  Oh, hell. This is it, then. Her breath failed her, but she squeezed out, "Fine. I'm happy for you to go." She watched them walk away, all the hope that one day they'd see her for her true self and love her unconditionally shriveling and shrinking into a small, hard pellet in the pit of her stomach.

  She did want her Ph. D. Of course she did. But she needed more time. She'd think about that later. First, she realized, she'd need a job right away to support herself for the first time in her life. She had only her stipend and a little savings. Not very much. A tremor of excitement shook her. It wasn't how she'd envisioned it, but here it was: independence. At last.

  I have to live my own life. I don't want to be shunted around like a puppet, sent to Ohio just because Father owed some old crony a favour, or maybe the other way around.

  She waited for the sensation of shame at the next thought that skipped through her mind. But it didn't come. She realized what she'd always wanted, the reason she'd allowed herself to be manipulated and controlled all her life. She simply wanted to be loved and accepted. She wanted to be valued for herself, and to belong somewhere. Somewhere she didn't have to continually prove her worth with accomplishments and kudos.

  Only one person had ever made her feel that way. She swallowed the sob that tore at her throat, and tilted her face up to the ceiling, as tears welled and overflowed onto her cheeks.

  The truth is, I want to be with Guillermo more than… more than I want a PhD or Father's approval. Even though he doesn't want me for himself.

  Chapter 28

  Memmo! Telefono per te!"

  Stronzo. Guillermo huffed out his breath and set down his tools. "Momento, Marcella." Why did the phone always ring when you were at the top of a ladder?

  He worked his way down, his thoughts torn between the caller, and the problems he'd discovered under the cap flashing of the portico parapet wall. Hopefully it was that contractor from Montechiello calling back already.