Roses Collection: Boxed Set

by Freda, Paula

  Mark grasped her shoulders. "Come on, wake up, you're dreaming. Cybelle, do you hear me? You're safe. It all happened a long time ago."

  Her eyelids fluttered, opened and slowly the present caught up with her. She was in her bedroom in her guardian's home, a white stone mansion that overlooked the Hudson River and its valley. She had been reliving the horrible memory of her parents' death, but once again, Mark was there to protect her and ease her sorrow. Once she'd accepted he sincerely wished to help her, no one could take his place. She had grown used to having him beside her, to look up to, talk to, argue with and rely on. On her eighteenth birthday she had realized how very much he meant to her, but Mark had considered her feelings only a girlish infatuation with a benefactor.

  College followed, English and Journalism as her majors, and life on campus with brief visits to the Carlson mansion on holidays and recesses. Mark insisted she travel during her summer vacations, and when she came back from her trips, he often had left for one.

  She dated, went steady a couple of times, but it was no use. The young men she allowed into her life simply didn't measure up to Mark. Some were smarter and even handsomer, but they weren't Mark. By the time she graduated with full honors, there was no doubt in her mind that she was in love with Mark Carlson. Ever since her eighteenth birthday she had never mentioned or given any further sign of her deeper feelings for Mark because she feared he might ask her to leave if she persisted. He occasionally dated, tall, sophisticated women, among them Leatrice, but luckily nothing serious developed. Leatrice had proved to be her dearest friend. "I guess I'll have to wait until I'm your age," she told Leatrice one evening. "Maybe then he'll look at me differently. Leatrice was 29. That meant six more years.

  "Are you all right?" Mark asked. "I heard you crying." His room was directly across from hers. It was dawn.

  Cybelle smiled at him as he knelt beside her bed. His hands remained on her shoulders. She covered one with hers. He quickly drew his fingers away and stood up. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "You mentioned the other night that you're up for a vacation at the newspaper office. I'm up for one also. How would you like to spend your vacation in Florence, Italy? And on our way back, stop off in Panama City to visit my sister? The high echelon at the plant is sending me abroad next week to investigate a report that a certain Italian inventor claims to have discovered a cheap substitute for gasoline."

  Cybelle stared at Mark, her mouth open.

  "Well, stop gaping. Will you come?"

  She sat up, literally beaming with delight. "I most certainly will!" Mark pondered her face. It had been a long time since he'd seen her this happy, not since the afternoon of her eighteenth birthday. Since then a sadness that she constantly tried to hide never left her. He was not fooled; Cybelle continued to fancy herself in love with him. On purpose he stayed away, taking extended trips when she came home for vacations. As always the guardian, keeping faithfully his promise to her father. But it wasn't easy. She had grown more beautiful with each passing year. At age twenty-three the teenager was gone, the baby fat refined to smooth graceful contours, although the popcorn quality of her basic character would never completely erase. And he was grateful, for that unsophisticated, impulsive, feisty spirit was her most beautiful, engaging quality. Daily he expec-ted her to present some lucky young man as her beau, but Cybelle would have none of the young men who pursued her.

  The idea to ask Cybelle to accompany him to Florence had formed one afternoon last week as he sat outside in the patio. A white moth kept circling a rosebush that Harry had planted about two years ago. The chestnut tree nearby provided too much shade. Despite that Harry had trimmed the overhanging branches, the bush was not doing well. Mark meant to ask Harry to transplant the bush to a sunnier spot, but somehow more important matters always distracted him. He was deep in thought, hardly moving a muscle. The moth must have mistaken him for an inanimate object, for it landed on his arm. The instant Mark became aware of it and moved, it fluttered away. It may have been the actual flut-tering away that evoked the idea for the combined trip. Cybelle was no longer a child and it was time they discussed this matter of her infatuation openly. It was time for Cybelle to look for love elsewhere. She was too lovely, too young and too fascinating for a man sixteen years her senior. He had made a promise to Jacques to protect her. He would never presume to consider himself as a suitor, even if he'd already admitted to himself that it would be so easy to fall in love with Cybelle. "All right, then," he told Cybelle. "I'll make the arrangements. But no more nightmares. I'll see you later."

  Cybelle watched Mark leave her room. She was ecstatic. At last here was the opportunity she needed — alone with him in one of the loveliest and most cultural cities in Europe; she must tell Leatrice, her one ally. At one time she had considered her a rival, until Leatrice had reassured her that her relationship with Mark was desperately platonic. And recently she had told Cybelle about someone she had met during a sojourn to Montana, someone with whom she was obsessed.

  Leatrice resided with her parents in the neighboring estate that was as exclusive as the Carlson's. Cybelle dialed her private number and Leatrice answered sleepily. She was a late riser, and by her own admission, wealthy and self-indulged. But Cybelle had always found her emotionally generous and open-minded. The two had become steadfast friends. Cybelle considered Leatrice her confidante.

  "Lee, wake up, I have the greatest news!"

  "It better be great, to wake me up this early." A pause, then, "Cy, are you nuts. It's six o'clock in the morning!"

  "I know, but I have to tell someone, or I think I'll burst."

  "What, what's so great? Tell me so I can go back to sleep."

  "Mark has asked me to accompany him to Italy, and to Panama to visit Doreen."

  Leatrice was silent for a moment. Then she said, "It's an invitation to share a vacation, not a proposal. Although I am surprised."

  "This sudden invitation has to mean something, maybe —"

  "Cy, don't get your hopes up. When I came to dinner last week he mentioned that he's worried about you. You're not happy and he knows it."

  Then it's time he does something about my unhappiness. It's time I do something about it as well. Will you come over this weekend and help me choose what to pack. I need your advice. This time with Mark may be my last chance."

  "Yes, I'll come, but I'm leaving on Sunday. I'm going back."

  "To Montana, to the Bar LB?"

  "That's right, this may be my last chance, Cy. Go back to bed we need our rest. We have a lot to accomplish."

  "Mainly the impossible. Good night Leatrice."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two weeks into August, Mark and Cybelle left for Florence. The weather stayed warm and dry, but as on previous flights during her time at college, flying never agreed with Cybelle. Despite the motion sickness tablets the accommodating flight attendant gave her, by the time the plane landed in Milan she was sick to her stomach. The hectic procedure of dealing with immigration, claiming luggage, passing through customs and renting a car to drive to Florence, offered no relief.

  She woke bleary-eyed and estranged under a sheet blanket. She was lying in bed, fully clothed except for her shoes. She remembered falling asleep in the red Fiat Mark had rented. He must have carried her into the hotel and put her directly to bed. The nausea had left her, though traces of the headache and fogginess persisted. The folding alarm clock on the nightstand read past eight, and from the light streaming in through the dark mahogany louvers of the floor-length shutters, Cybelle realized that it was the following morning.

  The suite, comprised of two bedrooms, bath and a sitting room, was spacious and elegantly furnished. Cybelle rose, showered and dressed in tawny slacks and a white cotton sleeveless blouse. Opening the shutters, she stepped out onto the balcony. The entire exterior of the hotel was lined with balconies and commanded a magnificent view of cobbled streets and stone pavements, red-roofed buildings, small and big, gardens and villas, cypress tre
es and underlying farms. The grey waters of the Arno River divided this cluster of life, and verdant Tucson hills formed its boundaries. Midst all this, the towers of the Gothic-Renaissance palaces and churches paid homage to the huge red, green and white marble dome of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. Close to the cathedral stood the Bell Tower — Il Campanile — a proud sentinel, covered with colored marble and adorned with bas-relief. One of the brochures Cybelle had procured described the Campanile as perhaps the most beautiful in all of Italy.

  Cybelle felt Mark's presence before he called her name. She turned, a warm welcome on her lips. He joined her on the balcony. She liked his casual image best: cream colored knit shirt and tan slacks. "Feeling better?" he asked, tipping her chin back to study her face. "Some," she admitted.

  "You do look human again. Yesterday you were positively green. Are you hungry?"

  "I'd love a chocolate milk shake."

  Mark grinned. "Half way across the world, and she asks me for a chocolate milk shake."

  "In all these years I haven't changed, have I"?

  "Don't change," Mark said. "I'll order breakfast.

  It was a brave Old World where man working with nothing but his bare hands and a few crude tools had created living images out of stone and canvas. The images were stationary, yet Cybelle could swear there was a heartbeat within. The gilded surface of Ghiberti's Portals, ten bas-relief panels portraying scenes from the Old Testament, were bronze carvings so exquisite that Michelangelo had declared the portals worthy to be the Gates of Paradise. In the Loggia della Signoria, Mark and Cybelle strolled under the arcade housing Cellini's "Perseus" and Giambologna's violent depiction of the assault on the Sabine Women. These were giant, gruesome, vivid statues that depicted tales of love, hate and greed.

  Inside the Palazzo Vecchio — the old palace — the political soul and history of the Florentine Republic could be viewed in the Hall of the Five Hundreds, on the ceiling, which was divided into thirty-nine vibrantly painted scenes and in the life-size frescoes on the walls.

  Cybelle and Mark wandered through the corridors of the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the artistic talents of the old masters and the quality of their paintings. Fra Angelico, Giotto, Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, Rubens, and many more were here. The two paused before Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus," her virginal beauty rising out of the sea, so lovely, so ethereal. Cybelle slipped her hand into Mark's. His fingers tightened, then let go quickly.

  In the evening, they chose to dine at a well-reputed restaurant on the banks of the Arno River. Cybelle wore a silky aqua sheath, and Mark, debonair in a white and black dinner suit, turned heads. The dining area enclosed a sunken garden filled with flora. At its center, a water nymph delicately carved from green and white marble, lounged dreamily atop a white pedestal from which rainbow ribbons of cool water cascaded into the fount below.

  Mark ordered Bistecca alla Fiorentina. Cybelle preferred Tor-tellini con Salsa di Pomodoro.

  Along with the meal that was cooked to perfection, the waiter brought to the table a straw-covered flask of Florence's famed red Chianti. From speakers over-head, a classical, soul-searching melody flowed, and a steady stream of voices engaged in conversation mingled with the dry scent of wine and the spicy aroma of red and white sauces.

  At the end of the meal, Cybelle and Mark sipped small cups of demitasse sweetened with anisette. Mark appeared pensive and Cybelle tapped her spoon on the saucer to draw his attention. His gaze scolded and the imp in Cybelle taunted, "Still the guardian?"

  "You're still impertinent."

  "I love you," she said.

  Mark regarded her silently. Her eyes were a viewport to her soul. There was no mistaking her sincerity. Cybelle remained infatuated with him despite the years and his continued efforts to disenchant her.

  He glanced down at his plate, and in his mind, he spoke silently to Jacques. Don't worry; I won't take advantage of her vulner-ability. She needs to be loved, and I'm the only one she can turn to thus far. But one day some other man, one younger and more eligible will capture her heart. Then he'll be there for her. Until that time, I'll guard her from herself — and from me.

  "Stop teasing me, Cybelle."

  "I'm not teasing you. I mean it. I love you," she said. "L O V E," she spelled. The years they had spent together as guardian and ward allowed them a certain amount of familiarity in their speech.

  "And I love you, Cybelle, like the child I never had."

  Like the child he'd never had. Cybelle paled. He was sixteen years older than her. She was twenty-three and he was thirty-nine, with only a strand or two of grey in his brown hair which he wore a bit longer than when she had first met him. Cybelle asked, "Is that all you feel for me, a foster parent's affection?"

  Mark nodded.

  They finished their meal in silence. Afterward, they strolled along the banks of the Arno under a dark blue sky studded with stars and a full moon. Lingering on the Ponte Vecchio — the old bridge — they browsed, churning light conversation, through the gold- and silversmith shops that lined both sides of the viaduct. The lights streaming from the shops' windows beamed elongated rays over the river. The rippling surface of the dark grey water glimmered as though dusted with fine powdered gold and silver. Mark purchased an eighteen-carat gold locket and chain and placed it around Cybelle's neck. The curve of her neck was smooth and inviting and his fingers ached to stroke its satiny surface. He quickly locked the chain's clasp and turned to look for a gift for his housekeeper and her husband. Cybelle caressed the locket and watched Mark turn his back on her.

  The following day their itinerary included a visit to The Academy, a veritable treasure palace of paintings and sculptures, among them Michelangelo's David. She had seen photos of the masterpiece, but to behold the mammoth statue of David ... his every sinew, tendon and muscle detailed and alert with tension roused by the expectation of his encounter with Goliath; his lean body filled with power, one leg slightly forward, the head turned, the clear-cut facial contours threatening, the cords of his neck rigid with the strength of the moment as he prepares to do justice for his God and his people, left her breathless. The David's left arm was bent upward and carried a sling over the shoulder. The other hand held a stone ready to be fitted into the sling and hurled at Goliath's forehead. Cybelle had to remind herself that beneath the gray marble skin blood did not flow.

  Her tour ended that afternoon with a ride along the Avenue of Colli. The road climbed above the city. Mark parked the red Fiat and walked with Cybelle to the stone balustrade from where all of Florence could be viewed. Her raiment, Ashlar buildings white-streaked with age, red-topped roofs glistening with pride under the yellow sun and white-misted skies, blue mountains mantling her shoulders, and the Arno River, a string of dark sapphires adorning her neck.

  "It's magnificent," Cybelle whispered. "Thank you for sharing this beauty with me." She leaned close to Mark. He placed his arm about and held her. They dined at the hotel, spent some time nightclub hopping, and finally ended the evening at a Florentine ice cream parlor.

  In the morning Mark prepared to visit the free-lance physicist and inventor living in Florence who had applied for a patent, claiming to have discovered an inexpensive substitute for gasoline. "Our government wants a firsthand report. I'll be gone most of the day. Don't wander off on your own. This is your first time abroad, you don't know the language, and you're a beautiful female."

  "I'd like to do some touring on my own, but I won't go far." Mark reminded himself that she wasn't a child anymore to be told what to do, but he couldn't help worrying. Cybelle at times tended to act impulsively and worry about consequences later. "At least try to stay close to the hotel and don't talk to strangers," he added. "Promise?"

  Cybelle promised. How long would he go on worrying about her and protecting her? Forever she hoped.

  Around lunchtime, smartly attired in a white wrap-around skirt and a light pink blouse, Cybelle wandered out of the hotel.
She carried a white cardigan over her arm. There were a few shops that warranted browsing and a trattoria that she'd heard served a delicious pappa al pomodoro — a thick, creamy tomato and bread soup. As she reached the curb, a young man riding a motor scooter rounded the corner. He slowed to let her cross. She waved him a thank you and paid him no mind when he whistled at her, but a few seconds later, glancing over her shoulder she realized that he was following her. Worse, several other Italian youths congregated in doorways and idling in sidewalk cafes had joined him.

  Cybelle was grateful that she had worn her white sandals as she hustled over the stone slabs covering the streets.

  "Aaa, ma vedete che bel angelo ha sceso dal cielo," the young man on the scooter informed the other youths.

  Cybelle muttered under her breath when four more youths joined the procession. She broke into a trot and headed for the first commercial establishment she saw. Behind the glass entrance, she watched with frantic misgivings as the group of young men gathered outside to await her exit.

  "Potrei aiutarla, signorina?"

  Cybelle turned. A middle-aged woman in a business suit welcomed her with a smile. Though she did not understand the language, she returned the smile and looked around. There were no wares for sale, only a few scattered folding chairs and a plain wood table. "What is this place?" Cybelle asked, hoping the woman would guess her meaning.

  "Excuse me, you are American?" the woman inquired, and when Cybelle nodded, "This is a travel agency."

  Cybelle looked over her shoulder. Outside, her admirers had begun an easy flowing conversation.

  "Is something wrong?" the woman asked following Cybelle's gaze and apparently finding nothing amiss with the group congregated outside the agency's door. "No," Cybelle lied. She felt awkward telling the agent the truth, so she impulsively improvised. "I was wondering, do you sponsor any local tours?" If she stayed in the shop long enough, her admirers might tire of waiting and leave. "Si, ecco, signorina," the woman answered, leading Cybelle to a wall where sheets of all sizes and colors were pinned in disorderly fashion. Upon close inspection, Cybelle recognized the scribbled notes as offered tours of the city. "I've been to most of these places," she said, glancing over her shoulder once again. Her admirers continued to talk and gesticulate leisurely among themselves.