by Nichole Van
I froze at the word boyfriend, my whole universe coming to a grinding halt.
I mentally smacked my forehead.
Of course, she would have a boyfriend.
I was an idiot.
I dug back into my scone, savoring the mix of lemon and berries. Thinking.
But . . .
I could be a patient idiot.
A boyfriend was a far cry from a fiancé or a husband. I could out-wait a boyfriend. I merely had to make sure I had a way to contact her before she left.
She tapped her phone twice and then set it down on the table, leaning toward me.
“So what’s your brand of crazy?” she asked.
I paused, trying (again) to find the thread in the conversation.
She folded her hands on the table and continued, “I collect hearts, refuse to get out of bed before nine in the morning and use words like befuddled. That’s my crazy. What’s yours?”
“You don’t get out of bed before nine?”
“Only masochists get out of bed before nine.” She shot me a duh look. “And only a sadist would make them. I think all morning people are just faking being happy.”
“Trying to make the rest of us look bad?”
“Exactly! But enough stalling, what’s your crazy?”
I chewed, thinking through the enormous list of crazy that was my life. Trying to find something that was less . . . out-there than the others.
I am one of three triplets who inherited a supernatural gift of Sight from our father.
Maybe.
If I touch something with my skin, I involuntarily hear the sound around the object at the moment of its last alteration.
Equally weird.
If I touch something and concentrate, I can shuffle through the sounds around it at each moment of alteration.
Mmmm. Even I knew any of those were TMI . . .
There’s a fine line between crazy and certifiable.
She took my silence the wrong way.
“If you say you aren’t crazy, I will so call you on your balderdash. Everyone is crazy in some way.”
I chuckled. “Just mentally sorting through the plethora of options.”
“Plethora. Nice.”
I shrugged, my smile too wide, as I dug back into my scone.
“How’s about starting with the long-sleeve lumberjack shirt and expensive, leather driving gloves?” she asked. “You do realize it’s August, right?”
“I do.” I took another bite, giving her a teasing grin, hearing our last two lines as soon as the scone and strawberries hit my tongue.
You do realize it’s August, right?
I do.
After another pause, I went with, “I won’t eat anything green unless it’s a vegetable.”
She cocked her head, processing.
A beat.
“Green M&M’s? Skittles? Gummy bears?” she asked.
“Nope. Leave ‘em all in the bag.”
“Green frosting? Sprinkles? Mold?”
“Nope. Nada. And please, no.”
“That rules out stinky French cheese too, I suppose.”
“Generally. Depends on how good the cheese is.” I winked at her.
“Green eggs and ham?”
“Good grief, no.”
“So why no green?” she asked, genuine, sincere.
The reason why was simple—vegetables were often somewhat alive, muting their sound. I only ‘heard’ non-living things.
Artificially green things confused me.
Not that I could say that to her. Not yet, at least. Maybe on our second date, after she broke up with her boyfriend and I explained my inherited . . . issues.
So instead, I went with, “Non-vegetal green things are the charlatans of the food world.”
“That’s about the best sentence I’ve heard all week.” She gave that giggly, wispy laugh of hers. “What about avocados? I mean, they act like a vegetable, but they’re really a fruit.”
“Masquerading vegetables get a pass. So do herbs.”
“What about kiwi?”
“The jury is still out on kiwi. They’re something of a Franken-fruit, to be honest . . . all that fuzzy hair and the tiny, crunchy seeds.”
She laughed again. “Please tell me you have no Irish heritage. You would destroy any St. Patty’s Day celebration.”
“None.” I smiled, shaking my head. “Though, I did have an Irish roommate once. He thought I was, and I quote, ‘A wee bit mad.’”
“See, crazy.” She grinned that signature uneven smile I was starting to adore. “I can respect that.”
Silence hummed between us again. This time electricity-laden. I might be dense and awkwardly clueless with women, but even I could tell a spark when it happened.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nibbled her lip uncertainly.
“I’d better go.” She looked down, gathered up her notebook and spun to place it in the purse hanging from the back of her chair.
It was now or never. There was no way I could let this girl go without having some way to contact her.
“So will my scone-heart be on your blog?”
“Of course. You should look it up. Wait.” She lifted a staying hand. Like I was going anywhere. “I made business cards just last night.”
“You have business cards for your blog?”
“Sure.” She said it offhand, like that was a thing.
She dug through her purse and then extended a small, white card to me.
Join me at COSheart was on one side in loopy script. Handwritten. She would be the sort to hand-write her business cards.
The other side featured a lipstick kiss.
“Impressive.” I set the card on the table. “I don’t think just anyone has a heart-shaped kiss. You’re a woman of many talents.”
She smiled. Shrugged. Slung her purse over her shoulder and stood up. I couldn’t help but notice she was a little on the tall side, maybe five seven. At six four myself, tall was good. She would fit perfectly in the curve of my arm.
“Thanks for letting me photograph your heart.”
That was her parting shot.
Thanks for letting me photograph your heart.
Truer than she knew.
I watched her walk out of the room, admiring every second of that curvy figure. The riot of hair hanging down her back.
Oh yeah. This was merely the beginning. It would make an amazing story for our grandkids. I could see them now. Gingers. Redheads. Lots of freckles.
I met your grandmother when she photographed my heart . . .
Smiling, I picked up her business card in my gloved fingers.
Her lips really were heart-shaped. Two swooping semi-circles above. A pursed ‘V’ below.
I paused for only a second and then tugged off the glove of my right hand.
What sound had she made while kissing the card? Would I hear that breathy laugh again?
I hesitated.
And then gently touched the edge of the card.
Have I mentioned that I’m a genius?
Her voice. Excited.
The sound of the card being kissed.
I smiled.
Of course, you’re a genius. I told you this would be huge, cara. How could you ever doubt me?
A man’s voice.
My lungs seized.
A painfully familiar man’s voice.
Come here. I want some of that sugar too, babe, the man continued.
Rustling. A soft sigh.
I never doubt you. Her voice. Quiet. You’re my perfect Tenn, remember?
Gentle laughter.
His.
Tennyson.
No. No!
I had just fallen for my brother’s girlfriend.
The card slipped from my numb fingers. Heaven shattering around me in brittle shards.
Two
Prato, Italy
June, 2016
Lucy Snow
I woke to the sound of cathedral bells drifting through
the open window.
Soft blue-white light lapped the room . . . the barest wisp of dawn. White plastered walls. White bedspread. White curtains fluttering romantically in the early morning breeze.
Art house film perfection.
It was all so self-righteously smug I wanted to puke.
I groaned and rolled away from the stupidly-bright window.
Sunrise and I have never been friends.
You can drag me out of bed anytime, but if you want my personality and good manners to actually accompany my body, you need to wait until after nine a.m.
I pulled the sheet over my head, blocking out the obnoxiously cheerful sunlight.
The bells bong, bong, bonged a lulling chant. I curled into the covers, letting the sound charm me back to sleep.
A bing-bing joined the bells. Insistent.
Ugh.
Phone. Text. The real culprit for waking me out of my haze so early. Groggily, I rolled over and snagged my phone off the nightstand.
Jeff. My brother.
He totally should know better than to bug me this early—
Wait. He did know better. That’s why he texted.
Brothers.
Rise and shine, baby sister! We made it to Johannesburg, and we’re about to board our flight to the nature reserve. No cell reception there, so we’ll be out of touch for the next week. How’s Grace?
You do know what time it is, right?
Yep.
I sorta hate you right now.
I can live with that. :)
Again. Brothers.
Jeff and his wife, Jen—I know, Jeff and Jen, so cutesy . . . we called them JJ behind their backs—were celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary with a two-week African safari. Jeff worked as an internet security expert for an American company and was currently living in Prato, Italy, just outside Florence. I had taken all my time-off for the next year to come babysit my five-year-old niece, Grace, while her parents were away.
I loved my work as a wilderness therapist, leading others in backwoods survival experiences. Nothing like watching a client from Beverly Hills arrive in high heels clutching her Prada bag with French-tipped nails and leave a little sun-burned, clean faced and smiling.
That said, I had been looking forward to this vacation and spending time with Grace. I was perfect for it, given that Italy was a familiar place for me . . . after everything . . .
I batted the thought away.
Not going to go there.
I had ended things with Tennyson once and for all two years ago. It was ancient history. Over. Done.
Not to be revisited.
I texted Jeff.
Lucky for you, Grace is darling. Her hay fever acted up yesterday, but she was doing better last night. She’s insistent I have to see the new Knight-Snow exhibit at the museum outside of town ASAP. According to her, it’s freaking awesome. You have to do jazz hands when you say that apparently.
I smiled. Grace was nothing if not exuberant about life.
Another bing.
She does take after her aunt. She’ll always choose fun.
Ha-ha. Take care you two and have a great trip. Just don’t die.
Done and done.
“You write-talking to my daddy?” Grace’s sleepy voice filled the room as I set my phone down.
A mass of dark curls bobbed onto the bed, falling across Grace’s face as she crawled toward me, dragging her ratty stuffed elephant with her.
“How’s your nose, pumpkin?” I asked, as she snuggled into my side.
Grace sniffed. Testing.
“Okay. It’s not snuffly anymore.”
“Good.” I tucked her against me, reveling in the warmth of her small body.
You would have had a child by now. Probably two.
The thought drifted through. Unbidden.
Truth. Had Tennyson and I become engaged. If I hadn’t broken things off like I did.
If I hadn’t fallen so far in love with the wrong D’Angelo.
Another head of dark curls punched through my memory. Darker beard. Hazel eyes—eyes so different from Tennyson’s baby blues . . .
I swallowed.
The poet who claimed it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? That guy?
He was an idiot.
Because constantly being around the one thing you wanted more than anything else and knowing you could never have it—
How was I a better person for that?
I knew returning to Italy would do this . . . make old wounds ache and sting.
It was okay. I had healed. Grown up. Moved on.
Just as I was sure they had. Branwell and Tennyson.
I kissed Grace’s forehead. She smelled of berry shampoo, sunscreen and sticky little girl.
The smells of childhood, I supposed.
Grace cuddled closer, yawning.
“When I wake up, could I have a s’nore for breakfast?” she asked. “Daddy calls them s’nores, but that doesn’t mean you can only eat them at night.”
“S’Nores?”
“Yeah. The things with graham crackers and smarshmellows and cholocate? I saw it in your suitcase all the way from ‘Merica.”
Ah.
Man, I so loved this kid. She was one of my tribe, in every way.
“Of course, Gracie Pie. You can have all the s’nores you want for breakfast. We’ll roast the marshmallows over the flame on the stove.”
What was the good of being an aunt if I couldn’t spoil her rotten?
Besides, I was totally down with s’mores for breakfast. I had packed all the stuff to make them. Italy had access to most of the finer things in life. S’mores were a glaring omission.
Grace sighed happily and relaxed into me, her breathing smoothing out into that of deep sleep.
Poor thing.
Her breathing had been so stuffed the day before, allergies hitting her hard. She did sound better. Not entirely clear, but at least she could breathe.
I rubbed a hand over her back, dragging her curls through my fingers.
The curtains swirled again, twisting, curling. Absently, I wondered if they would make a heart-shape at some point. It was second-nature for me. Heart hunting.
If only I could find my own . . .
I must have drifted off again, because it seemed like only seconds later the doorbell buzzer jarred me awake.
Drowsily, I pushed the mass of my hair out of my eyes and sat up. The room was significantly brighter, the sun having climbed in the sky. Grace was no longer in my bed. She had probably snagged my tablet and headphones and snuck back to her room.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzzzzzz.
The doorbell sounded again. Insistent. Impatient.
Urgently demanding my attention.
Three
Portland, Oregon
Six years earlier
Branwell
You must be Branwell.” She gave a friendly wave from the curl of Tennyson’s arm on the couch. “Hi. I’m Lucy.”
I paused, halfway behind Dante, both of us still holding groceries.
“Hey.” I gave her the standard guy chin lift. “Nice to meet you.”
I kicked the apartment door shut, slamming a lid on my emotions just as forcefully.
I had spent the last three days prepping for the moment when we would meet again. Wondering how she would react. How I would respond.
She smiled, that lop-sided smile I hadn’t been able to get out of my head. Red curls sprawled across my brother’s chest, freckles dancing on her pale skin.
Not a flicker of recognition.
Alright, then.
I kept my face impassive and ordered my heart not to plummet. She didn’t remember me, and I would pretend to not remember her. This was good . . . for the best. All I had to do now was forget my initial reaction to her, and we would all move on.
Tennyson pulled her closer, kissing her temple.
I turned away, setting the grocery bags on the kitchen table, ruthlessly arguin
g with my stupid, wayward heart.
Let. Her. Go.
Four
Prato, Italy
June, 2016
Lucy
Bzzz. Bzzz.
The poor doorbell was getting a workout.
I kicked off the covers and quickly decided that my t-shirt (Morning! My archnemesis. We meet again.) and loose pajama bottoms (light pink with darker pink hearts) were presentable enough.
I stumbled down the long central hallway of the apartment to the front door and looked through the peephole, recognizing the older woman and thirty-something guy in the stairwell.
The upstairs neighbors. The one who was a cat-lady. And her son . . . who reminded me of a nerdier, more bumbling Italian version of Ross from Friends—tall with chunky glasses, curly dark hair and a loose sense of style.
All I had gathered from our previous conversations was Cat Lady loved her cats nearly as much as she wanted me to date Professor Ross.
Beyond that . . . I drew a blank.
Gah. I was so bad with names, especially complicated Italian ones.
I flipped the deadbolt and swung the door open with a smile.
Professor Ross was true to his stereotyping in a white shirt, sweater vest and dark slacks. He kept nervously pushing his chunky glasses back up his nose.
Cat Lady wore a relaxed mint green pantsuit and huge scarf, graying hair cut into a bob with oversize sunglasses tucked atop her head. She nervously twirled something in her hands. I ignored the ample cat hair clinging to her legs and arms. Who was I to judge?
She was kinda awesome in her Cat Lady-ness.
“Uhm, ciao,” I said, trying to run a hand through my hair and realizing it was currently a massive poof-ball.
“Sono Maria-Teresa Moretti dal piano di sopra, se mi ricordi. E questo é il mio figlio, Roberto Moretti.” Cat Lady gestured to her son, introducing themselves.
That’s right. Maria-Teresa and Roberto Moretti.
Meh. I kinda liked Cat Lady and Professor Ross better.
But their names were all I gleaned. My Italian was rudimentary at best.
Correction. My grasp on everyday, useful Italian was sparse. I knew an insane amount of lovey-dovey, gooey-cooey Italian. I was going to go out on a limb and guess that Cat Lady didn’t want to be called il mio piccolo cucciolo di amore . . . my little love puppy. Although she would probably jump for joy if I used that line on Professor Ross.
