A Summer In Europe (14 page)

But then again, Richard wouldn’t be asking any questions because Richard wasn’t here. He hadn’t even sent her a single e-mail yet!

She exhaled and forced away the irritation, focusing instead on the scenic jumble of man-made items and natural beauty that flashed before her as they walked onto the Ponte Vecchio. There were jewelry shops everywhere, golden charms and necklaces shimmering in the slanting afternoon light. A kaleidoscope of bright colors—scarves, clothing, throw pillows, even a few carnival masks—plus a flash of postcards whirling around on a revolving display.

Gwen found herself taking steps to purposefully engage her senses. Smelling the hot, sun-scorched pavement, which strangely evoked a memory of popcorn, until she realized the scent was coming from one of the nearby vendors. A warm meal of some kind—buttery!—and a not-so-subtle reminder of the lunch she’d skipped. She felt the wondrous and strange pang of
wanting
... that rumble of hunger that craved both food and something else as well.

“Mmm,” she heard herself murmur.

Despite the noise of the passersby, Emerson heard her and responded. He swiveled in place, glancing over his shoulder at her with a half smile. “Smells heavenly, yes?”

She nodded and tried to pull her mind away from the puzzle of him, again using her senses as bait. The jingle of silver bangles and the tinkling of wind chimes harmonized with the laughing lilt of the Italian language swirling around her. She heard the splash of a stone being thrown into the languorous waves of the Arno and a child’s high-pitched giggle. The rustle and patter of fellow tourists, punctuating their walk with an unpredictable syncopation, added an undercurrent of rhythm to the soft hiss of rushing water and the whisper of silk scarves dancing on their secured metal hooks.

“Something catch your fancy?” Emerson asked. “If you want to go into any of the shops, we can. There are some beautiful gold chains for sale. Charm bracelets. Earrings, too.” He paused. “Although you seem to like best those pearl ones you have on. You’re always wearing them,” he observed. “They’re lovely.”

She reached up to touch them. “Thanks. They’re ... special.”

He bobbed his head. “Yes. So, perhaps, a golden, er, roach broach instead?” he suggested, pointing toward a shop that had an unappealing solid-gold cockroach pin in the display window.

She winced.

“Perhaps not, then,” he concluded, laughing.

She smiled and studied a few other pieces of jewelry in the window’s case. “Oh, there’s that Mouth thingy from Rome,” she said, before she could stop herself.

But Emerson didn’t seem to notice that she’d said something sort of foolish. He leaned forward and surveyed the case. “Certainly. You mean the Mouth of Truth. Yes.
La Bocca della Verità
in pendant form. It’s well crafted. Would you like to take a closer look?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t spend money on silly things. And that was ... such an odd site. My aunt made me put my hand in its mouth,” she confided. “Did you and your brother go there, too?”

“We did.” He shot a speculative glance at her and hooked his thumb in the direction of the vendor’s door. “Come. At least look at the necklace. It’s not as though you’re required to buy it if you don’t like it.”

She assented and, just a few minutes later, found herself holding the delicate gold chain and the penny-sized Mouth of Truth pendant in her palm.

“You wear it, yes?” the vendor said hopefully. “I put around your neck.” He motioned clasping the golden chain. “And you try. If you like, you buy. If no”—he shrugged—“then
pfft
. You forget it. Okay?”

“Um,” Gwen said.

“Just agree with him,” Emerson whispered.

“Yes, sure. Okay,” she said, allowing the vendor, an older Italian gentleman who reminded her somewhat of their bus driver, Guido, to slip on the pendant.

It didn’t weigh much, really. Every part of the necklace was pure gold, but the chain was very fine and the Mouth thingy, though exquisitely detailed to look like that marble oracle in Rome, was incredibly thin. She found herself rubbing it like a talisman for several moments before she realized that both the vendor and Emerson were grinning at her.

“You do like!” enthused the vendor.

“Well, yes, it’s very pretty,” she said, reaching to unclasp it. “But I probably should wait to make any purch—”

“Gwen, just a moment,” Emerson said. “Before you take it off. You do realize wearing the
Bocca
makes you rather like a human truth teller, right? Not only must you be honest or face the consequences, but everyone else must be honest with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know that’s not true.” She reached for the clasp again.

Emerson covered her left hand—the one nearest to him—with his warm fingers, stilling them. Setting even her pulse on pause and stealing her breath.

“It may well be.” He moved a couple of steps forward. “And wouldn’t that be bloody brilliant? I know I’d love it. That kind of truthfulness.”

She blinked at him and, suddenly, he released her hand and stepped back.

“You do like!” the vendor gushed again, interrupting the oddly charged moment between Emerson and her.

And Gwen, to her own surprise, caught herself nodding in agreement with the older Italian. “I do,” she added unnecessarily. The man had already pulled out his calculator to compute the cost for her in U.S. dollars versus euros.

After some quick haggling between Emerson and the man, during which Gwen ignored the bargaining and, instead, imagined a universe of required candor, her tour mate whispered that the agreed-upon price was fair. “If you really
do
wish to get it,” Emerson told her. “Otherwise, you still are free to walk away, but I believe it will be a great keepsake from this trip. And, you know, I’m holding out hope that it will really have trustworthy and honest oraclelike qualities.”

She chuckled briefly as she paid the vendor, who shook her hands with such zeal he got the blood flowing through her shocked fingers again. But the rest of her still felt enchanted by Emerson’s presence, and more than slightly unstable. Being around him was like what she’d always envisioned it would be like to be under a spell or in some kind of trance. She still considered herself fully conscious, but she also found herself acting in ways that were not—at least not for her—typical.

Kind of like sleepwalking,
she mused,
where everything you’re doing is part of a dream. It feels real and you really ARE moving. Just not for the reasons you think
.

As they headed back across the bridge to the street where they’d started, Emerson nudged her and said, “You’ll be wearing the necklace for the rest of the day, correct?”

She ran the pad of her thumb over the face of the golden
Bocca.
The feel of it made her emboldened with a kind of courage. “Yes. So?”

“So, you are now bound by the Roman deities and, indeed, by all the gods of Italy to speak the truth.” He caught her eye and with a smirk added, “You
have
to tell me what you and my brother were talking about on the bus this morning—or else.” He mimed getting a hand chopped off.

She burst with laughter at this, an overly free, nearly giddy eruption that sounded more like her teaching partner Kathy’s laugh than her own. “Nice try, wise guy,” she told him, in much the same amused-but-firm tone she’d use with a classroom of squirrely eighth graders.

He shrugged. “Well, I had to give it my very best effort, didn’t I?” He pointed down the Via Por Santa Maria, a cross street of Lungarno degli Acciaiuoli. “I’m famished. How about we get some food now?”

“Lead the way,” she said.

And he did.

Under his guidance, they strode with unerring precision through the twisty walkways of downtown Florence, reaching San Lorenzo’s vast market, next to the church of the same name, and stopping by the well-known Mercato Centrale for prosciutto and provolone sandwiches, Italian lemon-lime sodas and a paper sack filled with small, sweet oranges.

They sat on a bench at the edge of the market and began devouring their late lunch, watching the passersby with curiosity and, on occasion, even commenting on the bustling, colorful scene before them. The day remained bright. Mother Nature and Italian Commerce mingled cheerfully in the square.

Gwen hadn’t really taken the time to do this in Rome, as she’d been so focused on seeing the hot tourist spots. But her out-in-nature experience in Capri gave her a taste for more than mere guidebook interactions and an appreciation for the sights and sounds of a local’s Italy. A reaction, she had to admit, she hadn’t really had until she’d raced down those stairs. Perhaps her aunt had been right at the start of the trip. Maybe she’d been “missing everything good” after all.

Well, not anymore.

After they finished eating, they meandered back and forth, weaving through a flock of leather stalls, packed souvenir carts and potential pickpockets. (Emerson steered her away from a handful of very tactile children that, he later explained, were trained thieves.) Vendors hawked their wares, wanting to sell Gwen everything from a smartly crafted leather purse to a Swiss Army knife to a portrait of herself in watercolor.

She said, “No, thank you” to each of them—she already had a golden Mouth of Truth hanging around her neck after all—and if she wanted to buy additional souvenirs, she’d get them later when she could be sure that they would be meaningful to her.

She sighed, thinking of Richard, though. She had no idea what to bring back for him from Italy. Not that he deserved any special gifts at the moment. She remained puzzled by his lack of communication and, if truth be told (which it must be ... she was wearing the necklace), she was also tremendously hurt that he hadn’t responded.

As they walked nearer to the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, with its famous Duomo—the enormous cupola that defined the Florentine skyline—and reached the Piazza della Signoria, there were still more leather goods to be found, including belts, sandals, wallets. This time she studied them with a bit more care and with Richard in mind.

Emerson, it turned out, was rather tempted by these manly items himself.

“What do you think of this?” he asked her, trying on a finely tooled brown leather belt with a gold-plated buckle that was shaped to resemble the mouth and tongue of a cobra.

“Uh ...” she began, surprised to see him lifting his shirt so he could slip the belt around his waist. He had a very fit waist, she noticed. And just the lightest dusting of hair on his lower abdominals. Not that she stared at it for long. He pulled the shirt down again so very quickly, but—

“Gwen?”

“Right. The belt,” she mumbled. “Were you, by chance, born in the Year of the Snake?”

He shook his head. “Year of the Tiger. Or so say the place mats at my favorite Chinese takeaway spot in London.”

“Oh. Well, you’re definitely making a ... slithering statement with that one.”

His hips were kind of lean, too. And the way he draped the belt around them was ... huh. She tried not to dwell on this, but the phrase “undeniably sexy” flashed through her mind more than once. More than twice, if she were to be honest. (Again, a requirement of the necklace.)

“Hmm. Perhaps not, then.” He put it back and, for a moment, she was relieved. But a minute later he reached for another brown belt, this one featuring a leopard or some kind of mountain cat.

“Yes! That one,” she said, before he could even put it on. Close enough to a tiger for her! “I think that one will look great. Really. Just get it.”

He squinted at her. “Let’s not run astray, darling. I appreciate how you’ve embraced Florentine shopping so very enthusiastically, but I need to make sure this fits my body.”

The way he drew attention to his body gave her an unwelcome shiver. She was altogether too aware of it already. Uncomfortably so. To distract herself, she averted her glance and looked, instead, at her watch—4:36. Oh, jeez. They had less than twenty-five minutes to hike up to the Accademia Gallery to meet their group for the tour.

“We’re cutting it close on time, Emerson,” she said, projecting a sense of urgency as she spoke, “if we’re going to get to the
David
by five.”

“Oh, right.” He slid the new belt through the loops of his khaki slacks and fastened it. “Take a look-see. Yes?”

“Absolutely!” she said with a zealousness that was almost feverish. She barely allowed her gaze to rest on any part of his lower body. “It’s perfect. And ... and it even matches what you’re wearing. So, buy it and let’s go! It’s Michelangelo time.”

He stared at her. “Remind me never to give you an entire soda again. You’re overactive from all the sugar, I think.” Nevertheless, he paid for his purchase and they made quick work of hoofing it to the gallery.

Hans-Josef and their tour group were already at the entrance, just waiting for the exact time of their reservation to be let into the building. As she and Emerson approached them, Gwen could hardly escape the raised eyebrows of interest from many of the tour members (particularly Aunt Bea), the squint of shared disapproval from Cynthia, Louisa and even their tour guide and, finally, the twist of amusement on Thoreau’s lips.

Emerson, either for reasons of fairness and a desire not to budge in line or because he wished to avoid his brother—Gwen wasn’t sure which—marched them to the very end of the line and, after a brief wave at Thoreau and the Britsicles, literally turned his back on them and continued his conversation with Gwen.

“So, what did you think of Michelangelo’s other sculptures? The
Pietà
and the
Moses
in Rome?” he asked.

“Mmm. Nice,” she murmured while, inwardly, she groaned. Half the planet seemed to be caught up in a love affair with Michelangelo Buonarroti. She knew she’d have to see his famous
David,
of course—it was an expectation in Florence—and she’d been feigning delight at the prospect for days. Certainly she was curious, but it wasn’t as though she was a big art fan. If she couldn’t get excited by either the
Pietà
or the Sistine Chapel, that
proved
there was a major artistic disconnect somewhere within her, right?