Gladly Beyond (25 page)

Branwell joined us this time, placing an already dished plate on the table with pieces of chicken cut up. He then proceeded to eat with chopsticks, careful not to alter the food before it hit his mouth. Which made sense, once I thought about it. A fork would pierce the chicken, altering it at that moment, making it difficult for him to follow our conversation. Chopsticks just lifted.

The conversation continued to ping around the table, some in English, some in Italian. The brothers ribbed Chiara about a new boy-interest. Apparently she had terrible luck with men. Obviously, our names weren’t the only thing we shared.

Judith asked supportive questions and laughed at their jokes. Nonna teased and scolded. Through it all, I clearly saw the web of love and support that bound them all together.

Part of me felt incredibly uncomfortable. I was an intruder on an intimate family moment. I didn’t belong and wanted to make my excuses and leave.

Another part kept swallowing a large lump in my throat.

Did Dante even remotely understand how blessed he was to have all these people in his life? A mother, grandmother and sister who clearly doted on him? Brothers who loved and supported him?

When had I ever had the privilege of even
seeing
a family like this?

It felt almost sacred somehow. A moment of shining hope. That such a family was actually possible.

I thought about the last time I had a meal together with both my parents. Gosh. How long ago had that been? Three years? Four?

We had met at a restaurant in downtown Boston. JB had been forty-five minutes late due to traffic (so he said), but both Mom and I knew it was more likely because of his assistant, Jennifer. My parents’ marriage could politely be described as unconventional. They tolerate each other’s serial philandering and stay together as more of a business arrangement than anything else.

On this night, my mom refused to start dinner until JB got there, unloading her irritation on my ears and a full bottle of Chianti. Then JB arrived, and I listened to them snipe back and forth for the next hour—neither one asking me any questions beyond wondering (to each other mostly) why I had chosen the tuna instead of the salmon—JB ordering a bottle of some California white for himself.

I wisely chose not to drink. Someone sober had to drive those two back home.

But seeing the D’Angelos together . . . I swallowed back that lump again. An odd mixture of longing to be part of it all and anxiety that they would expect me to be.

I was so messed.

I caught Tennyson studying me. Was I being impolite again, not controlling my emotions better around him?

Which emotion he probably felt . . .
oy.

We finished up the
secondo
and moved on to the
insalata
. Everyone piled mixed greens on their plate and dressed it with olive oil and syrupy balsamic vinegar from the cruet I had carried up.

Dante was recounting our little regression on the bridge, including what we had found out about the Michelangelo sketch and Caro’s history.

“So, wait. She was literally Prince Charlie’s granddaughter?” Chiara asked.

Dante nodded. “That’s Ethan’s understanding.”

“Legitimate granddaughter? Did Prince Charlie have any legitimate children?” Chiara asked.

“I have no idea. We haven’t had time to research it yet.”

“How unsettling to just have a regression in the middle of the street like that.” Judith lifted a small piece of bread to the rat on her shoulder. He grabbed it with his little paws and politely nibbled.

I gave a nervous laugh. “They definitely catch you . . . unawares.”

The rat fixed his eyes on me. Angled his head. And then stood at attention, placing a paw over his ribcage.

It was . . .

“Uncanny, isn’t it?” Branwell motioned toward the rat.

“He looks just like—” Did I dare say it?

“Napoleon.” Chiara finished my thought.

“Yes.”

I whirled on Dante.

“Boney’s shadow has the bicorne hat and everything.” He shrugged.

I looked at the rat, who had gone back to nibbling bread. “Well. I suppose there are worse things to be reincarnated as.”

Judith smiled and rubbed Boney’s head with her fingers. “Yes. He makes an excellent rat.”

I laughed.

“So back to this regression,” Dante said. “Caro gave another coded message at the end of the conversation. Something about their friend John who likes to fly hawks on Tuesday mornings.”

Dante shifted, stretching an arm across the back of my chair. Totally moving into my bubble. Again.

I froze, not sure how I felt about that level of familiarity. He clearly hadn’t even noticed what he had done. As if drawing near me was somehow completely natural for him. Dumb Italians and their lack of personal space.

“John who likes to fly hawks?” Chiara asked.

“Didn’t you say Caro saw a monument in her mind?” Dante turned to me. Or rather just leaned about three inches. The heat of his body lapped my side.

E
man
cipated-Claire wanted me to scoot my chair out, say a few polite
thank yous
and get the hell out of here.

Senti
men
tal-Claire was begging me to lean about five inches in the opposite direction, snug myself firmly into his shoulder and stay until he kicked me out.

It’s just Caro’s lingering emotions,
I reminded myself. That sense of security I felt around Dante.

Without Caro’s trust thrumming through me, I would have
runrunrun
by now. Even as it was, panic was winning out.

My mind finally caught up with his question. “Yeah. I did—or rather, Caro did. It was one of the monuments with the knight on a horse. The one by Uccello—”

“Of course!” Chiara snapped her fingers. “The monument to John Hawkwood.”

“Chiara, your knowledge of Florentine history is encyclopedic.” Tennyson’s tone so very dry. “You’re a living Wikipedia page.”

“
Grazie
.”

“I’m not entirely sure that was a compliment.” Tennyson sat back.

“Don’t care. Hawkwood was one of the generals of the Battle of Cascina actually.”

“Again. Encyclopedic.”

Chiara stuck out her tongue at him. Tennyson folded his arms in reply.

“Interesting coincidence,” Dante said.

“Is it?” Chiara asked. “You said Caro knew John Hawkwood was part of the battle featured in the Michelangelo. It’s no stretch to know about his funerary monument in the Duomo.”

“Hawkwood was so celebrated for his feats in saving Florence, they buried him in the Duomo?” I asked.

“
Eh.
Not really.” Chiara waved her hand in a big, Italian way. “I’m pretty sure he was a general for Pisa during the Battle of Cascina, but Florence later won him over and then used his celebrity to lure other
condottieri
. It was all a game for them.”

Dante leaned even closer; his ribcage brushed my shoulder. Spicy male and heat and
him
. My heart sped up.

My emotions were a volatile cocktail of excitement and panic.

The
panic
portion was all mine. Fear was a bird of prey digging its claws into me.

The excitement . . . I wasn’t so sure. Caro’s emotions again?

Curse these stupid regressions, messing with me like this.

It was all I could do to remain glued to my seat.

I knew it was weird to be struggling with this. But sometimes you just react and there’s no logical explanation. It’s just how you feel.

“Didn’t Ethan say something like that during our first regression?” Dante asked. “That the wars of the
Trecento—
sorry, the thirteenth century—were all a game?”

I reminded my lungs to breathe and nodded. “Yeah.”

Dante finally sat back a bit but didn’t remove his arm from my chair.

I locked eyes with Tennyson across the table. His blue gaze was all too knowing.

Yep. Not sure what was worse. The fact that the poor guy had to deal with all my emotions (and, quite frankly, Caro’s too) before I did or that he
knew
how I felt.

“Two minutes,” Tennyson said.

Everyone turned toward him.

“Claire’s going to be upset in about two minutes. No offense.” He shot me an apologetic grin. “Just figured I should give fair warning.”

Heads looked back at me.

“Uhmmm, thank you?”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Any idea what causes this anger?”

“Not really. But logic says I should lay my money on Dante.”

“Hey, why you throwing me under the bus? I thought you had my back,” Dante said.

“I do. Which is why I’m giving you a friendly warning.”

Tennyson and Dante stared at each other.

A beat.

“So back to our conversation. Let me research all the players for you. I have some time right now, and I know you guys are busy with the Colonel’s stuff.” Chiara pulled out her phone, typing as she spoke. “So Caro Stuart—for lack of a better last name—Ethan MacLure, Countess Louise of Albany and the Duke of Blackford. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks, Sis. That would be great. Now Claire and I just need to figure out how the Michelangelo fits into it all too.”

Chiara continued entering notes on her phone. “Mmmm, good point. Seems too coincidental. I’d be incredibly surprised if there isn’t some link between Caro and the Colonel’s sketch.”

“Yeah.” Branwell kicked back in his chair. “Especially given the brogue I heard.”

“Was it Scottish?” I asked.

“Definitely.” Branwell’s voice confident. “It was faint but there.”

“Assuming the Colonel has one of Caro’s drawings in his possession, the question is which one? Caro’s own sketch or the one she is copying from?” Dante tapped his hand still resting along the back of my chair.

“The mass spectrometry should sort that out pretty fast,” I said.

“Maybe,” Branwell shrugged.

“Agreed.” Dante inched even closer. “Unfortunately, no amount of studying the Colonel’s sketch or reviewing mass spectrometry will tell us the
exact
history. The best source of information is the most obvious.”

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Based on everything we know, I think Claire and I should visit the Duomo.” Dante winked at me. “Another regression could give us all the information we need.”

My lungs tightened, cutting off my air supply.

Yep. Tennyson was right.

Two minutes on the nose.

Nineteen

Dante

C
laire froze. And then jumped to her feet, walking away from the table and around some of my mom’s potted lemons.

I shot daggers at Tennyson.

“No one ever listens to my warnings.” He nudged my foot under the table, nodding his head toward Claire. “Go talk with her. If it makes you feel any better, she doesn’t stay upset for long.”

I leaned forward, mouth open.

“No.” He kicked me again. “Don’t even ask it. Her emotions are her own. I’m not spilling how she feels about you.”

“What good is having a brother who can feel others’ emotions then?” I half-laughed.

A beat.

Tennyson’s eyes got that weary too-knowing look. The one full of shadows and things unspoken.

“Not much, Dante.” He sat back on a sigh. “Really not much at all.”

Damn.

I held his gaze for a moment, dragging all my love for him to the surface, letting it flood me.

Feel
that
.

I stood, tossing my napkin on the table.

Tennyson used to tattle on us as kids, saying Branwell and I were
throwing
mean emotions at him.

We always denied it, but he was totally right. We did. Anger, jealousy, scorn, disdain . . . I’m sure he got every nasty emotion possible from us over the years.

Love, acceptance, devotion.
Those
were the emotions I channeled when around Tennyson nowadays. He had lost so much more than just a leg in Afghanistan, not to mention the events afterward—

I stopped myself right there.

Better to think about Tennyson when he wasn’t around to
feel
all my thinking.

I rounded the corner. Claire stood at the iron railing on the edge of the terrace, hands hugging her arms, looking out toward the Duomo.

Fitting.

Clouds were moving in. A breeze ruffled her hair.

I
wanted
to wrap my arms around her waist from behind, snug her tight against my chest and just hold her until the tension passed. Let her soak up my strength.

Instead, I joined her at the railing, gripping the iron tight to keep my hands and feet still.

Silence.

“Let’s go over my problems with chasing a possible regression in the Duomo, shall we?” She spoke without looking in my direction.

Score one for honesty. I had to give her that.

I would always know where I stood with Claire.

“First, despite your hedging on the Sandbox Rule, we’re definitely drifting into trouble territory here—”

“Regressions aren’t plagiarism, Claire.” I moved to lean against the railing, angling my body toward hers. The need to study her winning out.