Gladly Beyond (29 page)

Dante

I
surfaced out of the regression with a deep breath, still holding Claire’s hand. It felt so right in mine. Not too small. Fine-boned. Like I had already spent a lifetime holding it.

Had I?

Uffa
. Poor Ethan.

I ran my free palm down my face.

Claire tugged her hand out of mine, wrapping her fingers around her upper arms. A now-familiar indication of her tension.

I stared at her. Haunted pale blue eyes. Blond hair tucked behind one ear. She was sucking that bottom lip in again.

Ethan’s emotions roiled through me. Claire . . . Caro . . . they blurred. Which was okay, I supposed. She was the same person after all.

How many lifetimes had I longed for her? How many had we actually experienced together?

“Hey. You okay?” I touched her arm.

“Yeah.” She nodded, swallowing, refusing to meet my gaze.

She was
so
not okay.

A large group of Japanese tourists jostled past us. Followed by a rowdy bunch of Italian school kids.

This was not the place to have any sort of serious conversation.

“C’mon. Let’s go back to my apartment. We can chat there.”

I half expected her to protest, given her track record. But she didn’t.

Progress.

She followed me out of the Duomo and down Via del Proconsolo. We dodged speeding taxis and bicycles and an endless stream of tourists until I led us into the quiet of my apartment. Branwell was out with a client.

I could hear my mom and
nonna
upstairs, chatting as Nonna made lunch. She cooked pasta sauce from scratch every day. Italian to her core, that was my grandmother.

I led Claire into the large
salotto
with its collection of comfy chairs and overstuffed couches. She kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner of a couch near one of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, setting her phone on the cushion next to her. Exuberant Tuscan sun lapped at her face.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I asked.

“I’m good.”

I pulled up an ottoman, facing her with my elbows on my knees, almost touching her but not quite. I’m sure I was closer than she wanted me to be. But given that I ached to sit next to her on the couch and pull her into my arms, I figured this was a decent compromise.

“So . . . want to talk about it?”

A long pause.

“Maybe.” She pulled a fringed pillow onto her lap, running its tassels through her fingers. We both stared at her hands. “Caro was really conflicted. She adores Ethan . . . like, a lot . . . but she fears what Blackford will do. And Ethan feels beholden to him, it seems.”

“Yeah. Blackford paid for his education and was basically a big brother to Ethan for years. But what Caro said was true. Blackford is the consummate collector.”

“Caro feels he’s after the Michelangelo as much as her—”

“Which isn’t that a nice confirmation of what we already suspected?”

“Yes. They all thought it was the original
modello
for the
Battle of Cascina
.”

“She said it was her . . . dowry?”

“Caro had a brief flashback memory of meeting with an older gentleman who was her great-uncle . . . her father’s brother. Henry Stuart, I’m guessing. He was dressed in the red holy robes of a cardinal—”

I nodded. “Henry was a cardinal in Rome. The Stuarts all being Catholic, of course.”

“Precisely. Anyway, Henry gave Caro the Michelangelo
modello
as a dowry.”

“That would be some provenance, wouldn’t it? A lost Michelangelo
modello
actually owned by the Scottish Pretenders.”

“It makes sense, though,” she said. “The Stuart court attracted a lot of aristocrat sympathizers. The
modello
could easily have been a gift from an admirer at some point. Something infinitely collectible, even then.”

“And then it passed on to Caro—”

“And from her to the Colonel somehow.”

“Once we prove this, the Colonel will be ecstatic.” The more we talked, the more I pulsed with energy.

What was the rest of the story?

When and how was the Michelangelo damaged?

Did Blackford relent? Did Ethan and Caro elope? Or did Caro marry Blackford, torturing Ethan every day for the rest of his life . . . forcing him to constantly interact with the one thing he could never have?

And, if so, what did that mean for Claire and myself?

I knew the best way to find out.

“So let’s keep going, shall we? Now that we’ve figured out how it works.”

Claire furrowed her brow at me. “What?”

“Your photos.” I pointed at the phone sitting next to her on the couch. “Ethan shows up in selfies where a regression might happen—”

“But we didn’t have a regression next to the Hawkwood memorial.”

“True, but Ethan wasn’t looking at you there, either. Maybe they only happen in places where he actually makes eye contact.”

Still frowning, she grabbed her phone and swiped to her photos.

Almost helpless to stop myself, I moved off the ottoman and onto the couch with her. Sitting as close as I dared, looking over her shoulder. Noting the wispy lock of hair trailing down the side of her neck. Longing to brush it aside and press my lips there instead. I breathed her in.

“See what I mean.” I pointed at the photo of Ethan on the Ponte Santa Trinità. He stared straight at her. You could see his eyes glinting from under the shadow of his hat.

The images from her hotel room were the same. Close. Intimate.

I studied the picture of Ethan with his nose buried against Claire’s neck.

Madonna mia,
how I longed to do the same.

But in the other images of Ethan, he was looking away. Not quite
at
her.

“So . . . what are you suggesting, Dante?” She turned her head and fixed me with her icy eyes. Pointedly glanced at my body so close to hers.

Right. I was in her bubble.

I sat back.

“We connect with our inner teenage girl,” I said. “Go on a selfie rampage across the city. Me and you.”

That got me a hint of a smile.

“Hunting for places that might spark a regression?”

“You’re quick.”

“Dante, I’m not sure—”

“No. You started that sentence wrong. What you meant to say was ‘Dante I enjoy spending time with you and would love to solve the mystery of what happened to Caro and Ethan.’ Try that.”

She sighed. A deep, bone-weary sad sound.

Not good.

“I don’t know, Dante. The Colonel is already being weird about us spending time together.”

“True. But he hasn’t said we can’t, either. And so far we haven’t technically broken any of his Sandbox Rules.”

A pause.

“Claire?”

She stared away from me. Shook her head.

Again, not good.

“The regressions make me nervous. What if we stumble into something truly tragic?”

“We haven’t yet.”

“That’s not a guarantee we won’t. Besides, Caro is just so . . . naive. So trusting of Ethan and his motives—”

“She
should
be trusting of Ethan and his motives. He’s one hundred percent committed to her.”

“My heart hurts for her. Her life is so narrow and controlled. She wants this little slice of happiness with a longing that just . . .” Claire rubbed a fist over her sternum. “It aches. I ache for her. A huge part of me is afraid to pursue the story. What if it ends unhappily-ever-after?”

“It might. But it also might end joyful. This isn’t some random story about two people, Claire. This is
our
story. Something that literally happened to our souls two hundred years ago. And there is a potential Michelangelo thrown into the mix, a drawing that we have been hired to assess.”

Claire chewed on her bottom lip some more.

I knew her. I don’t know how, but I just did.

“You’re like my sister playing darts here. Throwing bolts randomly at the board, hoping something will stick.” I leaned forward, getting my face (and most of my upper body) in her space. Personal bubble be damned. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you don’t want to at least
try
to answer this mystery?”

I expected to read irritation or frustration or even outright anger in her eyes.

Fear
was what I got. Terror.

What—?!

She jerked her head away and pushed past me, standing and walking over to the window. Hands hugging her arms again.

I understood that ache she had referred to. It thrummed through my chest. Pulsing. My throat tight.

“Talk to me, Claire.” Voice pleading. “I promise to respect your decision, but please give me the consideration of being honest. You don’t like these regressions. I get it. But why? Give me the real reason.”

Silence hung in the room.

Her shoulders slumped.

“I ha-hate . . .” She started. Gave an audible swallow. “I-I hate that I can’t separate Caro’s emotions from my own.”

Huh. “I’m not sure I follow you—”

Claire made a somewhat exasperated noise and threw out her arms. It was
almost
an Italian gesture. It just needed to be about fifty percent bigger. She turned around.

“Caro is completely in love with Ethan. Like head-over-heels, to-the-moon-and-back in love. She would do anything for him. She loves him enough to sacrifice every personal happiness.”

I was clearly missing something.

“Good. Ethan feels the same way.”

Claire shifted her weight onto one leg. Glowered.

“You and me”—she swept her arm out and in—“are not Ethan and Caro. Not precisely, at least.”

A beat.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?” She placed a hand on her hip.

“Claire, I swear I’m not being intentionally difficult here—”

“The more time I spend as Caro, the more I absorb her emotions for Ethan, the harder it is for me to remain emotionally distant with
you
!”

My head reared back. Surely confusion plastered my face.

“So . . . don’t.” I shrugged. “Don’t remain emotionally distant.” I stood and walked over to her. “I don’t want you to. I most certainly haven’t. Why is this a problem?”

She sucked her bottom lip in so fast, so hard. She crossed her arms and turned back to the window.

That ache spread again. Something was wrong.

“Why do you dislike the idea of being with me? Why is that bad?”

Nothing.

“It’s a long story.”

“I have nothing but time.”

Silence hung. Taut. Strained.

Finally, her shoulders sagged.

“Kendall Sharp was my first real boyfriend.” She didn’t look at me. Still faced the window. “He taught me that a guy will say, ‘You’re beautiful,’ to your face and then tell all his friends what a dog you are. He dumped me at high school graduation because stupid Kelly Shumaker told Tiffany Lamb that she liked him.”

“Claire—”

She held out a silencing hand.

“Alexei was a poet with the face of Apollo. I was naive and stupid and adored him to distraction. He broke up with me after we spent a weekend with his parents. Turns out he just wanted to convince his mom he was straight.”

I wisely held my peace.

“There were a few others but I dated Tayson for three years. Tattoos. Motorcycle. We had one of those toxic on-again, off-again relationships. I was so determined to make
us
work. He lied and lied and then lied again. He text-dumped me after taking two hundred dollars from my purse.”

I closed my eyes. If I
ever
met any of these men—

“Milos was my Tayson rebound,” she continued. Voice low and monotone. “Charming. Suave. Bad boy handsome. He was . . . remarkably awful, always playing this passive-aggressive game of ‘prove you love me.’ I had to tell him everything I was doing, every second of the day—who I was with, where I was going . . . He finally dumped me because I wasn’t being attentive enough.

“Which lead to Pierce. See, he was supposed to be my safe choice. The nice, down-to-earth guy who wasn’t exciting like the others, but also wouldn’t betray me and break my heart. The whole world knows how
that
played out—”

Her voice broke. She let out a stuttering breath.

I stayed silent.

“Like I told you over dinner earlier this week, I’m not in a good place right now, Dante. You asked why I smile at waiters and receptionists and everyone else. The answer is simple. I can accept their casual friendliness because I’m not hovering on the brink of something . . .
more
. . . with them. And, in return, they don’t expect anything more from
me
.”

“I see that. I do. You give others so much—”

“No, you don’t get it. I talk to strangers not because I have something to give, but because I know what it means to have nothing. How vast loneliness can be.”

Oh,
cara mia—

“Claire.” I tugged on her elbow, turning her toward me. She kept her head down, staring at my chin. I dipped my head, forcing her to meet my eyes.

Yeah, I was totally done respecting her bubble.

I stared hard at her. “I am not Kendall or Alexei or Tayson or Milos. I am most
certainly
not Pierce Whitman. Part of me is glad they were all jerks—”

She stiffened and instantly turned away.

I rotated her back. Lifted her chin with my fingers. Forced her eyes back to mine.

“You didn’t let me finish. I
am
glad they were all jerks. Not because they hurt you. No, for hurting you I would happily pummel them all senseless. But because their loss is
my
fortune. You are here. With me.”

She swallowed. I could feel the motion of her throat moving up and down under my fingers.

“Dante . . . I . . .”

“Yes?”

She sighed. A sad, deflating sound.

“Come here.” I tugged her closer. Wrapped my arms around her.

Predictably, she stiffened.

“Calm down. It’s okay. I’m not going to do anything more than give you a much needed hug.”

I held her gently. Not crushing or eager or insistent. Just comfortingly. Buried my nose in her hair. Lavender and something a little spicier. My eyes closed.