Gladly Beyond (30 page)

Madonna mia.

She felt like heaven in my arms. I wanted
me
and
her
and
us
and I wanted it
rightnow
.

She relaxed somewhat and even tentatively placed her hands around my waist. Not tight or anything. But it was a capitulation of sorts.

“You have a terrible reputation.” Her voice was muffled against my chest.

“It’s completely unfounded. I’ve never been a player.”

“I find that
so
hard to believe.” She pulled back, nose adorably wrinkled.

“It’s true. I’ve already told you.” I willed her to believe the truth of my words. “People just make assumptions. I don’t bother to correct them. I actually don’t date much. I’m a mama’s boy, remember?”

She looked doubtful, moving her arms from my waist and folding them across her stomach. I kept my hands around her back. I had no intention of letting her go.

“Claire, up to this point in your life, you have associated with boys. I know about your parents—”

She snorted. “The whole world knows about my parents.”

“Exactly. Forgive me for speaking ill of them, but their relationship isn’t normal.”

“An understatement.”

“Their marriage most certainly isn’t a healthy standard to emulate. Then, you’ve had the misfortune to date a serious string of losers—”

“Again, an understatement.”

“—who seem more like narcissistic douchebags than actual men. I can understand why you are leery of me.”

“It’s not just you, Dante. It’s men, in general.”

“Gotcha. You’re afraid.”

She lowered her eyes to my chest.

“Isn’t there an old Sarah McLachlan song about this? Fearing love?”

Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. Nodded.

“I get it. You’re terrified the past will repeat itself. That you’ll give your heart to me body and soul, like Caro to Ethan, and then watch it be crushed.”

Two huge tears spilled down her cheeks. That was all the answer I needed.

I bent lower. Whispered in her ear.

“I. Am.
Not.
Those. Boys.”

She hiccupped. A gulping stuttery sound.

“I am not cut out of that same mold,” I continued. “If nothing else, do you honestly think Judith and Nonna would have raised a jerk? Look at how I act toward the women in my life. Respect. Love.”

“B-but—”

“No. Throw out everything you’ve heard about me. I know I’ve done that with you.”

“Trust you to bring up my
psycho
reputation.” She gasped, pushing half-heartedly against my chest. I held her firm.

“I don’t care what others say about you. I observe what you are. What being around you tells me about Claire.”

“Dante . . .”

I pulled her closer, keeping my head close to hers.

“Take me as I am, Claire. As
you
know me. Have I lied to you?”

She shook her head.

“Have I been anything other than up front and honest?”

Again, a head shake.

“Have I belittled you or made you feel stupid and small?”

Another shake.

“I have never, in my life, met anyone like you, Claire. I am desperate to give
us
a chance.”

I could feel her pulse, the tense hammering of her heart. But I kept going.

With this woman, I would never give up.

“I hunger to know
everything
about you: favorite food, music, vacation, bad holiday memory. I want to make you laugh so hard you snort. I want to hold you when you cry over a sappy movie. I want to buy you ugly Christmas sweaters and kiss you every New Year’s Eve. I want to experience every milestone life has to offer from this point onward with
you
at my side.”

I hugged her tighter and tighter as I whispered until she was cuddled firmly against my chest again. Her arms trapped between our bodies.

“So h-help me, if you say that f-four-letter L-word . . .” she stuttered.

I laughed. Soft and low.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t a marriage proposal,
cara mia
. Consider it more like fair-warning. A statement of intent.”

She sniffled. And then the seemingly impossible happened.

She
snuggled
closer.

It wasn’t much of a motion, really. Just a small tucking in of her elbows. A pressing of her face into my shoulder.

But that tiny capitulation . . .

Her loneliness engulfed me. She had such a generous heart. So much to give. I knew it. Had known it.

And life had kicked her down, over and over. Beating every last ounce of trust in basic human goodness out of her.

“I want to thrash every idiot who has convinced you to stop reaching for happiness. Made you doubt the beauty and joy life holds for you, Claire.”

Her shoulders shook. I could feel her tears through my shirt.

I gathered her closer, threading a hand into her hair.

“Trust me,” I pleaded. “At some point, you’re going to have to get back into the game. You and me, babe. We would be amazing together. But, before that can happen, you need to let me in. Just make a little Dante-sized hole in the walls around your heart. You’re welcome to seal it right back up once I’m inside. But, please, let it happen.”

I held her, letting her cry her fill on my chest.

Cathartic. Cleansing.

After a while, she pulled back, rubbing a hand over the large wet spot on my shirt. “Sorry—”

“Never apologize for that, Claire.” I cupped her cheek. “I will always be there for you.”

She bit her trembling lip. I was pretty sure I would have given about anything to kiss her right then. But this conversation wasn’t about me. And I refused to do anything that might damage the fragile trust we had established.

“I probably look terrible,” she sniffled.

I cocked my head, studying her. “Somewhat. You get all splotchy when you cry—”

She pushed against my chest, a soft smile making an appearance. “Not winning brownie points here. You’re supposed to make me feel better about myself—”

“Yes. But I promised you honesty too.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping underneath her eyes.

“You’re welcome. You going to
try
to trust me now?”

She shrugged. “It’s a lot to absorb. Trust is really . . . uhm, hard. I want to trust you. And, you’re right, on a certain level, I intuitively do. But getting my heart and my head on the same page is difficult. Let me think about it. I’m a work in progress.”

“Aren’t we all,
cara mia
?”

I waited. Expecting her to correct me with a firm, ‘It’s Claire.’

She shrugged instead.

“C’mon, Romeo.” She snagged my hand. “Let’s go see what Nonna cooked up for lunch. It smells divine.”

Twenty-Three

Claire

M
y cell phone rang just as I closed my laptop for the day.

After lunch with Dante and his family, I had returned to my hotel. With the mass spectrometry results officially in, I had even more work to do. If the Colonel’s sketch was the original
modello
for Michelangelo’s
Battle of Cascina
like we suspected, I needed to build an airtight case.

The sun sank over the Arno, spilling red-gold light through my room.

I glanced at the caller ID.

Sigh.

“Hey, Mom.” I managed to keep my voice upbeat.

“They were madly in love, you know.” My mom’s voice blasted into my ear. She must be holding it against her shoulder while she painted. Typical.

“Lucy and Desi?”

“No.”

“Brangelina?”

“No, no—”

“I give up.”

“—Adelaide and the Colonel.”

Oh!
Right.

Mom probably needed to up her ADD meds.

“Completely in love, though Adelaide never talked about it. Your father—”

“Tom?”

“Yeah, Tom. He found some love letters Adelaide had stashed in a shoe box. All from the Colonel, going on and on about Grammy being—what did he call her?—his divine goddess.”

I sat down on my bed, staring sightlessly at the window in front of me, the last gasp of sunset raking my face.

Grammy had never mentioned an old flame to me. She always told stories of my grandpa, who had been her childhood sweetheart. But never anyone else.

I was having a hard time wrapping my head around there
being
anyone else in Grammy’s life.

“Did Grammy ever say what happened to them?”

“Mmmm . . . no. Like I said, she never talked about it.” Mom’s voice pulled away a bit. Muffled. Reaching for a different brush. “Though there was this one time . . .”

Her words wandered away.

“Mom?”

“ . . . so I was pretty sure Adelaide dumped him—”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“You’re drifting. Stay with me.”

A pause. The sound of something being put down.

Wow. She never did that.

“I’m sorry, dear.” Mom’s voice was much clearer. “I was just saying that Adelaide loved your grandpa to pieces. Tom always talked about how in-love his parents were. Before they married, Adelaide and your grandpa dated some, but then he left for a job in Pittsburgh, and she stayed in Boston doing something secretarial, I think—”

“Grammy did pride herself on her stenography.”

“Very true. So she could have dated the Colonel then. But even if she did, it didn’t last. She married your grandpa as soon as he returned to Boston. I remember asking Adelaide about your grandpa and all she would say was, ‘When something is right, it’s right. You just have to trust.’”

That sounded like Grammy.

“Though could you imagine our lives if she
had
stayed with the Colonel?” Mom continued. “Things would have been a lot easier after Tom’s death, that’s for sure. The Colonel would have stepped in to help us out.”

Of course. My mom
would
focus on the Colonel’s wealth.

Had
Grammy broken the Colonel’s heart? Dumped him for my grandpa?

“Anyway, you had asked about the Colonel and Adelaide. I just wanted to tell you what I know.”

“Thanks, Mom. How are the flamingos going?”

“Fabulous! Micky is a genius with cloth . . .”

Mom drifted in and out for the next ten minutes, babbling about flamingo placement and budget problems and the ephemeral nature of performance art.

I paid attention, making appropriate responses when needed.

Seriously? I can’t believe she said that.

Of course, I can wait longer for the money.

Yes, Warhol completely destroyed the concept of art . . .

Basically, the usual conversation with my mother.

I hung up with Mom after promising to call in a couple of days.

But my mind was on that phrase from Grammy.

When something is right, it’s right. You just have to trust.

Didn’t that pretty much sum up where I was with Dante?

Lunch earlier had been . . . amazing.

Weird, I know, to describe a casual luncheon with a guy and his family like that, but
amazing
was the only word that came to mind.

Judith laughing with her children, despite Tennyson’s return to Volterra. Branwell and Chiara teasing Dante about his closet-love of modern poetry, which he shamelessly defended. Dante, in turn, ribbing Branwell about his non-existent love-life. Nonna chiding everyone in Italian and piling more pasta in my bowl. Boney the Rat scampering down the table, stealing bits from my plate.

Everyone easily accepting my presence. Love wrapping through and around them like gauzy tendrils. Every part of me longed to just let go, to be swept away in the lovely emotion of
belonging
.

Panic skittered along my nerves when I thought about it.

How could I want something so badly and, yet, be so terrified of it at the same time?

That damn Fear again.

My head was messed.

I plugged my headphones into my phone and swiped to my music. Dug up that old Sarah McLachlan song.

Fear.
Appropriately titled, I supposed.

I kinda love/hated that Dante knew it too. Curse him and his wall-busting . . . awesomeness.

The words hummed through me . . .

But I fear, I have nothing to give, I have so much to lose here in this empty place . . .

Truth.

My heart pounded as the song ended.

The next track on the album came on.

Sarah’s answer to
Fear
. . .

All the fear has left me now, I’m not frightened anymore . . . I won’t fear love . . . I won’t fear love . . .

I sat back against the bed pillows, twirling my phone in my hand. Brushing tears away.

The sun had firmly set by then. Lights twinkled across the Arno, the soaring steeple of Santo Spirito gleaming above the rest.

When something is right, it’s right. You just have to trust.

Had Grammy done that? Walked away from the Colonel and regretted it because she hadn’t trusted? Or was my grandfather the true love of her life?

Why the Colonel’s interest in me?
Was
it interest? Or just normal human politeness to the granddaughter of an old flame?