Words Unspoken (25 page)

Lissa heard her father’s upbeat mood, but her thoughts were a jumble of Latin and Silvano and Caleb and Cammie’s announcement about a possible buyer.

“You think you can get along tonight, Liss? I’ve got a dinner appointment.”

“Sure.” Then in an attempt to make conversation she asked, “With whom?”

Her father glanced over at her with a little nervous smile. At fiftytwo he was still a handsome man, full head of light brown hair, a round babyish face. “Just a few friends. You remember the McCalls?”

“Sure. They own the store where Momma bought the Oriental rug, right?”

“Exactly. Well, they wanted me to meet a friend of theirs, so we’re all going to dinner together.”

“A friend?” Then it registered. “A woman?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. A lady they’ve known for years. She lost her husband to cancer a few years back.”

“Do you
want
to meet this woman?”

Dad looked over at her. Lissa met his eyes, then looked past him, out the window where she could see the edge of the mountain through the trees. Far below in the valley lay the town of Chattanooga.

“I think so. I figure we both need to move forward, don’t we? You’re learning to drive again. I guess I need to try something new too.”

Lissa hesitated. The wrong word and their relationship would once again careen off the side of the mountain. “Hmm. Okay, Dad. Sure, I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll just fix myself some French toast.”

She surprised herself with that comment. A smile spread across her lips.

“You wouldn’t dare fix our favorite while I’m out!”

“Just kidding. I’ll probably settle for something boring and nourishing, like liver and broccoli.”

Her father gave his trademark guffaw. “That’ll be the day, Liss. That’ll be the day!”

They settled back into silence as her father turned the BMW off of Ochs Highway and onto Ochs Boulevard, and wound around to East Brow Road. By the time he parked the car in the garage beside the yellow Camaro, Lissa’s thoughts had returned to Silvano. But later she wrote in her journal:
Dad and I had the very barest of beginnings of a real conversation. A hint of emotion, a teasing like long ago. Is this hope? I
hope
so.

Lissa made the French toast after all, two pieces, slightly crispy, the way she liked them, smothered in real maple syrup from Quebec, a yearly gift from dear family friends who lived on a farm outside Montreal. The radio was playing a pop song with a heavy beat as Lissa used the last few bites of the toast to sop up the syrup. She’d just stuffed an unusually large bite in her mouth when the phone rang.

Swallowing it down with a gulp of milk, she answered on the fourth ring. “Hello, Randall residence.”

“
Ciao!
Is this Lissa Randall, Latin lover and Rome romanticist?”

Lissa swallowed again, to no avail. Her heart began thumping in rhythm with the strong beating of the drums on the radio. “Silvano?”

“
Si
, indeed. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“Oh, no. No, not at all. I was just finishing up dinner.”

“I was at The Sixth Declension earlier today. Evan and I were discussing things—notably your impressive ascent in the Latin Festival a couple of years back. I asked him for your phone number. I guess he knows me well enough to have agreed to give it out. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” She said this too fast. “I really enjoyed being at the bookstore on Saturday. And it was fun to meet you—see you again. Made me miss Latin and Rome.”

Her words were jumbled, and she realized she was clutching the phone, not unlike the way she clutched Ole Bessie’s steering wheel. She forced herself to breathe slowly, wondering if this exercise helped with silly nervous jitters as much as with panic attacks.

“Look, I have a business meeting out of town on Monday, and Chattanooga is right on the way. I thought I might drive up your way on Saturday, spend the night there, and continue my trip north on Sunday. I was wondering if I could take you to dinner Saturday evening. Someplace fun and Italian.”

“Oh, wow. Well, um …” She wiped the extra syrup off her mouth and tried to keep her voice from squeaking. “Sure. Why not? Saturday evening? About what time?” She reached over to grab a pen and pulled the phone off the table. It crashed to the floor. Retrieving it, she said, “Hello? Silvano? Sorry—I dropped the phone.”

He chuckled. “I wondered what that was. May I pick you up at seven? I know a nice little restaurant in Chattanooga. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good. Thank you, Silvano.” She gave him directions to her house, all the while telling herself
Breathe, girl. Breathe.

“Great, Lissa! See you on Saturday, then. Looking forward to it.
Ciao
.”

She found herself blushing and smiling as she hung up the phone.

________

“
Auguri
, Mr. Rossi!” Silvano congratulated himself, holding the wineglass high in the air and then taking a long sip of Chianti. He had done it! Done it! Scared Miss S. A. Green out of her hole! At least he could be pretty sure. Why else would Eddy Clouse have questioned him that afternoon about the burlap bag and the manuscript? Surely it meant that Stella had contacted Clouse about his letter.
Buono!
Chicago, here we come! Eleven hours of driving one way, but it was worth it. He jotted in his agenda to call in sick the following Monday, October 19. Let Eddy squirm and wonder. He could handle Eddy just fine.

What a week! Silvano had finished reading all of Green’s novels and had a notebook filled with thoughts, ideas, and questions to ask the lady next Monday. And he had a date!
Another reason to celebrate, Silvano!
He smirked. Lissa Randall had been taken with his charm, his Italian, his knowledge, his Roman citizenship. He chuckled, proud of himself. According to Mr. Evan Jones, Lissa Randall was a catch. Latin competition finalist, accomplished equestrian, one of the top in her class. And he was glad she didn’t live here in Atlanta—he didn’t need anyone else around snooping into his business.

He frowned momentarily, recalling a few of the bookstore owner’s other words. “Silvano, that girl has been through a lot. I love you like a son, and I know you like a son. If I give you her number, you treat her right, you hear me? She is not another girl to list in Silvano Rossi’s Italian book of American conquests.”

Good old Evan! Of course not. Lissa Randall and he had similar interests. This girl, attractive, pensive, intelligent, had the potential of friendship written across her face. Friend, conquest, stepping-stone. As with everyone else in his life, Lissa Randall would serve some purpose in his goal of making it to the top.

“Auguri!”
he said out loud.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15

Thursday afternoon meant another driving lesson, another chance to fail. No, she corrected herself. Another chance to learn, to listen, to talk with an older man who seemed to Lissa to hold secrets tucked in his pockets, perhaps like Zeus in his Greek robes, or Plato talking with Aristotle. All she really knew was that being with Mr. MacAllister seemed like an essential part of her “battle plan.” When she was with him, she wanted to talk about the painful things in life; she felt an energy with the old man, something she couldn’t describe, but something good.

As Lissa walked from the library past the main building, what all the girls called “the rotunda,” she spotted Amber waiting outside for her car pool, along with several other third graders. They sat on the steps, skinny legs sticking out of their blue plaid skirts. The rest of the waiting girls were in high school, but they too wore the familiar CGS blue plaid uniforms.

The nine-year-old was clutching the copy of
Born to Trot
that she had just checked out from the library. “I’m going to start reading it as soon as I get home,” she confided to Lissa.

“Good girl,” Lissa said.

Oh, to go back to those days of C. W. Anderson and Marguerite Henry, to flop on her bed and lose herself in the pages of a horse story. How many afternoons had she spent this way? And then she always felt such inspiration that she would get out her spiral notebooks and write. Lissa felt for just a moment the old thrill of creating her stories, horse stories written in her nine-year-old cursive on wide-lined paper.
That
had been her dream—to be an author, the youngest author ever! The memory made her smile momentarily. The past, before
now
.

Mr. MacAllister arrived, parking the blue car by the curb between station wagons and Suburbans. Lissa got in the passenger’s seat of Ole Bessie, patting her cracked upholstery almost affectionately.

“She kind of grows on you, doesn’t she?” Mr. MacAllister asked.

Lissa nodded. “Yeah. Ole Bessie reminds me of my horse. Well trained, dependable, steady.”

“So you have a horse, do you?”

“Yeah. A beautiful chestnut gelding. He’s the one I showed in all of those jumper competitions I was telling you about. He’s small and trustworthy, and he can jump the moon. A bundle of talent in just fifteen hands, three inches of horseflesh.” She blushed. “I guess I sound like an advertisement.”

“You sound like a kid who loves her horse.”

“Yeah. You’re right, Mr. MacAllister, I love my horse.” They were halfway down the street when she added, “My father blames me for the wreck. But he blames Caleb even more.”

“Caleb?”

“My horse.”

Lissa drove four laps around Military Park without one hesitation, without one bead of sweat on her brow. This felt like progress. Granted, she didn’t surpass thirty miles per hour, but she drove with confidence. When she pulled into the parking lot of the visitor center and looked over at Mr. MacAllister, his long face wrinkled with pleasure.

“Not bad, Miss Liss. I didn’t even think about pushing on my brake.

I was just enjoying the foliage. Good job. Give me a high five.”

What a strange thing for an old man to say, but then Ev MacAllister was a bit strange. And fascinating. She lifted her hand, reached over, and slapped his. “Thanks, Mr. MacAllister. Thanks.”

He turned to unlock his door.

“Wait, Mr. MacAllister.”

The urgency in her own voice surprised her, embarrassed her. She didn’t want to get out of Ole Bessie; she had so many things she longed to discuss with this man.

He cocked his head to the side, his big hand with the long fingers holding the door handle. “Yes, Lissa?”

“I was just wondering. What is your favorite period in history?”

He didn’t laugh at her or make a face as her father would at such a non sequitur. He dropped his hand in his lap, and his expression told Lissa his thoughts.
I get it. You need to talk.

He settled back in his seat. “I like it all, Lissa.” He motioned with his eyes to the large panels of information sitting outside the hexagonal glass entrance to the visitor center. “I’ve studied just about everything I can get my hands on that has to do with the Civil War, of course. Lots of history around here. And up on the mountain, right near your house too.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Point Park.”

“And I have always been fascinated by Rome and the early church period. What about you?”

She had guessed right. Anyone who spent much time browsing through books in The Sixth Declension had to like Italy. “When I was in Rome, I imagined that I was living in the days of the gladiators, or Nero. I could see the Coliseum filled with cheering crowds of citizens in togas. I walked under the trees on Palatine Hill and looked down on the hippodrome, and it was so real.”

Now Mr. MacAllister was cradling his chin in his left hand, and his eyes had traveled far away. “The city grabs you, doesn’t it? When I last visited, we went down below in the Coliseum where the wild animals and the gladiators were kept. And the Christians.”

Lissa nodded. “All those martyrs, refusing to renounce their faith. Like Polycarp. I’ve always had a fondness for him.”

“Beloved Bishop of Smyrna, burned at the stake under the regime of Emperor Marcus Aurelius.”

If he had been her grandfather, Lissa would have leaned over and hugged him. This man knew and cared about the same things she did. “And he was old—over eighty—when they seized him and demanded that he renounce his faith or die. I don’t think I could choose death.”

“I’ve never fancied myself a martyr either,” Mr. MacAllister said, “although there are many modern-day martyrs. My daughter and her husband work with North Africans who have converted to Christianity from Islam—or are considering it. These people know persecution. Many have fled their countries precisely because of death threats. Sometimes we aren’t that far away from Nero and his human torches or hungry lions.”

He had been staring out the windshield of Ole Bessie at a row of cannons. Now he turned and looked straight into Lissa’s eyes. “Sometimes it seems to me that history does draw itself into a wide circle and come right back up, knocking on the door. And what have we learned? Are we any different because of it?”

Looking into his pale blue eyes—eyes that held a history of their own, of wisdom and experience—Lissa asked a question that had been bothering her for a week. “Why do you do this job, Mr. MacAllister? You should be a professor.”

He laughed out loud. “A professor, you say.”

“Or a famous guest lecturer, or, I don’t know, a man who archives old books. Why a driving instructor? That seems so …”

“Menial?”

“No, not menial. It’s a fine thing to do, but it just doesn’t exactly fit you. Don’t get me wrong, you’re good at it. But …”

“I could be doing something a lot more interesting than sitting in Ole Bessie all day helping scared teenagers.”

Lissa felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“Vocation.” He pronounced the word almost reverently.

“Vocation? What do you mean?”

A slight frown creased his brow, and Lissa noticed the moment the pale blue eyes lost their sparkle. She wished she had not asked.

“I guess you could say it was something I felt called to do.”

“Called—to start a driving school?”

“Yes. A conviction, deep in my bones, planted there, I believe, by the Almighty himself.”