A ruling passion : a novel (70 page)

They emerged from a narrow street into the Piazza della Signoria, a quarter of it excavated to expose newly discovered foundations from the time of the Roman Empire. A roof had been built above it, and spotlights illuminated it. Nick and Valerie gazed through the wire fence at the stone stairways and interconnecting rooms that made a complex of apartments, some still filled with rubble, others neady swept, their contents catalogued. "I wonder what we'll leave behind," Nick murmured. "Not television, I hope; at least not the television that's around now." He looked at Valerie and smiled. "That's a dream and a goal: to do something with television that we'd be proud to have other generations dig up."

She nodded. 'Tou will. You've already begun."

'W^ will," he amended. 'We've already begun."

She smiled to herself. We've already begun. They turned from the excavation and looked across the piazza toward the Uffizi Palace. "We'll come back tomorrow," Valerie said. "It's too beautifril to miss. Santa Croce too, and Piazza della Repubblica—and of course the Uf-fizi and the Pitti Palace and the Academy... Two days doesn't even begin it; you need at least a week, and you'd still be cheating yourself."

"Two days," Nick said firmly. "You give me a preview, and I'll come back when I can do it justice."

They walked along the Amo and crossed it on the Ponte Vecchio, the covered bridge lined with shops that, locked up for the night, looked like antique wooden jewel boxes. Nick thought the city was like a fabulous setting for an ancient tale. After the unrelenting newness of California's pastel houses and sprawling shopping centers, the ambiguous juxtaposition of Washington's marble and slums, and east-em Virginia's modern, urban bustle, Florence seemed to be a stage set that looked backward to a past of grandeur and violence, its buildings mellowed with age, its streets darkened by centuries of wagon wheels, marching troops, crowds of people, and automobiles. It was hard to believe people lived ordinary lives there.

"We'll have to come back," Nick murmured. "I want much more than a week."

They crossed back to the other side of the Arno on the Vespucci Bridge, and eventually reached the Excelsior. Both of them thought about Valerie's coming to Nick's room, and neither of them mentioned it. "I'll walk you back to... what is it?" he asked.

"Monna Lisa."

At the locked iron gates, Valerie rang the bell and the night receptionist let her in. "Good night," she said, holding out her hand. "Thank you. It's been a wonderftil evening."

Nick held her hand, and then his arms were around her, and their bodies were together, solid, yielding, close. They stood silendy in the large foyer with the fireplace and sofas on the left and the receptionist at his desk on the right. He was conscientiously writing, his head lowered. Probably wondering why we don't go upstairs, Valerie thought, and a laugh trembled on her hps. She put up her hand and touched Nick's face. "Good night," she said. She was trembling with wanting him, and quickly walked past the receptionist to the stone staircase, and ran upstairs.

Nick avoided the receptionist's eyes. He thinks Fm a fool. An Ameri-

can who knows nothing of love. But outside, walking back through the narrow Borgo Pinto, by now empty of cars and people, he knew it was all right. They had time. They had a lot to sort out, but whatever they finally found together, this time they would know what they wanted, and they'd stick with it.

He was happy. He could not remember when he had last felt like this. His stride lengthened; he felt powerful and immortal. Like a kid in love, he thought, smiling to himself, and he knew that was something else he had to think about. But not that night. By the time he was back in his room, it was almost three in the morning, and he did not think about anything: he went to sleep.

What he did think about, when he awoke, was calling Valerie. He reached for the telephone before his eyes were open.

She answered immediately. "I was planning our day; are you ready for more walking?"

"Anything you say, if I can start with breakfast."

"Why don't we do that here? It's served in the dining room, and Fm sure they'd welcome my guest. I'll see you downstairs in an hour."

That was the beginning of a day Nick never forgot: intense, exhilarating, stimulating, exhausting. At lunch, eating pasta with cream sauce in a small trattoria near the Pitti Palace, he wondered if that was what life with Valerie would be like. But of course it would, he thought; he had known that even at Stanford; what he had loved most in her then was her infectious excitement at everything life had to offer, and her determination to reach out for it. To make thin£fs happen . ..

Nick knew he had been like that himself, all his life, though too often it had been submerged beneath the fierce drive to succeed at work, and he knew Valerie had loved it in him as he had loved it in her. Now, as they toured Florence all that long day, they shared their excitement: the feeling that everything was a source of wonder and delight, and they were the most fortunate of people to be able to partake of it.

The center of Florence is small, easily traversed on foot, but most of the miles Nick and Valerie walked were on the marble floors of palaces that housed some of the world's greatest art, and the stone and marble floors of churches where they stood with heads back until their necks were stiff, admiring brilliant frescoes four and five hundred years old, trying to see those hidden from them behind the scaffolds and protective mesh of restorers, and contemplating the magnificent sculpted tombs of popes, artists and scientists. They walked through Michelan-

gelo's house, the walls covered with frescoes he had painted while living there, and the science museum where, for some reason, a preserved finger of Galileo was displayed behind glass.

Much of the time they did not talk. The heart of Florence is memories, and Valerie and Nick, who were finding the way from their own memories to the present, let themselves fall under the enchantment of the city's past. And as they did, they became more aware of each other. For all the glories of the Renaissance, the best part of that day was the contentment they felt seeing them together.

But they were not always silent. When they were between palaces and churches, walking through the city beneath the hot, hazy sun and cloudless sky, they talked and laughed with the freedom of two friends on a holiday. They both wore slacks and open-necked shirts, both tucked their wallets into pockets so their hands were free, and both walked with the same easy stride through the cobblestone streets, navigating in the tumultuous scene that is daytime Florence.

They walked with josding crowds of pedestrians down the middle of each narrow, shaded street until they heard a car or, worse, a bus approaching. Then, with everyone else, they moved to the thin strip of sidewalk on one side or the other, flattening themselves against a building until the car or bus had passed. They dodged motor scooters driven by men in business suits with ties flying like kite tails, or young women in the tightest of miniskirts, feet planted firmly together on the center floorboard. They emerged from the dark streets into the brilliant sunshine of the piazzas where flocks of pigeons wheeled above artists and cartoonists at their easels. They sat in outdoor cafes, watching the parade of people that never stopped. At two in the afi:ernoon, when the museums and shops closed, the whole city clanged with the sound of iron shutters being slammed down over shop fronts. Then Valerie and Nick went to the Boboli Gardens, and the churches, which never closed. At four, when the shutters were flung up and the shops sprang to life, they window-shopped as they walked to their next destination.

Dinner was at nine. By then even Valerie could not walk another step. "You're very impressive," she said as they sat in the courtyard at Enoteca Pinchiorri. "Most people couldn't take that pace."

"Most people don't have you for a guide. It was a very special day. Did we leave anything out for me to see if I do come back?"

"Today was an appetizer. There's a feast waiting for you."

"Then I'll find a way to come back. If you'll come with me."

"I'd like that very much."

He smiled, realizing how much he was beginning to count on her openness and lack of pretense. "Tell me about your other visits here," he said, and all through dinner she talked easily about her trips to Europe that had begun when she was eight. She ended with the last trip she and Carlton had taken, to Switzerland, to visit friends.

"That was only a couple of months before he died," she said, and frowned slighdy. "I never thought of that; I wonder if he had a bank account there. I wonder if that's where the money is."

"You've never told me that story," said Nick. "I only know parts of it from the newspapers. I'd like to hear it."

"I'll tell you sometime. Not now, if you don't mind. I feel so wonderfully far from it. Foreign countries always do that, at least for me; sometimes I can't even visualize home and the everyday things I do, and that makes the place I'm visiting, wherever it is, seem romantic. Ifs much more fun to think about romance than home and all those ordinary things."

"It's like the past," Nick said with a smile.

Valerie looked at him thoughtfully. "I'll have to think about that. You mean, we think about the past the same way we think about a foreign country: a long way off, a place we remember magically, something we'd like to find again."

"You said it far better than I."

"It's something to think about." She sat back with a sigh. Their coffee cups and small grappa glasses were empty; the remnants of the dessert they had shared had been removed by the waiter. A light breeze made the flowers in the courtyard sway, and the candles flicker. "I'd like to walk after that dinner, but ifs not possible."

He chuckled. "We should have thought of that."

They were silent. At the same moment, they looked up and their eyes met. "I'd like you to come back with me tonight," Nick said quietly. "I'd come to you, but I don't think I can face that receptionist again."

Valerie laughed. "I think he felt sorry for us, more than anything." After a moment, she said, "Yes. I was hoping we could."

They stood at the same time and came together there, in the flickering lights of the courtyard, as they had in her hotel the night before. Everything in that long, shared day came to this moment, when they held each other and their lips met, lightly at first, then with a growing intensity that made them catch their breath. "No more," Valerie said. "I'm going to have enough trouble walking to the Excelsior as it is."

"A taxi," Nick said firmly. "There must be some around."

"Of course there are."

*Tou'd never know it, with you as a guide. Do we call for one?"

"The maitre d' will."

"Right away. It's going to be too short a night as it is."

They smiled, and the joy in their smiles stayed with them as they took the taxi to the Excelsior. Nick's room overlooked the Amo; it was large and spacious, but Valerie did not notice. They were in each other's arms as the door closed behind them. "I thought about this today," she murmured, her lips against Nick's, "between paintings."

"Which paintings?"

"AU of diem."

His hands moved along her body as they kissed, holding her to him, rediscovering the long line of her back, the narrow curve of her hips, the fullness of her breasts straining beneath her silk blouse. A small spark crackled between the fabric and Nick's fingertips, and a laugh burst from him, breaking their kiss. "Electrifying..."

"I hope so," said Valerie. "But I'd rather..." Swiftly, she unbuttoned the blouse and Nick slid it off her shoulders. His hands were warm and hard on her skin, the hands of a man who worked with tools, in the garden, around the house, and as she felt them removing her clothes until she stood naked beneath their hard sureness, his touch lingered, like a long memory. She felt his palms and fingertips wherever they had touched her: she was enveloped by the feel of him.

At the same time, swifdy, as surely as he, she had removed his clothes, and then they stood in a silent embrace in the shadowy room. A single lamp cast a circle of pale-gold light on the patterned carpet and the edge of the bed. Nick turned Valerie with him, and they went toward the light, and lay on the silken spread. She brought him on top of her, arching slighdy as his weight pressed her into the bed. "Oh, I like that," she murmured. "Meeting you halfway..."

And then, as naturally as they had shared the wonders of that day, he was inside her, matching the rhythm of her body. Lifting himself, he balanced on his long arms, and looked down at her, smiling. "I remember this; I remember your eyes looking up at me, and how it felt to be inside you."

"I remember you had to get used to talking when we made love," Valerie laughed. "I remember," she said softly. "Oh, yes, I remember, yes, yes..." She pulled Nick down to lie with his full weight on her once again, and she moved beneath him, trying to bring him deeper, trying to get more of him, all of him, so hungry for him she thought

she could never get enough. They moved togeriier, their mouths together, warm and sweet, their tongues together, their bodies learning again what they had known so long ago: to curve and lock together, to part and come together, until they were one.

Lying in the curve of Nick's arm, Valerie felt herself begin to drowse and sat up. "I don't want to go to sleep," she said and bent to touch the tip of her tongue to the hollow at the base of his throat. Slowly, she moved her lips down the dark curls on his chest. "So wonderful," she said, her words whispering against the hard smoothness of his waist. "Better than with anyone else."

"Probably not true," he murmured. One arm was crooked under his head and he watched Valerie's tawny hair, spread like a cloud over him, hiding her face and her mouth that moved like a flame along his flesh.

She raised her face. "Probably not true?" She was mocking him. "How many women have been as good.> How many would you remember for fourteen years .>"

"I can't remember," he said with a grin. "It happens with age; we forget."

"Not the special things. It's never been as good for me with anyone else."

"That's not necessary," Nick said quietly. "I don't need to hear that."

"I'm not saying it to make you feel good. I like saying it; I like knowing it's true. I don't lie, Nick; you know that."

"Yes. I love that in you."

In the pale-gold light, their eyes held, shadowed, almost somber. Then Valerie bent her head again, touching her lips to Nick's warm skin, feeling the tremor in his muscles as her mouth glided down the taut smoothness of his stomach. She tilted her head to look at him and watched the absorption on his face as her tongue stroked and caressed him. She bent again to take him into her mouth. She pulled him deep into her throat, drinking him in, loving the smooth, hard, hot wetness of him and all the ways he could fill her. Her breasts were crushed against his thighs, her hands were beneath him, and she felt as if she were melting into him, warm and open, as diffuse as sunlight yet filled with his solid strength, and as stronglv clasping him.

'"^^alerie," he said.

She let him go and looked at him. "I wanted..."

"I know. But we have time. Come here."