The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (9 page)

“Do you know he doesn’t even have a mobile phone?
 
Can you imagine?”

“Really?”
 
Isadora may have not been as fond of technology as her granddaughter was, but she’d jumped at the chance to have a mobile phone when she realized she could talk with her circle of friends almost nonstop.
 

“Nope.
 
I’ve never seen him with one.
 
Come to think of it, he doesn’t have a laptop, either.”
 
She frowned again.
 
“And what researcher doesn’t have a laptop these days?
 
It’s just odd.”
 

Her grandmother laughed.
 
“Maybe he’s allergic to technology,
mija
.”
 

In the weeks that followed, Dr. Giovanni Vecchio became a small obsession to her.
 

He was rich, she determined, after noticing a silver-haired man hold open the back door of a Mercedes sedan for him on more than one occasion when they left the library.
 
Giovanni had taken to walking her to her small, hand-me-down Civic some evenings when she got off of work, most often to continue a conversation they were in the middle of.
 
He’d also tried to convince her that a brisk walk down five flights of stairs was the key to good health.
 
She sometimes joined him and sometimes simply waited near the elevators.
 
He was an unusually fast walker.
 

She also determined he was in his early thirties.
 
He looked younger but had casually mentioned too many foreign universities for her to think he had seen them all in less than that.
 

What bothered her the most was that something about his appearance stirred memories of a time in her life she had tried very hard to forget, and reminded her of a face she had relegated to the back of her mind.
 
She’d tried for years to put that dark chapter of her teenage years behind her, but the more time she spent with the mysterious book dealer, the more thoughts and memories began to surface.
 

He stood before her now, his soft smile and beautiful eyes the very picture of politeness.
 
He was wearing a moss-green sweater that evening which made his eyes look both green and grey at once.

“Can I walk you to your car?”

She paused, and he must have been confused by the odd look on her face because he stepped away.
 

“I…sorry, kind of lost in thought.”
 
She smiled.
 
“You know, thinking about my indecisive hair.”
 
She closed her eyes and shook her head, embarrassed that she’d used thinking about her hair as an excuse for her quizzical expression.
 

He frowned.
 
“Did you want—”

“Sure,” she continued.
 
“I’d like the company.
 
Just let me shut the computers down.
 
Can you get the lights by the door?”

He paused almost imperceptibly but turned to walk toward the doorway.
 
As she waited to log out of the library’s system, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
 
He slipped his hand into his messenger bag and pulled out a pencil to flick the lights off before he tucked it back in his bag.
 
His movements were smooth and practiced, and if she hadn’t been observing him, she realized she never would have noticed.
 

She forced herself to look back at the computer and stood up straight when she heard the electronic sigh that indicated the machine was off.
 
Gathering her bag, Beatrice plastered a smile on her face and walked toward the doorway to meet him.
 

“Join me on the stairs tonight?” he asked.
 

“I don’t think so.
 
My feet are killing me.
 
Join me in the elevator?”

He looked at her for a second, surprised by her question.
 
She’d never asked him to join her before and was curious how he would respond.
 

“No, thank you.
 
You know me—I like the exercise.”
 

She chuckled a little and smiled.
 
“Right.”
 

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”
 

He turned and loped toward the stairwell, his quick feet almost noiseless in the dim corridor.
 
She muttered under her breath as she watched him.
 

“Right…sure I know you.”
 

She ran into him again two nights later while she was working on a paper for her Medieval Literature class.
 
She’d just finished her paper on the role of illuminations in devotional manuscripts when she saw him watching her from the archway by the coffee shop.
 
She caught a glimpse of his pale face and was immediately thrown back to a memory from the summer she turned fifteen.
 

“Grandpa, I think I saw him again tonight, by the movie theater.”
 

Her grandfather sat at his workbench in the garage, working on a small carving of a butterfly for his wife.
 
He set his knife down and brushed off his gnarled hands, holding one out to her.
 
She took it and came to stand next to him, her purple shirt brushing against the bench and picking up small shavings of wood she flicked away with pink-tinted nails.
 

“Mariposa,” he squeezed her hand, “my butterfly girl, I see him too.
 
I still see him sitting at the kitchen table in the mornings, or tinkering with me in the garage.
 
The memories, they’re natural, mija.
 
It’s normal to remember him that way.”
 

She frowned and shook her head, unable or unwilling to share her growing fears with her down-to-earth grandfather.
 
The dreams were getting worse, and it was becoming more difficult to spend time with her friends who only seemed to want to talk about boys, clothes, or the latest music.
 
She looked up into her grandfather’s loving and concerned face.
 

Hector de Nova had handled the loss of his son as well as could be expected, flying to Italy to return with a coffin he had been warned not to open.
 
His deep sorrow had been subsumed by the need to care for his grief-stricken wife and granddaughter.
 

“But he—he doesn’t look the same when I see him.
 
He’s too thin, and his skin ... it’s not the way I remember.”
 
She felt her heart begin to race.
 
“Am I going crazy?”
 

He pulled her into a fierce hug.
 
“No, you’re not crazy.
 
Do you hear me?
 
You’re one of the most levelheaded people I know, but you need to stop thinking about him so much.
 
It’s not healthy, mija.
 
Get out with your friends more.
 
Have some fun.”
 

She whispered into his collar, “Okay, Grandpa.”
 

“And you don’t tell Grandma, okay?
 
She’ll just get upset.”
 

“I know.”
 

“When things start to bother you, just come talk to me.”
 

He pulled away to look into dark eyes that matched his own, the same eyes her father had.
 
“We’ll be okay, B.
 
We’ll get past this.”
 

Her hands clenched.
 
“Sometimes, I wish I could just forget him, Grandpa.
 
I know that’s horrible.”
 

He kissed her forehead.
 
“It’s okay, Beatrice.
 
It’s going to be okay…”
 

“Beatrice?”
 
Giovanni stood before her, wearing a grey tweed jacket and holding two cups of steaming coffee.
 
“May I join you?”

Shaking her head slightly to clear her mind, she motioned to the red-cushioned seat across from her.
 
“Of course.
 
What are you doing here?”

Working out your glorious backside by walking the ten-storied staircase of the architecture building?

Stealing secret documents for the Russians?
 
Plotting to assassinate my U.S. Foreign Policy professor?
 
Please let it be that.
 
Stalking me for some completely mind-boggling and inexplicable reason?

“Just meeting a friend for coffee.”
 

“Oh really?
 
What time are you supposed to meet him?”
 
She looked at her watch as he frowned.
 

“Oh,” she said in sudden realization.
 
“Oh, me?”

He smiled and sat across from her.
 
“I was doing some research in the stacks and I saw you leave.
 
I thought I might take a break.”
 

“What are you working on?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if judging whether she was worth confiding in.
 
She raised her eyebrow when he remained silent, shrugged, and returned to typing on her laptop.
 

“Researching some documents for a client.”
 

She looked up, surprised he had spoken.
 
“That sounds interesting.
 
What kind of documents?”

His slightly pained expression had her waving a hand.
 

“Never mind,” she added.
 
“None of my business.”
 

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re trustworthy,” he said quickly.
 
“This collector is very private.
 
I haven’t even shared the specifics with Caspar.”
 

“Caspar?”

“Oh,” he paused.
 
“Caspar is my ...”
 

“Is he the guy that picks you up from the library sometimes?”

“Yes, he’s my butler, I guess you could say.
 
He works for me, but runs my house, as well.
 
He also helps me in my work.”
 

She raised her eyebrows and nodded.
 
“I have never met anyone with a butler before.”

“Well,” he shrugged.
 
“I suppose you have now.”

“Tell the truth, Giovanni Vecchio.”
 
A mischievous look came to her eye.
 
“You have a butler, a cool car, and I’ve only ever seen you at night...”
 

He froze, tension suddenly evident in the set of his shoulders.
 
Beatrice leaned closer and whispered, “You’re Batman, aren’t you?”

His mouth dropped open in surprise before the grin overtook his face.
 

She smiled back at him, chuckling until he joined in.
 
Soon, they were both laughing.
 

“You looked so serious for a second!
 
What did you think I was going to say?
 
A spy?
 
Vampire?
 
Hired killer?”

He shook his head in amusement.
 
“You’re confounding.
 
No, I was just surprised you guessed.
 
I am, in fact, Batman.
 
I would appreciate your discretion.”
 

She nodded with a smirk, and took another sip of the coffee he’d brought her.
 
It had just a touch of cream, exactly the way she liked it.
 
“Sure you are.
 
I’m a skeptic until I see the rubber suit.
 
You’re not fooling me.”
 

He looked at her, smiling mischievously.
 
“You really want to see me in a rubber suit?”

His seductive grin brought her to a halt.
 
“What?”
 
She blushed.
 
“No, I was just—joking, Gio.
 
Sheesh.”
 

He laughed at her uncomfortable expression.
 
Giovanni blew on his coffee, holding it in his hands and smiling at her over the edge.
 

“What are you working on?” he asked, setting down his drink.
 

She shrugged.
 
“Medieval Lit paper.”
 

“Dante, by any chance?”

She cocked her head.
 
“Not my area.”
 

“Sorry.”
 

They looked at each other for a few moments before she relaxed again.
 
“It’s fine.
 
Valid question, I guess.
 
A lot of people thought I would follow in my dad’s footsteps.”