To Tuscany with Love (11 page)

Her legs propelled her to the tiny cubicle. Inside, she crossed herself, knelt, and launched into the words she was certain no one inside the sanctuary would understand.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven years since my last confession.”

Silence.

She shrugged and continued. “I have lustful thoughts for young men and I am not married.”

Nothing.

The silence propelled her. It actually felt good to say her thoughts aloud. “I might even have sex with one of them this summer.” She paused and thought about the rest of the summer. “I’m not sure which one, though.” Damn. She was getting more confused rather than finding clarity.

Still silence.

This was silly. She started to rise. The feel of a folded paper in her skirt pocket stopped her. The letter from her mother. A lump of worry caught in her throat; her dry swallow erupted into a cough.

She whispered her fear—the unimaginable possibility that she had tried to push from conscious thought. “I’m afraid for my mother.”

“
Madre
?” The priest’s low voice startled her.

“Not Mother Mary. My mother. I worry ... wonder ... is she ill?” What was the point of this, anyway? He couldn’t even understand her. Something drove her on. “Her last letter. It was only a couple of paragraphs. And the writing squiggled over the page, like ... like she couldn’t control the pen.” She leaned forward. “She’d tell me, right? If something was wrong? She’d have to tell me.”

Bella looked at her clasped hands. Her knuckles had turned white from the fierceness of her grip. She moved her lips, silently mouthing the next words. “She’s the only family I have.”

A chair squeaked behind the metal grate. The priest must have shifted his weight.

Bella closed her eyes to will away the fear.

The priest cleared his throat. “Pray.” The rounded word hung in the air between them. Spoken in English, it made Bella wonder how much he had understood. As if to answer her question, the priest uttered a blessing, perhaps forgiveness, in Italian. She didn’t understand the words, but it had the tone of someone offering comfort.

Bella wished his words, his tone, made her feel better. They didn’t. But maybe his prayer could help her mom.

Two hours later, Bella sat again on the stone steps in front of the church. Now, after the afternoon break, the piazza teemed with life. Italian opera poured out of a gelateria. Heat radiated from the stone steps. Clusters of people surrounded her. The steps provided a place to sit, to eat, and to rest.

Bella tried to concentrate on her notebook, but the words swam. She had no interest in writing her paper. Her mind kept returning to her mother. She decided to spend some of her emergency dollars for a phone call home tonight. She needed to hear her mom’s voice.

“Almost done?” Stillman slid in next to her.

Bella shook her head. “I couldn’t care less about this stupid paper.” Without the paper, she’d fail the class. And she wouldn’t graduate on time. Her eyes stung with tears. She turned from Stillman and swiped at her eyes.

Stillman slid his palm, cool to her skin, under her hair. He lifted the weight and heat of it off her shoulders and back.

“That’s good.” Bella smiled her appreciation at the breeze of cool air that hit her neck. “But it doesn’t finish this.” She flicked her fingernails against the paper.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Stillman tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “I’ll help you finish. However late we have to stay up, I’ll do it. No fooling around, either. We’ll write the paper.”

Relief washed over her. “You’ll help me?”

He nodded, solemn as a priest.

She studied his face and knew he meant it. “Good deal for me.” She smiled with relief. “But why? What’s in it for you?”

“This weekend we’re all going to the Cinque Terre, the five coastal cities along the Mediterranean. Let’s go to the coast early. We can sunbathe, relax, and celebrate turning in your paper. Just us two. Deal?”

This would be it, then. Stillman would try to sleep with her before the others arrived at the coast. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to choose Stillman over Phillip. She replayed his request in her head. All she was committing to was a day and a night with him, nothing more. She extended her hand. “Deal.”

12

B
ella woke to the sound of rapping on the wooden door to her room. Her eyes stung and felt swollen. She and Stillman had worked in the lobby until three on her paper before declaring it finished.

Stillman. The day he planned.

She squinted at the clock. Eight-fifteen. Late. She tumbled out of bed, still in her halter top and shorts from the previous night.

Not Stillman, but Phillip stood in the hall. He held two porcelain cups of espresso and offered her one. “Stillman’s got the flu. Started upchucking about five. He finally got rid of everything in his stomach and fell asleep about thirty minutes ago.”

Bella closed the door behind her. No sense waking Hope.

“I’m headed to Siena for a little shopping. Souvenirs for the folks back home. Want to come?”

Bella thought of her promise to Stillman. “I made plans—”

“He’s down for the count, if you’re worried about the old Still Man.”

Her date with Stillman was postponed. But shopping? She deserved it after finishing her paper. “Give me five.”

In Siena, they laughed, joked, teased, and flirted. Lunch brought cool panini of mozzarella, tomato, and basil, followed by gelato.

She put aside the worry that she hadn’t reached her mother by phone the night before and succumbed to the day. They disagreed only once, when Phillip insisted they catch one particular bus out of Siena, which cut her shopping short.

The bus wound through curvy hills and valleys—a different route from the way they had come. The turns became tighter. They passed a cluster of cypress trees, and beyond the trees sat an ancient village on the crest of the hill. When they reached the edge of the town, Bella saw a sign for the city center that pointed to a narrow street flanked by stone buildings on either side. The bus screeched to a stop.

Phillip grabbed her arm. “Let’s go. We get off here.”

Bella scrambled for her backpack and followed Phillip, edging past a lady with dead chickens on her lap—she could tell by the chicken feet protruding from the shopping bag—and two elderly gentlemen who cackled together.

A Mediterranean goddess of seventeen-going-on-twenty-five grabbed Phillip’s arm. Bella saw the young woman gesture to the empty seat beside her.

Phillip shook his head, then turned to Bella, planting a sloppy kiss on her mouth to make his point. The young goddess laughed and waved at them as they got off.

The bus pulled away before the door had even closed.

“The bus is running late. Not like the trains.” Phillip picked up her backpack from the dusty street and brushed it off. “C’mon. I want to show you this place.”

“You’ve been here before?” Bella swung in beside him and matched his pace toward the upward-sloped main street.

“Naw. Just asked about quaint villages close to Florence, something we could easily get to by train or bus. This place kept cropping up.”

“Castellina-in-Chianti?”

He nodded. “I thought we could spend the afternoon here.”

She grinned at him. She liked that he had planned a surprise for her. “Race you to the top.” Without waiting for a response, she sprinted up the narrow cobblestone street that bisected the town center.

An hour into their shopping, Bella noticed the middle-aged pottery store owner glaring at them, her brows furrowed. Sparks from her black eyes flew first at Bella, then at the wall beside her.

Bella turned and scanned the wall, noticing a large ceramic clock. “She wants to close. It’s past two already.” Nodding an apology to the store owner, Bella tugged on Phillip’s arm and pulled him outside.

A gust of cool wind hit them. The sky, sunny and bright when they had started shopping, had taken refuge behind a thicket of charcoal clouds that hung low over the tiny village. A crack of lightning struck close to the wall behind the town. Thunder ripped the air, only seconds after the lightning.

Bella’s hand clamped over Phillip’s. “We’ve got to find cover. Now.” She raced up the street, Phillip at her side. The stores had all closed for the afternoon, their wares tucked inside. She ran up to an enormous wooden door, arched at the top. It was a hotel. Bella tugged on the wrought-iron handle, at least a foot in length. Locked. She pounded her fist against the door. Nothing.

Slanting rain stung her bare legs.

Phillip pulled her back. “The church.” His shout, although next to her ear, seemed a block away. He pointed to a church across the street. She ran beside him, her leather sandals sliding on the stones worn smooth by centuries of feet and rain. They took the church steps two at a time.

Phillip followed Bella into the cave-like interior, lit only by candle wall sconces and a table of prayer candles at the side. They stood at the back until their eyes adjusted, then slipped into the last pew and sat down on the hard wood.

The cool shadows of the sanctuary and Bella’s drenched clothes made her shiver. Phillip’s arm crossed her back; he pulled her next to him. Bella curled into his side. She shuddered and felt the cold prickle all the way down her spine and into the tips of her fingers and her toes. His arm tucked her in closer.

Bella felt his lips, warm and soft, against her forehead. Without thought, she tilted her face up. His mouth met hers full on. His slow, gentle kiss left her wanting more. She brushed his cheek with her fingers.

Phillip pulled her onto his lap. This time, his lips pressed harder against hers. The probing kisses brought tiny shudders of desire from her.

A man cleared his throat behind Bella.

She stiffened. Her face flushed hot. She hopped off Phillip and turned to face the stranger. She ventured an apologetic smile at the priest, who couldn’t have been much older than they. She nudged Phillip with her hand and swung her backpack onto one shoulder.

Phillip scrambled out of the pew. He pulled a sweatshirt out of his backpack and handed it to her. Under raised eyebrows, his eyes beat a path to her breasts. Bella’s face flushed hot again. Her rain-drenched white peasant blouse over a braless chest made her a prime candidate for a wet T-shirt contest.