White Lies (A Twisted Fate Series) (Volume 1) (21 page)

“Thank you.” I gave the man in the officer’s uniform a smile and received a nod in return.

Signor Penzo left, and I stared at the doorknob. This was it.
I can do this.
With a fortifying breath, I opened the door.

At the end of the room, the painting hung in all its magnificence with the correct amount of light shining on it to display it perfectly.

The painting still took my breath away.

After closing the door, I walked closer. An unbidden tear slid down my cheek. Then another. I had missed this painting more than I imagined and regretted not coming sooner.

When I was within a few feet, I stopped and stared, letting the beauty encompass me.

I could gaze at it forever. The allegorical meanings unraveled inside my head from memorized teachings. My hand hovered over the picture of Venus under the archway as a sob left me. Dad said he believed Mom watched over us through this painting. He’d spent hours in front of this painting in the years following her death. On what would have been their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, I found him sobbing on the floor in front of it. It was their private moment, and I’d left him there knowing the gap in our hearts would never be filled.

“Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry it took me five months to get here. I just wasn’t ready. I miss you so much.”

Tears overtook me, and I let the monumental moment take its course. This wasn’t something to be rushed. Finally, after what seemed like forever, I stepped back to take in the beauty of the painting like I had so many times before.

I remembered all the discussions we’d had about the theories surrounding this painting.

Dad loved the fact that it evoked debates amongst the generations, which meant it was a true work of art, speaking to so many people differently as it did. Dad had believed there were no wrong or right answers when it came to how a piece of artwork moved someone.

As I sat in front of the painting, I found a white rose with red tips and a note on the chair.

I had no idea he was in Italy, but again Tack had made my needs a priority. I knew, on some level, it should have freaked me out since I had no idea what he looked like, but it didn’t. I think because I felt like I knew him on a deeper level, in a sense. I brought the rose to my nose. It smelled heavenly.

I sat down in the upholstered chair with my legs folded underneath me and gazed up at Venus, who was known as the Humanitas, or the goodwill, as she distinguished the material from the spiritual.

I wondered what Venus would have thought if she looked at me. My charcoal pencil found the paper as I absently let my fingers draw.

Time passed, and I flipped another page. The images flowed free. I was relaxed and comforted being here. I would never let fear keep me away again.

When I stopped, I noticed I had drawn a picture of Tack and me. I flipped the page, and another scene I’d envisioned revealed itself. More images of us followed.

Us in the closet at Cocktails. His face obscured by the dark.

His forehead pressed to mine in the bedroom in the beach house.

Me nuzzled against his chest in the pool house.

Before I was conscious of the decision to do so, I texted him.

Me: Thank you for the rose and note. It made today easier.

Tack: I’m glad it helped. Wish I was in there with you.

I wondered if Tack had been the one to deliver the note and rose. It had to have been after they set it up, but before I arrived for it to go unnoticed.

Me: Did you deliver the note yourself?

Tack: Yes.

He’d had been in the museum. I glanced around knowing, he wasn’t in the immediate area, but wondering where he was.

Me: Are you still in the museum?

Tack: Yes, I needed to make sure you were safe.

A grin stretched across my face while warmth spread through me, further breaking down my walls with him. But then I wondered if he knew something I wasn’t aware of yet.

Me: Is there something you’re not telling me? Is someone after me?

Tack: I’m not taking any chances. It’s only precautionary.

I truly believed he cared and wanted to make sure I was okay.

Me: Where in the museum are you?

Tack: Close. Don’t cut your visit short because of me. We can’t meet yet.

I grabbed my purse after storing my sketchpad. Leaving the area wasn’t going to cut my time short. I was able to come and go as I pleased. I wanted to search the museum for Tack. My heart raced a little faster thinking the mystery could be solved.

Would I be able to recognize him? The accent alone was a giveaway.
We’d spent countless hours talking, so I knew I would recognize his voice. If I had to ask everyone in the museum to speak, I would.

I left the room and saw Philipe at the door. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time, Signorina Russo.”

Where was the most logical place for Tack to be? He wanted to make sure I was safe. The back of the museum wouldn’t make sense. It had to be in one of the rooms with a view of the exit to this corridor.

Signor Penzo met me in the hall. “Is everything okay, Signorina Russo? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good, thank you. I needed to stretch my legs but plan on going back in a bit, if that works.” I knew it was fine, but I didn’t want to come across as entitled.

“Oh, yes, yes. That is totally fine. Please let me know if I can help you in any way.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He continued on his way, and I made it to the end of the corridor. There were three rooms. One to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead that led to the lobby. Tack was here, somewhere close, I knew it. I closed my eyes and decided to go right.

Excitement coursed through me. I knew Tack wouldn’t expect me to leave like I did. My eyes darted around the room, searching all the tourists. Women, children, men. I searched the faces of all the men ranging in their twenties to thirties. One man caught my attention; he looked my way and waved.

I stared at him.

None of the normal tingles came. Was this him? My brows pulled together, and I froze, wondering how this was him. He walked toward me. My heart sped. This wasn’t how I imagined it would be the first time. There seemed like there would be something… more.

An easy grin broke free, lighting up his hazel eyes.

Almost to me, he veered to the right. A woman leapt into his arms.

Inside I jumped for joy. Something inside told me he wasn’t Tack. Internally, I sighed and shook my head. I was crazy. Certifiably insane.

I kept searching… looking in the faces of the men.

Nothing.

I changed rooms. Repeated the search.

Nothing.

I went to the last room. Repeated the search.

Nothing.

Where was he?

It was as if Tack was so close yet so far away. Feeling dejected, I walked back to the first room. Only a few of the people were new and no one who fit within the age range.

Ambling around, I kept looking. Had he left? Maybe. A bench along the back wall caught my eye as I felt my gaze pulled to the back of the room where an older man with a cane sat.

In Italian, I asked, “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No, please. My old legs aren’t what they used to be. I needed a rest.”

I sat and scanned the room again. Nothing.

“Are you here on holiday?”

“Yes, you?”

“I just came by myself to look at the beauty within the place.”

Glancing toward the paintings, I saw a Rembrandt I knew well. “It almost seems like it would be a sin to have all this beauty in one place.”

“It is. Did you find what you were looking for?” I glanced back to the old man and pinched my brows together. He gestured with his cane. “I walked in and took a seat while you walked the room.”

A laugh broke free, and I quickly covered my mouth when I garnered unwanted looks. Museums were normally a place of reverence, an unspoken awe. I sat up straighter. “I guess I made a spectacle of myself. I was searching for someone but didn’t find him.”

I glanced to the man and he looked at me with confusion. “Well, hopefully he shows. Otherwise he needs a good talking to about leaving a beautiful woman waiting.”

The man was kind, easing the sting of not being able to find Tack. I stood. “Thank you. I must be going. Enjoy your visit.”

“I will. Enjoy your time in Italy.”

Bidding him farewell, I headed back to my room. Philipe let me in. The door closed, and I walked to my chair.

My burner phone vibrated.

Tack: Did you find what you were looking for?

Me: You know I didn’t.

I was frustrated, but it was my own damn fault. Tack had gone through a lot of trouble to keep his identity a secret. He wasn’t going to just be waiting at the Uffizi with a flashing light on his chest. What was I thinking?

Tack: Willow, please just be patient a little longer. I know you’re frustrated.

Me: I will try. I don’t understand and I want to.

Tack: I know you do. Just give me a little more time.

Me: Please don’t hurt me.

Tack: I feel it, too, Willow, and I’m just as scared.

Blowing out a pent-up breath, I tucked away the phone and focused back on the picture.

I worked on centering myself, thinking about the good times.

My lips turned up as I thought Dad and Mom dancing in front of the Botticelli. Every anniversary, Dad played an Italian opera favorite of mine, “‘O’ Sole Mio” by Luciano Pavarotti. I pulled up my phone and played it. It was the same song he’d played when he proposed. I wished I had Mom’s ring. After he died, I searched the safe for it, but had no idea where it was. I wondered where he put it and hoped one day I’d find it.

Tears gathered in my eyes as I remembered sitting on the couch and watching them dance while I stared up at the painting.

The opera was the most beautiful love song about the love of his life being more beautiful than the sun. It’s about how, without having the love of his life with him, he becomes sad and only wants to be near her. They were the definition of love, or as they said in Italian,
amore
.

And I wanted to find the real thing.

C
arson, Francesca, and I were under a tree at the Boboli Gardens. Unexpectedly, dinner had been canceled when Carson’s meeting ran late last night. He’d been at a local vineyard about an hour away. Actually, it was a competitor of Francesca’s father, Bernardo. At this point, Bernardo still wanted to keep the wine local and not sell anywhere but at his winery. Business-wise, the concept wasn’t the best, but it was probably the way his father and grandfather had done it.

“Are you sure you don’t want any wine, Willow? It’s some of Father’s best.”

“I’ve had a headache all day. I’d love to take some home to my Nonno. Carson told me how magnificent it was.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. That would be an honor to send some home.”

Idly, I wondered if it would make things difficult if Carson went with this other vineyard. From what he said last night on the phone, it looked promising.

If it was meant to be, they would figure it out.

Carson stretched out beside Francesca as we continued to talk. She was a marketing major and frustrated with her father’s antiquated business practices. Business was not my favorite topic. Dad had me take courses, saying it helped round out a person’s education since every transaction was some sort of business deal. But still, I wanted to sit back and enjoy the beauty of the gardens while they spoke about target audiences, growth potential, and marketing strategies.

Children played. There was peace here. An old man with a cane picked up a ball and handed it to the little girl playing as he meandered across the way. It was sweet.

The afternoon progressed. Francesca drew something on one of my sketch pads. She’d minored in art. “Hold still, Carson.”