A Little Too Far (8 page)

“Lexie,” he says as he steps through the ropes. “What brings you here?”

“I . . .” I glance around and all four boys are still staring. “I had something I needed to show you . . . for the tour. You didn’t answer my e-mail, so . . .”

An expression that could be either chagrin or regret passes over his face, but it’s gone the next instant. “Yes . . . I apologize for my inaccessibility. I have several missions, and time is not always on my side.”

“Could we maybe . . .” I look around, and everyone is still staring. “. . . go somewhere?”

He nods. “Just give me a few minutes to close up here and get cleaned up.”

I wait outside on the sidewalk, and, a few minutes later, the four teens come straggling out. It’s fifteen minutes later, and I’m just about to go back in after him, when Alessandro steps through the door in his crisp, black clerical shirt and slacks, collar snugly in place. His hair is damp, and he smells like soap. Fresh from the shower, obviously.

“Espresso?” he asks, turning to lock the door.

“Sure.”

We walk up the sidewalk side by side. And, because the sidewalk is narrow, his arm brushes mine as we walk. Something buzzes in my chest as I picture him half-naked in the ring—the ripped muscles of his arms and back; the way sweat glistened off his pecs and abs when he turned. I shake the image out of my head and hope he doesn’t notice my blush.

We find a seat in a nearby café and order. I can’t resist getting a few of the currant croissants. I’ve already gained two pounds, and I’ve only been here three weeks. I can’t imagine what I’m going to look like by the time the school year ends eight months from now.

I tear a corner off a croissant and pop it in my mouth. I close my eyes and give a little moan as it melts on my tongue.

When I open my eyes, Alessandro is staring at me, his expression totally unreadable.

“Did you always know you wanted to be a priest?” I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

He sips his espresso and rests his cup on the table before answering. “No, not always.”

“I couldn’t do it,” I say with a shake of my head.

His eyebrows rise. “No, you couldn’t.”

I glare at him as he takes another sip.

“You’re a woman, Lexie. That’s all I meant,” he says, lowering his cup. “Women can’t be ordained.” He hesitates and quirks his head at me. “But there are other ways you could serve.”

“Such as?”

He leans back in his chair and spins his cup slowly on the table, but his gaze stays fixed on mine. “The convent is always looking for faithful to serve God and the masses.”

I snort a laugh. “That’s just about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He lifts his eyebrows at me again. “Then you don’t get out much. Why would you find devoting your life to God funny?”

“It’s just . . . me as a nun?” I scoff. “I mean”—my face scrunches like something smells bad—“how does anyone survive with the whole no-sex thing?”

He holds my gaze for a moment, then watches his hand swirl his espresso. “I’ll grant you the calling isn’t for everyone.”

“Have you ever . . . you know?” The second it leaves my mouth I feel my cheeks start to flame. I can’t believe I just asked that, but I really want to know.

He looks at me hard out from under long, dark lashes, and, for a minute, I think that’s the only answer I’m going to get. But then he flashes a glance at the nearby tables—probably to decipher if anyone is listening in—and looks back at me. “Yes.”

My heart pounds faster at his answer, and out of the blue the reason my body is reacting like this slams into me. Since the day I bumped into him at the church, I’ve thought he was a beautiful man, but seeing him in the gym, rivulets of sweat trickling over hard muscles . . . Yep. The tingle in my groin is unmistakable. I’ve got the hots for the good reverend.

I thought I was going to hell before, but this pretty much cements it.

But still, I want details: Who did he sleep with? How long ago? Was it good? Did he love her? Instead of asking what I really want to, I breathe out a shaky breath, and ask, “So how did it work? You just decided one day that sex was overrated, and you could live without it?”

He glances around us again, then leans toward me, his elbows resting on the table and his cup perched between his fingertips. “Believe it or not, Lexie, sex had nothing to do with my decision.”

“So you never thought about what you were giving up . . . a wife? A family?”

“It was more about what I was gaining than what I was giving up. My path to the service of the Lord was long and convoluted.”

I lean back into my seat, kick off my flip-flop, and tuck a leg under me. “I’ve got time. Hit me.”

He breathes deep, then settles back into his chair, watching his finger trace circles on the glass tabletop. “My father was assistant chef at Windows on the World.”

From the look on his face, I think that’s supposed to mean something to me. It doesn’t.

His haunted eyes lift to mine. “The restaurant on the top floor of the World Trade Center.”

“Oh my God,” I gasp as I finally understand the significance. I was seven when the attack happened. I remember watching on the TV in our kitchen that morning as one of the towers crumbled to dust. Tears streaked Dad’s face as he poured milk on my cereal. I’ll never forget it.

“His body was never recovered,” Alessandro continues.

“I’m so sorry, Alessandro. That must have been horrible.”

It’s not until his gaze snaps to mine that I realize I used his first name. He smooths his white collar with a finger and thumb. “I was only eleven at the time and, at first, I didn’t understand.”

“It must have been hard to accept he was gone when you had no body to bury.”

He shakes his head. “No . . . I understood that my father was dead, but I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand that the Lord had a plan.”

I just look at him.

He sighs and crosses an ankle over his other knee. His long, slender finger traces the inseam of his slacks mindlessly as he talks. “My mother . . . she wouldn’t accept he was gone. At first, she poured all her time and energy into finding him, posting signs and scouring the city. Then, when she finally realized he wasn’t coming home, she just curled up and stopped living. My older brother and I were left to our own devices much of the time. I was angry—at the world, at my mother. I lashed out. By the time I was thirteen, my brother and I were both in juvenile detention. That’s where I learned to box.”

I feel my eyes widen.

“While we were in the detention center, my mother tried to kill herself. My grandparents brought her back to her native Corsica, where they could care for her. They petitioned for custody of Lorenzo and me.”

“So you came here when you got out of juvie?”

He shakes his head. “Not at first. Because our grandparents were French citizens, there were visas and legal issues that needed to be cleared up before we could go. I’d just turned sixteen when my brother and I were released into a group home.”

“In New York?”

He nods, and his wandering gaze locks on mine. “That was where I met Hilary.”

I just look at him, but then I feel my eyes widen when I get what he’s saying. Hilary. That’s the who.

“She was with my brother for a short time, and when he was”—he winces a little—“done with her, she came to me.”

“Oh.” So . . . wow.

His whole face is pulled tight, and I wonder how painful it is for him to remember all this. “She was very young.”

“But you were only sixteen, right? I mean . . . you were
both
young.”

“That’s no excuse.” He breathes deep, and I watch his expression change from tortured to resolute as he puts it out of his mind and changes tack. “In any event, shortly after that, our visas came through, but my grandparents’ caveat to taking us in was that we go to Catholic school when we got to Corsica. Until her breakdown, Mom had always made sure we were raised in the Church. Despite everything that I’d done, and that I didn’t feel I deserved to be there, going back felt familiar—comfortable. Father Costa took us under his wing—became a father figure to us. He changed my life.”

“How?”

He splays his hand on the table and presses back in his seat as if trying to ground himself. “I was drowning in guilt and anger that I’d internalized and turned back on myself. He gave me tasks. At first they were little things, like playing games with the younger kids at the church, but then he started sending me out to help families in the community—sometimes with light construction or repair projects, or checking in on the elderly and bringing them groceries. He even boxed with me because he knew that was my outlet. When I was a little older, he found me space in a building up the road from the church, where I could teach other kids.” He smiles. “My first youth center.” He leans forward onto his elbows and looks at me. “He helped me find healthier outlets for my self-destructive rage. Helping other people gave me purpose. He helped me to see I wasn’t worthless—that my life could mean something.”

“Long and convoluted,” I say, running a fingertip around the edge of my espresso cup.

He nods slowly. “But the Lord showed me my path, and now I follow it.”

“What about your brother?”

He breathes deep and taps a fingernail on his cup. “He didn’t hear the calling.”

From the look on his face, I have the distinct feeling things might not have turned out well for Lorenzo. He doesn’t look like he plans on elaborating, and I don’t push him on it.

“So, you had something you needed me to see?” he asks, his morose expression clearing.

“Yeah . . . sorry.” I reach for my backpack and pull out my folder. “I did these by hand, and I don’t have a scanner here, so I couldn’t e-mail them.” I lay the sketches of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on the table. I tore these sketches out and put them in a folder this morning because I didn’t want Alessandro to see the one just before them in my sketchbook—the one I did of him looking at Laocoön on our first trip to the Vatican, his expression an interesting combination of clinical appraisal and unbridled awe. “Each sketch is one panel from the ceiling.” I slip a page with a triangular panel sketched on it out of the stack. “I figured I’d cut them into the right shape and you said there’d be ten to fifteen kids in each group, so each kid would get two to three panels,” I say, waving my hand at the pages in front of him. “You know, so they could put it together when they got back to school like a giant jigsaw puzzle. I could have them find the scenes from their pieces on the ceiling and tell me what they thought the scene was depicting. Then they could keep their pieces and color them in later if they wanted.”

He fans the pages out on the table and looks them over. “You did these?”

I nod when he looks up at me. “They’re really simplistic, but that’s the point. That way, the kids can sort of make Michelangelo’s work their own, you know . . . so it becomes more personal for them.”

He slips the panel of Adam’s creation out, inspecting it more closely. “These are exceptional. You’re more the artist than I would have expected.”

My face pulls into a scowl. “It’s not like it was my idea or anything. Michelangelo’s the genius. I just spent a few minutes on each one . . . because there are, like, thirty-three of them and I have classes and homework and—”

“They’re perfect,” he says, quieting me with a hand on mine. “This is a great idea. Exactly what I was hoping for.”

“Thanks.”

His hand is still on mine. He doesn’t move it as he lays the creation of Adam down and picks up the panel depicting the temptation of Adam and Eve.

Why is he holding my hand? Is it just a priestly gesture? I always get nervous when people look at my work. He sensed that from my rambling, and he’s trying to comfort me, that’s all. Right?

So why is a rabbit thumping in my chest?

Finally, he lets go of my hand and slides the sketches back toward me. “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

“You keep saying that. Why do you keep saying that?”

His eyes fix on mine. “I needed the perfect missionary for this job, and the Lord sent you.”

“Actually, it was Father Reynolds who sent me, on account of the fact that there weren’t enough Hail Marys I could possibly say to cover my sorry ass,” I mutter.

He laughs. I mean actually laughs . . . right out loud. “You are truly something.”

I cringe. “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”

He pushes his chair back and reaches for mine, sliding it back from the table. “I have Mass. Will you be joining us today?”

I stand and shake my head. “I don’t think Father Reynolds can handle any more of me today.”

Something mischievous flashes in his eyes as a corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh to be a fly on that wall.”

Chapter Eight

“I
’M
FALLING IN
love,” I tell Abby as we sit at a sidewalk table at the café where we first met.

John Cabot is in Trastevere, a quaint Roman neighborhood just south of the Vatican. Its narrow, cobbled streets are full of cafés and bakeries and gelato stands, and the whole place turns into campus when school is in session. Everywhere I look, I see familiar faces: either students I have classes with or people I see in the university hallways. The streets are as familiar to me now as the walking paths crisscrossing Notre Dame. And what I realize as I sit back and start on my second currant croissant is that, after only five short weeks, Rome is starting to feel like home.

“I mean, look around you,” I continue. “How could anyone not fall in love with this place? The food, the history, the art, the laid-back atmosphere, the—”

“—men,” Abby interrupts, her gaze following a pair of Carabinieri as they stroll past, the heels of their black boots thudding heavily on the cobbled road. They’re in full uniform: black pants with a red stripe down the side, black jacket with silver buttons, black police cap with the Carabinieri crest on the front. It’s finally cool enough now, at the beginning of October, that I don’t feel so sorry for them anymore, but in the heat of the summer, that’s gotta blow. “There is nothing quite as hot as a man in uniform,” she says, following them down the street with her eyes. “Just looking at them makes me want to do something illegal.”

I scowl at her. “I’m serious. I could see myself staying here . . . or coming back after graduation. I really love it.”

“I’m serious too,” Abby says, finally uncraning her neck and looking at me with eyes that are a very unlikely shade of hot pink. “I just want fifteen minutes in the backseat of a police car with that young one.”

“Speaking of, what’s happening with you and Grant?”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s got a girlfriend back home. Serious, I guess. Can’t be tempted, even by all this,” she says, smoothing a hand down her curves. “So, in answer to your question: Nothing.”

“Sorry.”

“What about you? Any prospects?”

I’m shocked when the first face that flashes through my head isn’t Trent. He’s dark and beautiful, in a black shirt and a white collar.

“No,” I say. “None. And I like it that way.”

“A hot Italian comes up and whispers sweet Italian nothings in your ear, and you’re telling me you’re not going to shag him on the spot?”

I think of Alessandro, leaning close to my ear at St. Peter’s and telling me about the Pietà, which is just about the sexiest thing anyone could ever whisper in my ear. “He did. I didn’t.”

Her eyes spring wide, and I wish I could suck those words right back into my mouth. “You skolly! Who is it?”

I scowl at her. “Skolly?”

“I can see it all over your face. There is definitely someone here you’d drop those pretty little knickers for.”

I snort out a laugh. “You are so far off base I can’t even tell you. I don’t have time for a social life.”

She rolls her eyes. “That sodding church thing. I’m so glad I’m not Catholic.” She smirks, and her gaze follows a bicycle messenger down the road. “I get to sin all I want.”

“Speaking of which . . .” I finish my espresso and pop the last of my croissant in my mouth as I scrape my chair back. “I’m going to be late. See you later.”

“Ring me later,” she says, sipping her espresso. “I fancy a night out.”

I smirk over my shoulder at her. “And you need a wing man?”

She smirks back. “No, but if you don’t cock it up, I might get you lucky too.”

I roll my eyes and step out into the sea of tourists on the sidewalk. As I weave through them toward St. Peter’s Square, my phone vibrates. I make my way past a group of street musicians and tuck into the shade next to a boutique I’m passing, out of the line of fire, before fishing it out of my pocket. I fully expect it to be Alessandro hassling me because, let’s face it, I’m always late, but when I look at the text, it’s from Trent.

It’s been over a week since I heard from him, and even then, it was little more than just,
Hi. How’s it going?

At this point, I can’t kid myself anymore. It’s glaringly apparent that Trent and I will never be able to get past the awkwardness. I mean, if we can’t even have an unawkward text conversation, how’s it going to go in real life.

I open his text.
Just checking in
.
Rome good?

Yep, the obligatory “let’s pretend that things aren’t totally fucked up” text.

I’m good. Love Rome. You?
I text back.

Good. Busy with wrestling and school
.

Classes good?

Yep, You?

How can classes titled Michelangelo and Italian High Renaissance Art not be good?
Then, before I can change my mind, I add,
Have you met anyone?

Have you?

I type two letters.
No.

Mom said you’re doing some project with a guy?

A friend,
I type back, not sure that really describes Alessandro.

I answered him, and I wait for him to answer me, but there’s nothing. After a long minute of getting bumped by people passing me on the sidewalk, I type,
I’m late for a meeting. Gotta go.

K. Bye.

And that’s all I get. Does that mean he’s seeing someone, and he doesn’t want to tell me?

I’ve never lied or gone behind anyone’s back. Ever.

I lean on the cool stone wall of the small boutique and rub a shaking hand down my face as his words from that night echo through my head.

Shit.

I hate this. I hate everything about it. I hate it so much that I would gladly trade back everything I felt that night with Trent for what we had before.

When I finally get my shit together and make it to the obelisk, Alessandro is waiting. He glances at his watch.

I hold up my hand and glare a warning at him. “Don’t even.”

He pushes away from the cement barrier at the base of the obelisk. “I take it today is not treating you well.”

“Bingo.”

“Well, let’s see if we can remedy that.” He turns, and I follow him through the crowd to the same ramp we went up the first time I visited the museums. The tour for the kids is only supposed to last ninety minutes, so it’s a whirlwind, hitting only the highlights. The plan is to start at the Apollo Belvedere sculpture, then visit Laocoön and his sons on our way to the Michelangelo bust, which wasn’t carved by him but by an unknown Greek sculptor centuries before Michelangelo was born. Then we speed through the map and tapestry galleries to the Sistine Chapel, and finish in St. Peter’s Basilica at the Pietà.

I fish through my backpack for my notes as we weave through the crowd to our starting point. When Alessandro stops at the Apollo, I’m still looking for them.

“I think I forgot my notes.”

“You don’t need your notes. You’ve got it all right here,” he says, reaching up and tapping a fingertip on my temple.

“No,” I say, rifling through my bag. “I mean the Italian. I printed out the phrases you sent me, and I tried to memorize them, but I’m sure I’m butchering the pronunciation and . . .” I stop digging and look up at him. “I think I’m going to need my notes.”

“You don’t need your notes,” he repeats. “Just start here, with Apollo. We’ll go through the whole thing in English today. Remember that these children are coming from the Catholic school. English and Latin education are mandatory there, so many of them have a basic mastery.”

I’m stalling, and he knows it. I mean, I
did
forget my notes, I’m not making that up, but the truth is I just feel really stupid standing up here pretending to be some expert on all this stuff when I’m not. Sure, I cream my panties over a good Michelangelo, but who doesn’t? Just because I might worship the man doesn’t mean I can tell kids about him and make them love him as much as I do. They’re going to see right through me. “Maybe I should work on those phrases some more. I mean, there’s really no rush on the dry-run thing, right? We have another week before the first group.”

He moves slowly toward me, like he thinks I might bolt. And he’s probably right. He gently grasps my upper arms. “You’ll be fine,” he says very softly, obviously trying to talk me off the ledge. He reaches up, slides my backpack off my shoulders, and sets it at his feet. Then he leans closer: so close I can feel his breath in my hair when he whispers, “You’ll be fine.”

I breathe deep and back toward the Apollo, not sure if my heart is racing from stage fright or . . . something else. I clear my throat, and my eyes roll up, as if trying to peer into my brain. “Okay . . . so . . . the Apollo Belvedere”—throat clear— “was discovered near Rome in the 1400s and has been at the Vatican since 1511. It’s a reproduction of a Greek sculpture, circa 580
B.C.
, most probably by Leochares.” I lower my eyes out of my brain and cringe at Alessandro. “I feel so stupid.”

“Well, you sound very smart. A little too smart. Remember, these are kids, Lexie. Think like a child. What would you find interesting about the Apollo if you were twelve.”

I look up at his penis, then back at Alessandro. I put my hand over my mouth and fight to hold back the nervous giggle, but it erupts out of me anyway.

He breathes a short laugh and lowers his lashes, and I’d swear I see his face flush. “There must be something else that would intrigue a young Lexie Banks.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but not really. I’m just that shallow.”

He looks up at me and smiles. “Let’s try it again.”

“Okay . . . think like a twelve-year-old.” I jiggle my arms to shake off the tension and breathe deep to pull it together. “This is the Apollo Belved—” But that’s as far as I get before the giggles erupt out of me again. “Notice how . . . his penis . . . is chipped off . . .” I sputter through my laughter, but then I’m laughing so hard I can’t stand up straight. People all around us stare at me as I cackle hysterically.

Alessandro grasps me by the waist before I topple over, which is imminent, and I’m surprised when I realize he’s laughing too.

“Sorry . . .” I giggle. “I just . . . oh my God.”

He scoops up my backpack and ushers me to a nearby bench, where the Asian-looking group of tourists who had laid claim to it spread like the Red Sea, making room for the crazy lady. I’m just starting to get myself together when Alessandro deposits me on the bench, giggles coming in short bursts instead of a continuous stream.

He lowers himself down next to me. “Well, that went well.”

That’s all it takes to set me off again. I bend at the waist and clutch myself as the giggles shake me from the inside out. Tears are streaming down my face, and I’m glad I didn’t bother with too much makeup.

His hand rubs over my back as the hiccups start. “Maybe suggesting you think like a twelve-year-old wasn’t the best advice.”

The giggles slow as the hiccups become steadier. “I’m a mess,” I say, wiping my eyes.

“That you are,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice.

T
HE
R
OMAN S
TREETS
are alive at night in a whole different way. During the day, gawking tourists clog the sidewalks in a clumsy parade, their eyes and cameras trained on everything and nothing. At night, Rome pulses, and Piazza Navona is one of its hearts. There’s electricity in the air that energizes everyone who makes their living on the streets, making them bolder. The street artists hawk their wares loudly in the center of the piazza, while couples stroll dreamily between the easels. The gelato vendors can’t dish out their ice cream fast enough to keep up with the crowds, even in the chill of an October evening. And the Carabinieri in their crisp black uniforms with red stripes wander the piazza, openly checking out the girls in their scant clubwear.

Through her bright purple contacts, Abby watches each one of them stroll past as we sit at the outdoor café on the outskirts of Piazza Navona and eat. My eyes are still drawn to the art, as always. The more modern art on the street vendors’ easels is eclipsed by the huge stone fountains in the center and on either end of the long piazza. The center fountain, surrounded by street vendors, is Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers, intricately depicting river gods from four different continents. I remember how chills ran down my spine the first time I saw it in Dan Brown’s
Angels and Demons.
And now I’m here, in real life. Chills run down my spine again as I stare up at it.

“That one,” Abby says, pulling my eyes away from Bernini’s masterpiece. She nods toward a pair of Carabinieri who are walking within feet of our table. “He is totally edible.”

“Speaking of edible, this is really good,” I say through a bite of my dinner. I’m not sure what I ordered, but it’s delicious. There are fresh vegetables and a chicken breast with paper-thin slices of lemon in some kind of tangy sauce. That’s all I know. I was surprised when I got here to find that most Italian food isn’t pizza and pasta. I mean, there
is
that, but that’s not what’s front and center on most restaurants’ menus.

She raises her eyebrows at me, then adjusts her very-low-cut black lace halter top for maximum cleavage exposure before slowly pushing her chair back. The scrape of her chair legs on the sidewalk catches the Carabinieri’s attention, and they slow to look at her.

“Scusami,” she says, and slinks the few feet toward them. “My friend and I were wondering if there’s a good club nearby.”

“What kind of club you want?” the younger of the two says in stilted English. He’s on the short side, but muscular, with cropped blond hair under his police cap. “Dance club? Piano?”

“Definitely a dance club,” Abby says, twisting a finger into the pink tips of her straight black hair. She grins. “We’re looking to large it up tonight.”

I roll my eyes and sip my water as he fills her in on the local club scene. I glance over a minute later, and see that his partner has moved away, and Abby and the young Carabinieri are standing very close. She slips something into his hand, and he grins and leans in, saying something I can’t hear into her ear. She brushes her fingers down his arm and turns back to me.