Gladly Beyond (13 page)

Claire

I
wanted to hate him. Really I did.

I tried to hate him on the drive back into Florence.

As I thanked the driver for dropping me in front my hotel. (Marco. Twin toddlers. Loves soccer.)

As I clomped into my hotel room and threw myself across the bed, kicking off my heels.

But . . .

Just something about the stunned expression on Dante’s face when he saw the photos. The pensive way he stared. The heat of him as he loomed over me.

I should have felt threatened or mocked or humiliated. I should have felt . . .

Well . . . any number of normal,
sane
things.

Anything but the sense of concern and shelter I
had
felt.

Sweetie, you are so messed up in that head of yours,
I could hear Grammy say.

I closed my eyes. I
was
so messed up. Had the psych eval to prove it.

I had been decidedly freaked out by that final selfie in the Duomo. What possible logical explanation could there be? Nothing made sense.

Why would Dante get his Jane Austen fetish on and then stalk me through downtown Florence? I mean, if you’re renting a costume anyway, why not go for Batman or something with an identity-hiding mask? Or, at the very least, a character that’s more inherently scary? Freddy Krueger anyone?

And Dante’s ghost explanation seemed . . . out-there.

Sheesh.
And everyone claimed
I
was psycho . . .

But if this wasn’t Dante’s doing, who was it? Was Pierce the one behind it all, messing around (I had no idea how), trying to get Dante tossed from the Colonel’s contest?

I couldn’t land on any one answer.

But it did explain why I hadn’t shown the photos to the Colonel yet.

Maybe because, like I said to Dante, I prefer to pull on my big-girl pants and solve my own problems.

Maybe because I wanted to hear Dante’s explanation (and, let’s be honest, take in his broad shoulders and deep bass voice while doing so—)

Or maybe . . . Dante was right.

I did trust him. Instinctively.

Not that I
trusted
that sense of trust . . . if that made any sense.

I had trusted Pierce too. And the long line of loser boyfriends before him.

My bad judgment knew no bounds when it came to men. They were like crowded checkout lines; I would pick the wrong one every time.

All that to say . . .

I didn’t delete Dante’s info from my phone. If he broke his promise and contacted me first,
then
I would do something.

I pushed off the bed and strolled over to one of the three enormous windows overlooking the Arno—the setting sun turning the river and buildings and hills beyond into a molten mass. Bathing my hotel suite in golden light.

I opened up the window . . . a warm breeze threaded through the room, bringing with it the rumble of traffic from the street below.

I had to hand it to the Colonel. Despite all the potential weirdness with Grammy and ‘hey Bonnie Prince Charlie’s child bride lived there,’ the hotel room itself was gorgeous.

On the
piano nobile
with soaring Baroque-gilded ceilings, lush drapery and furnishings that were a mix of traditional Versailles and sleek Scandinavian modern. The epitome of tasteful Italian style.

I sighed and leaned out the window. No screens for Italians. Just wide open air.

To be fair, things hadn’t been
too
weird with the Colonel throughout the day. He had held my hand too long and used every excuse to touch me. Not creepy touching, mind you. Just a brush on the elbow, a hand at my back. Before Pierce and my stalkers, I would have merely considered his attention grandfatherly. But now . . .

I tossed the thought out of my mind.

He hadn’t brought up Grammy again. I had intended to ask him about it, but the right moment never presented itself.

All things considered, I wasn’t sure I wanted to invite that level of intimacy into our conversation. What did it really matter in the end? Grammy had never mentioned him, so it probably was nothing.

As for the possible Michelangelo drawing . . .

As an appraiser, you always look first at provenance.

The Colonel claimed there was no family documentation for the sketch. That said, though his father was from Kentucky, the Colonel’s mother was British, the only child of the last Earl of Arlington. All of the Colonel’s Italian holdings came from that branch of the family. So from a historical perspective, the Earls of Arlington could easily have undiscovered treasures.

Beyond that, it was hard to draw any conclusions until we received the mass spectrometry results. The differences in composition suggested the Colonel’s sketch probably
wasn’t
a copy of Michelangelo’s cartoon for the
Battle of Cascina
.

But was it a bonafide Michelangelo?

I honestly didn’t know. The fluidity of the drawing most certainly suggested as much, but the vellum ground and lack of silverpoint were troubling.

I faced the question I had been asking myself for the last two days:

Could the Colonel’s sketch be Michelangelo’s
modello
? His original model or blueprint for the painting?

In Renaissance Florence, a
modello
was a detailed sketch or model presented for approval to the patron paying for the artwork. Basically, a small-scale illustration of the final work to get the green-light to complete the larger scale cartoon. All the great masters had created
modelli
at times
,
many of which still survive.

There were no records of a full
modello
ever existing for the
Battle of Cascina
but, for a project that massive and expensive, common sense dictated Michelangelo had probably created one at some point.

Did the Colonel have the only known copy of that
modello
? It would require time to gather evidence, but if it proved true, finding a lost Michelangelo
modello
would be monumental news.

I would need to do a detailed comparison of use of line between the Colonel’s sketch and known Michelangelo drawings. But, really, the kicker would be the mass spectrometry analysis. If the dates were later than the 1500s, then no way was the sketch a bonafide Michelangelo. Yet even if that were the case, as a different iteration of Michelangelo’s design, the Colonel’s
Battle of Cascina
would be important.

Fortunately, I had nearly a month to conduct research. Such time was a luxury I rarely experienced.

I shoved aside the tiny voice whispering that the Colonel might have ulterior motives when it came to me, that I needed to be careful. Finish my job and get the hell out of Dodge, as it were.

Gah. I
hated
this paranoia. This fear. My inability to simply take people at face value.

I continued to stare out the window.

The Arno moved sluggishly before me, swirling underneath the Ponte Santa Trinità. (Sixteenth century. Oldest elliptic arch bridge in the world.) The water eddied outward, dark brown with the sediment of spring run-off. A city bus squealed to a stop at the intersection of the bridge and Lungarno Corsini, waiting patiently between the gigantic statues of
Autumn
and
Summer
. (Giovanni Caccini. Marble. Excellent example of late Renaissance Mannerism.)

Across the river, wisteria sprawled over a private terrace with exuberant abandon, its vines heavy with blue-purple blossoms, a burst of cool color against the warm Tuscan-orange stucco.

Leave it to Firenze to bring on the springtime charm. Though the city was a hardcore flirt any time of year.

I turned back to my room. Even with the sun setting, the rooftop restaurant in the hotel wouldn’t open for dinner for several more hours. I had never really understood the Mediterranean habit of eating dinner after nine at night. Why go straight to bed on a full stomach?

So . . . now what?

I studiously ignored the fact that Dante’s number and email address were still in my phone.

Not trusting my ability to trust him.

Nope.

I changed out of my suit into skinny jeans and a loose rose-colored silk shirt. Responded to several emails. Wrote to a couple of colleagues.

Ignored three texts from Pierce asking and then pleading and then begging to take me out to dinner.

I think I pulled an eyeball muscle I rolled them so hard.

What was that saying I always mangled?

Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice . . .

Yeah.

I watched the sky over Florence move from fiery orange through pale pink and into deep purple-black. Breathed in Italian air, heavy with humidity and the smell of growing things.

Finally, I trudged into the bathroom to tidy my hair for dinner. I pulled it out of the bun, setting the bobby pins down on the marble counter. My hair could be wispy at the best of times.

I paused.

Where had my brush gone?

I looked across the counter, past that talisman photo of me and Grammy in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, beyond the jar of face cream. I had left my brush there earlier in the day, hadn’t I? The bathroom wasn’t so large as to easily hide a paddle brush.

Nothing.

Frowning, I stepped out into the bedroom.

Ah,
there
it was. Over by the flatscreen TV. Weird.

I grabbed it and went back into the bathroom.

Only to come out two minutes later looking for my small make-up bag. I found it on the floor opposite the bed, pushed neatly up against the wall.

Honestly.

I stared down at the floral little pouch. I was almost one hundred percent certain I hadn’t left it there.

Wait . . .

My pulse sped up. I pivoted in a slow circle, eyes inventorying everything.

Had someone been in my room?

Housekeeping
had
come in earlier, as my bed had been made when I returned. Had I left my makeup bag on the covers, and they set it aside when tidying up? It made sense. I sometimes did my makeup while sitting on my bed, and I had been so distracted this morning, I couldn’t recall exactly what I had done.

I walked around the room, trying to determine if anything else had been moved. Laptop. Chargers. Credit cards. Jewelry. Right where I left them. Certainly nothing of value had been taken.

I picked up the make-up bag. Hold on. Where was my favorite lipstick?

I dug through the bag, looking for my PH lipstick—the one I special ordered from a boutique in Chelsea. It was one of my rich-slumming splurges.

It’s the weirdest stuff, that lipstick. The stick itself is literally green, but it reacts with the PH of your lips and turns them this gorgeous shade of blush pink once you swipe it on. I loved to wear it underneath my favorite lemon berry lipgloss. You know how getting the perfect lip shade goes . . .

I thought I had used it this morning. Hadn’t I?

I scanned my purse and then the rest of the room. No lipstick.

Had I just forgotten to pack it?

I sat down on the bed, biting my lower lip, trying to remember. I shook my head.

It was nothing. Just my imagination running wild after a fairly harrowing couple of days. The reappearance of my persistent online hater. The job with the Colonel. Pierce being Pierce. Not to mention my frock-coated, top-hatted photobomber who may or may not be Dante D’Angelo.

I had a lot on my mind. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I set things or what I put on exactly. It happened.

Besides, who would take lipstick instead of a laptop? I was a paranoid idiot.

I picked up my makeup bag and walked back into the bathroom, sternly telling my hands to stop shaking as I repinned my hair. After three minutes, I was pretty sure my bun was lopsided thanks to my clumsy fingers.

And, of course, there was no secondary mirror in the bathroom to let me see the back of my own head.
Ugh.
Could just one thing go right today?

Phone to the rescue. I angled my head awkwardly and snapped a photo of the bun. Swiped to the picture.

The world came to a grinding halt.

I’m sure tourists walking along the street below heard my scream.

I was just grateful I caught my phone before it hit the tiled bathroom floor.

I sank to the ground, back pressed against the wall opposite the sink, knees shaking too badly to hold me up.

The photo was so clear. My head with its (lopsided,
drat
) bun.

Dante ‘Mr. Darcy’ D’Angelo
standing
in the glassed-in shower to my left.

Hatless and coatless now. Wearing only a waistcoat and shirt sleeves. Dark brows drawn down, like he was concerned, worried.

There was definitely no one else physically in the bathroom with me.

I sat trembling on the floor for at least five minutes.

Was
someone somehow digitally inserting him into my photos? Like a computer virus?

The bathroom was sleek and modern. No security cameras (obviously). Really no place to hide a machine that could project an image like that. It seemed . . . impossible.

I rested my head against my knees for a while, waiting for my fight-or-flight response to calm down.

Who was doing this? And why?

My right leg started to go numb. What to do? I raised my head and looked at the vanity above me.

Only to have my adrenaline spike again.

Bloody hell!

I moved forward onto knees and snatched the photo of Grammy and me off the vanity mirror.

Impossible.

Just utterly . . .

And, yet . . .

There
he
was. My Regency stalker. Clear as could be.

Standing in the far background of the photo. Top hat, same green coat, boots, walking stick.

Staring at Grammy and me making idiots of ourselves in front of the Palazzo Vecchio.

This was
my
photo. I flipped it over, around. Definitely mine. It had that little crease in the corner from my bathroom mirror in Boston. That glop of mascara at the bottom I’d accidentally splattered on it.