Gladly Beyond (20 page)

“It doesn’t work like that. Even when I scan an object, I can only see people who are dead. So I could maybe solve cold cases where all the relevant parties are no longer living, but that doesn’t really help police, per se.”

I thought that over for a moment. “Okay, so how do you see people’s past lives?” I asked. “Do they just follow them around?”

“Yeah. Tommaso over there”—he gestured with his chin—“was a World War II soldier, a Victorian farmer, a seventeenth century peasant, a medieval peasant. Most people are just peasants.”

“What about Rosa?” I nodded toward the other server two tables over.

Dante looked at her. “A factory worker. A midwife. A mercenary foot soldier—”

“Soldier? As a woman?”

“Gender can be somewhat fluid, I’ve noticed. Most people stay the same gender life-after-life, but for a few it can change.”

“Interesting.”

“I’ve become extremely adept over the years at using clothing to determine someone’s history.”

That did make sense, I supposed. “I’m assuming you used your GUT with the Colonel’s Michelangelo sketch. What did you see?”

“Wouldn’t I be breaking the Colonel’s Sandbox Rule if I told you?” He chuckled around a mouthful of pasta. “No plagiarizing, remember?”

Seriously?

“I think having a ‘grossly unusual talent’ is an automatic violation,” I countered, twirling fettuccine onto my fork.

“I didn’t see anything significant with the sketch. It was blank.”

I paused, pasta halfway to my mouth. “Blank? Does that happen often?”

“Never. It’s never happened before. I’m wondering if it has something to do with Caro and Ethan maybe. Who knows.”

“Hmmm. Interesting. So tell me about your brothers.”

Tommaso brought our
secondo piatti
while Dante explained about Branwell and his ability to hear the past.

“So I assume Branwell ‘listened’ to the Colonel’s Michelangelo sketch?” I asked around a mouthful of divine seabass. “Or was it silent for him too?”

“No, it had sound. Nothing too helpful, but Branwell did overhear a man with a slight Scottish brogue say.” Dante frowned, trying to remember the exact words. “‘I figure we are even now. You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you. Never forget—I always win the game.’”

I shivered. I’m sure my eyebrows drew down into a neat ‘V.’

“That’s fascinating. Branwell was sure it was a Scottish brogue?”

He shrugged. “Just like I specialize in clothing, Branwell is an expert with accents. If he said it was Scottish, it probably was. Upper-class, he specified.”

We exchanged a that’s-quite-intriguing look.

Dante moved on, talking about Tennyson, sitting back as our
insalate
arrived. He described how Tennyson feels the future. I got the sense that Dante was glossing over the reality of Tennyson’s situation, but obviously some secrets weren’t his to tell.

Tommaso brought out the cheese and coffee. Dante ordered some
tiramisù
too, saying the American in him could never resist dessert.

I sipped my coffee. “Do you see your own past lives when you look in the mirror?”

“No. It doesn’t work that way.” Dante took a healthy bite of gooey
tiramisù.
“I usually don’t see anything that pertains to my own past.” He nudged the plate toward me, indicating I should take a bite.

I shot him an eyebrow, but grabbed my teaspoon anyway. I was American, after all.

“Okay. But do you see Malcolm clinging to Branwell?” I reached across the table and snagged a bite of
tiramisù.
Mmmm, the dessert was incredible. “Do you see Caro clinging to me?”

Dante smiled indulgently, obviously appreciating my reaction. “I don’t see silvery shadows of those I love.”

“So love is the key?”

“Exactly. Basically, the more I love someone, the fewer their shadows.”

Huh. That was interesting. I took another bite of
tiramisù.

“So you see some of Branwell’s past lives, but not all of them?”

“Not exactly. Branwell is entirely blank. No shadows at all.”

“Right. Because he’s your brother—”

“Womb-mate, he would say.”

I groaned. “That’s a terrible pun.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, Tennyson and my mom are the same. Chiara and my
nonna
are nearly blank too.” He scooped up some marscarpone.

“Because you love them.”

“Yeah. The farther away from me emotionally someone is, usually the more plentiful their shadows.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” I put my spoon down and sat back before I ate his entire dessert. “Do you see Caro’s shadow behind me? Was I a peasant most of the time like everyone else?”

For some reason, the question troubled him. Dante set his own fork down. Drummed his fingers for a second.

“You’re blank,” he finally said. “Like Branwell or my mom. Just . . . nothing.”

It took a second for his words to sink in.

And then every hair on my body stood on end, chased by a bone-rattling shiver. My alarm level went from
danger
to
high alert
.

“Are you . . . are you saying you l-love me?”

A loooong pause.

“No.” His dark eyes drowned in mine. “I don’t love you.”

My heart . . .
sank
.

Really? How could that possibly be disappointing?

“But you just said—”

He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Claire. This is completely new ground for me too. Maybe we loved each other in past lives—”

“Yeah, but you said I’m blank. Nothing, right?”

“Empty air.”

I was shaking now, two deep breaths away from a hyperventilating panic attack.

“You believe we
have
been in l-love . . . in the past.”

It wasn’t a question.

He leaned farther across the table. Reached out and took my hand in his. Swallowing up my smaller fingers in his huge palm. Warm. Comforting. I could feel the scrape of callouses as he rubbed my hand.

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“Like soulmates?”

“Something like that. Life after life, we’ve found each other. The connection so powerful it even spills over into your photos.”

I stared at our joined hands. A surge of energy flowed through the connection. An aching sense of
rightness
. Of
us
.

I had been here with him before. We had done this countless times. An eternity of memories just out of reach.

Part of me wanted to close my hand around his. Hold on.

But . . .

“I don’t love you. Not yet,” he continued. “But think about it, Claire. I know I feel a sense of connection with you. You
have
to feel it too. We have a lot in common. Our shared profession and love of art. The same taste in random mid-century American poets. I’m betting you like offbeat art house films and moody folk rock just as much as I do too.”

Curse him. I did.

My five-year-old self wanted to stuff my fingers in my ears and chant
la-la-la-la
—

But he wasn’t done. “Not to mention, I think you’re stunningly attractive. Can you honestly tell me you’re not interested in me? Because I absolutely am interested in you.”

My throat closed, my heartbeat clawing to escape. Choking me.

I wasn’t ready for this. Not him. Not now.

I twisted my hand out of his. Gave a weak laugh. “Wow. Talk about a good line—”

“Claire. Please. You know I’m not just playing you—”

“Dante, I can’t—”

I stood up. He rose with me.

“Don’t be like this.” He barged right into my personal space. Even in three-inch heels, I still had to look up at him. “I don’t know what happened between Ethan and Caro. I don’t know about all those other lives. But there’s something here. I want to give it a chance.”

Wordlessly, I shook my head. It was too much. Too soon. I could barely trust the man enough to be semi-alone with him. Anything more was going too far.

“I can’t . . . I’m not in a good place right now.” I stepped away from the heat of his body and snagged my purse off the chair back.

“Claire—”

“Thanks for dinner—”

“Wait for me, at least. Let me pay and walk you down to your room—”

“No. It’s better like this.”

“Claire.” His gaze entreating.

I could feel every eye in the restaurant on us.
Was
someone videoing us?

My heart pounded. Sweat teased the back of my neck.

Calm. Polite. Don’t make a scene. Just get away—

“Good night, Mr. D’Angelo.”

And like Lady Caro, I strode off without looking back. Dante’s gaze burning a scorching hole in my head.

Fifteen

Claire

M
y phone buzzed me awake the next morning. I rolled over in bed and snagged it off the nightstand.

I lay next to you again last night. Breathed in your skin. Dragged my lips along your neck.

My heart tried to escape out of my chest, adrenaline spiking through my veins.

Ugh! This online bully.

I dropped the phone on my covers and rubbed a hand over my face. And then spent a solid fifteen minutes chanting my mental, self-help litany . . .
theywantyoutobeafraiddontgiveintoit . . . courageyoucandothis . . .

Though, really, I simply wanted to scream a loud chorus of
whymewhymewhyme
and crawl back under the bedspread. But I knew from experience (and hundreds of hours of therapy) that it wouldn’t help.

All I could do was go on with my life.

I understood only too well how people could live in a war zone. You just got used to the terror, adopted a fatalistic attitude and moved on.

What would be, would be.

For now, I would just do what I always did. Ignore the anonymous text, load Fear onto my back and get on with my day.

Silver lining, though.

After the events of yesterday, I felt reasonably sure Dante was not my online harasser. There was no logical explanation for Ethan’s appearance in my photos or for the ‘scene’ Dante and I had experienced together.

Correction. My emotions or heart or intuition or whatever was
sure
it wasn’t him.

That part of me wanted to trust, trust, trust. Wrap him up in a bear hug, bury my face in his broad chest and dream of unicorns and rainbows and happily-ever-afters.

The thinking,
sane
part of me knew my intuition had the stability of a sorority pledge after twenty rounds of beer pong. Not to be trusted to walk a straight line into the kitchen, much less be handed the keys to my life.

So . . . not sure where that left me, actually.

Dante’s remarks about love had really freaked me. Honestly, you can’t just drop a four-letter word like that into a normal conversation. Or even the weird conversation we
had
been having.

It had felt like a huge step simply to eat dinner with him. The idea of anything more . . .

Love.

My heart rate spiked just thinking about it.

I snorted, draping a hand over my eyes.

Yeah. Maybe with another ten years of therapy I
might
reach a place where I could trust in love and a romantic relationship.

I mean, I wanted it. Who doesn’t want capital-L love?

But . . .

I might shift it to my back, but Fear was still the crippling burden I carried.

Wasn’t that how the old Sarah McLachlan song went?
There’s nothing I’d like better than to fall, but I fear . . .

Yep. Pretty much summed it up.

And despite the similarities between Dante and I—that sense of finding a kindred spirit with the same tastes and likes—I was pretty sure we did
not
share a love of random ‘90s fem rock.

I had too much self-healing to do before being functional in a romantic relationship again.

After another twenty minutes of pep-talking, I crawled out of bed and into the shower. And then blow-dried my hair completely down, hiding my neck.

Passive-aggressive? Probably.

I brushed on a little make-up, wishing I had my PH lipstick. I was sure I’d return home to Boston and find it sitting on the bathroom counter. In the meantime, I just had to wear my favorite lemon berry lipgloss sans color.

Moving around my hotel room caused my brain to churn over the events that had happened in this same space two hundred years ago.

Who had Lady Caro been?

I booted my laptop and did a basic google search for her but pulled up nothing. Granted, trying to find a woman named Lady Caro who lived in Florence, Italy, after the fall of Napoleon was difficult.

I did find plenty of information about Louise, the Countess of Albany, the woman who was Caro’s guardian. Louise had indeed been married to Bonnie Prince Charlie, just as the Colonel had mentioned. Louise had gone on to separate from Charlie and had lived most of her life with Vittorio Alfieri in this palazzo. She had died in 1824, which meant that the scene Dante and I experienced had happened after Napoleon left Florence in 1814 but before Louise’s death.