Gladly Beyond (9 page)

“It is possible, I’ll give you that.”

“Possible? No, it’s brilliant. For example, if you’ve known and loved me in
all
your past lives—’cause, let’s face it, how could you not?—” He shot me a wink. “—then that could explain my missing shadows.”

“Yeah, but Claire is dead air space. Not a trace of a single shadow.”

Branwell just grinned—salaciously, I might add—and rolled a gloved hand.
Ergo
. . .

I stared at him. Blinked.

“Are you suggesting Claire Raythorn is
my
woman?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“That I have loved her—Batty Ray Psycho, mind you—life after life after life? Loved her so much that I can’t see the tiniest trace of a shadow?”

A chill chased my spine—the sensation that my words rang with
truth
.

I shook the feeling away. No way I was getting involved with Batty Ray Psycho.

“Soulmates, brother.”

“That seems so improbable . . . I don’t even know where to begin.”

Branwell laughed, low and wicked.

“I’m not sure I even
believe
in soulmates,” I grumbled.

I had never experienced any transcendental, soul-esque connection with any of my past girlfriends. It probably explained why I didn’t date much, despite my reputation.

“C’mon, it would be a great story,” Branwell said. “Your eyes meet across a crowded room, instant happily-ever-after—”

“That’s one-too-many Disney movies talking there.”

“No deflecting. Seriously, what’s your take on Claire Raythorn? You still haven’t answered my question.”

I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

Despite the almost electric shock earlier when I touched her wrist, I wasn’t sure she was
that
woman. Physical attraction did not equal emotional attraction.

I preferred women who were more animated and open. Ready to flirt as hard as I did. WYSIWYG women—what-you-see-is-what-you-get.

Which in no way described Claire Raythorn.

I flaked off another bite of cheese. It needed some fruit. I grabbed a pear sitting in a bowl on the table and snagged a paring knife. Branwell’s eyes lit up.

In silence, I sliced into the pear. Branwell reached for the knife, intending to cut some for himself. I waved him away.

He sighed. I ignored it.

I sliced the pear into bite-size chunks, being careful to make as little noise as possible. I arranged the pears on Branwell’s plate.

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “You do realize I am perfectly capable of cutting my own pear.”

“Just helping where I can.”

And then I winced. That was always the
wrong
thing to say.

“No, you’re going all
nonna
and coddling me. Barreling into my space. Treating me like I’m somehow less-than.” Branwell gave another hefty sigh and reached for a slice of pear, along with the
pecorino
.

“Branwell—”

“Broken as I am, I wouldn’t change myself.” He dropped the pecorino/pear chunk in his mouth. “The GUT . . . it’s like diabetes, brother. It’s manageable.”

“You really haven’t hung out with Tenn lately, have you?”

“Point taken.”

“You live in a cage.”

“Don’t we all?” With a roll of his eyes, Branwell reached for more cheese and pear. “Besides, you’re still deflecting about Claire—”

“Who’s deflecting?” Chiara bounced into the room. Our sister was perpetually in a state of bouncy-ness.

“Branwell,” I said.

“Dante,” he said.

Without missing a beat, Chiara strode over to the stove and stirred the pasta sauce. She had years of practice of ignoring us.

Where Branwell and I took after our mother’s Scottish ancestry in build, Chiara was one hundred percent Italian. Petite, dark and constantly in motion.

“I think I’m going to side with Branwell on this one,” she said as she turned around. “What’s up, Dante?”

“Is something up with Dante?” That came from our mother, Judith.

Mom strolled into the kitchen on Chiara’s heels, a white rat on her shoulder. Tall and curvy with vivid blue eyes, it was obvious why our father had fallen so hard for her.

“He’s deflecting.” Chiara waved a tomato-sauce covered spoon in my direction.

“Dante
is
an expert deflector.” Mom stroked the white rat fidgeting on her shoulder.

Mom had sold her veterinary clinic in Portland four years ago and moved to Italy. Given the situation with Tennyson at the time . . . she had been desperately needed. Once here, she had converted part of our rooftop terrace into a makeshift animal hospital for strays. Most she re-homed. But every now and again, she kept one.

Like the white rat, Boney, currently on her shoulder.

I was nearly a hundred percent sure Mom’s rat was the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte. Though people always had silvery shadows, animals only occasionally did. And you just can’t part with an animal who had once been the Nightmare of Europe.

Boney liked being petted and running on his wheel. But every now and again, he would stand on his hind legs and press a tiny paw to his chest. His entire body coming to attention.

In those moments, the resemblance was uncanny.

“Com’è il sugo?”
Nonna waddled into the kitchen, walking over to the tomato sauce. The small space was getting crowded.

My grandma was a truly traditional Italian
nonna
. The ultimate love child of Sophia Loren and Martha Stewart, as Chiara described it.

Nonna cooked and cleaned in a knee-length tight skirt, nylons and heels, her short silver hair always curled and thoroughly sprayed into place. She wore a mink fur coat to do her grocery shopping. In other words—your average, elderly Italian woman.

“Would you like me to cut the bread, Nonna?” I asked, switching to Italian.

“Please.”

I slid past Branwell—careful not to brush his skin—and grabbed a bread knife from a magnetic strip on the tiled wall.

“We’re not done discussing Claire,” he murmured to me. “I won’t let you deflect this away.”

Seven

Claire

C
laire, darling, could you hold on a second?” My mom’s breezy voice sailed through the connection.

“Sure. No problem.”

Phone to my ear, I stood on the Ponte Vecchio, nestled between overhanging medieval houses and under the arched Vasari Corridor. (Sixteenth century. The Medici’s private commuter lane.)

Mom’s voice murmured in the background, talking to someone.

Jet lag had caught up with me after the Colonel’s meeting. I had returned to my hotel room and crashed. I awoke this morning with a clearer mind and managed to get some preliminary work done—research on Michelangelo’s composition in the
Battle of Cascina
and building a list of items to examine. I couldn’t really do anything more until I physically examined the sketch.

So now I was rewarding myself with a jaunt through my favorite parts of Florence.

Which led to thinking about Grammy.

Which led to wondering if Grammy
had
known the Colonel.

Which led to calling my mom.

Which might have been a mistake.

“Claire, are you still there?” Mom’s voice came back.

“Yeah. I’m here. I just had a quick question for you—”

“No, no, Micky. The gauze needs to be over there, nearer to the light.” Mom’s voice faded out as she pulled the phone from her ear to talk to someone. Micky, I assumed.

Finally Mom came back to me. “How hard can it be to get gauze wrapped correctly around pink flamingos?”

“Right? Gauze.” I gave a strained chuckle. “Look, I just had a question—”

“Oh, good. I have a question for you too. Did I tell you about the installation, darling? The one with the Rockefellers?” Mom had this odd east coast accent that wasn’t completely American or British, but something in between. It should have been off-putting, but most people simply considered it bohemian.

“Uhmmm, I think I heard someone mention it—”

“It’s going to be brilliant. The music has taken us months to get right.”

“Music? But, you guys don’t do music—”

“I know, I know. We hired a composer. She’s brilliant, but I think your stepfather finds her brilliant in other ways. You know how he is.” Mom laughed her brittle laugh. The one that was anything but amused.

Figured John-Baptista would be giving my mom fits.

I had no memory of my real father, Tom, Grammy’s son. He had died in a car accident when I was three. Mom remarried JB when I was five. I called him Dad and we got along fine.

Fortunately for me, my mom and Grammy had always had a close relationship, even after my biological father died. Grammy loved people so hard, you had no choice but to love her back.

“Anyway, the music has to be timed with the gauze,” Mom continued, “and we just don’t have the resources—Micky, Micky!
No!
”

Mom’s voice drifted back to that low hum . . . I only caught the occasional word . . .
too high . . . more flowy . . . not now . . .

“Mom. Mom!” I tried to pull her attention back.

Mom and her fabric. You can still find postcards of her
Lady Liberty: Mourning
in New York City even though the National Park Service only allowed the black cloth to remain on the statue for twenty-four hours.

I studied the tourists window-shopping along the bridge, gawking at the goldsmith shops. Everyone looking for that special something.

A metaphor for my life.

“Mom!” I said one last time.

“Oh, Claire.” She was breathless now. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, but Mom—”

“So you got all that about the Rockefellers, right?”

“About the installation?”

“Yes. The supplier and the media people need to be paid beforehand, and you know how JB is with money. Anyway, I’m sure you still have that inheritance Grammy left you . . .” Her voice trailed into
hint, hint, hint.

I sighed. There
was
no inheritance from Grammy. Just the house, which I had no intention of selling. Mom never listened to my explanations.

“Mom, how much do you need?”

She named a sum equal to about half my current month’s salary from the Colonel.

I needed that money. Grammy’s house required repairs and after so many months without employment, I had plenty of credit card bills of my own. But . . .

“I promise I’ll pay it all back as soon as the Rockefeller’s settle our invoice,” Mom said, correctly reading my hesitation.

Right. And the day I believed that . . .

“Promise you’ll pay it back?”

“Of course, darling.”

The lies we told each other.

“Fine. I’ll transfer what I can into your account,” I said. Sometimes I hated that I loved my mom.

I just had to get this job with the Colonel. There was no other option.

“Thanks, Claire darling. I love you so much. I need to go—”

“Wait, Mom. Did Grammy know Mr. Finster-Cline?”

“Who?”

“Adelaide. My father’s mother. The one you think had lots of money.”

An exasperated noise. “Don’t be smart with me. I know who Grammy was. Who else did you say?”

“Kenneth Finster-Cline. He’s a wealthy art collector I’m working with right now—”

“The Colonel?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen him in ages. Please tell him I said hi.”

My mother
would
know the Colonel. “Okay, I will. But, Mom, he said he knew Grammy and—”

“Does he want another painting?”

“What?”

“The Colonel has purchased a few of my—Micky! Not again!”

The line went dead.

Honestly, how could a five-minute phone conversation so thoroughly summarize my childhood? It was uncanny.

Getting my mother to focus for longer than ten seconds was a lost cause. She was like a gerbil on meth.

I would have to ask the Colonel himself about Grammy, if and when the right moment presented itself. And just hope his answer would make sense and feel normal without a trace of old-man-pervy.

I refused to think about the situation being anything other than above board with the Colonel. Too much of my financial future rested on this job.

Tourists swirled around me on the bridge. I looked up the Arno River toward Piazzale Michelangelo and the cathedral of San Miniato al Monte outlined against impossibly blue sky. My boyfriend-city had produced another stunning red-banner day.

Suddenly, my neck prickled with that all-too-familiar feeling of being watched. I was
so
sick of the sensation.

I casually turned in a circle, pretending to study the jewelry shops. No random old gypsy women. No top-hatted Regency bucks. Nothing unusual.

My phone buzzed.

I watched you as you slept last night. Tasted your lips. Never forget—you will be mine in the end.

My heart rate soared, pulse a snare-drum in my ears.

Ugh.

Bloody hell.

(I learned that little bit of language from my fifth nanny, Mrs. Evans-Sharp. Very British, very proper. Hired her by virtue of her cultured accent alone. She was Mary Poppins-esque until you crossed her. Then her south London roots made a dramatic appearance.)