by Penny Reid
“I told you, I am.” He continued to look at her.
Ashley’s lips pressed into a line that was one part exasperation and ten parts happiness. “I love you,” she said to him, her voice all soft, “but you are crazy if you think I’m more beautiful than that view.”
“Then I guess you married a crazy man.” He shrugged.
My sister and her husband shared a look and a smile, warmth and sweetness passing between them. I felt my mouth curve and studied my plate, letting them have their moment free of spectators. But then, my eyes lifted before I could check the impulse, sought Scarlet like they’d done so many times today, and I understood exactly what Drew meant.
Tonight, she was in a long summer dress the color of wine grapes, her lips painted red, her hair loose around bare shoulders. She was smiling at Jenn and nodding her head, and then she laughed, and the sight eclipsed the view and sunset and summer sky, leaving my chest tight, my limbs restless, and everything else adrift.
I’d tried to apologize to her throughout the day. Several times I’d sought her out. Every room I entered she continued to leave, not that I blamed her. The only exception had been tonight’s dinner. But with her three seats down and on the other side of the table, we weren’t close enough to talk let alone have a private conversation.
I was determined to catch her after dinner, but I wouldn’t go to her room. I didn’t want her to feel cornered. I planned to apologize and propose a new truce: we didn’t have to interact or speak to each other, but we didn’t have to go out of our way to avoid each other either. We could just . . . be. Give that a try, see if we could make it work.
“We need to discuss tomorrow.” Cletus—who’d positioned himself at the head of the table so he could see everyone—lifted his voice over the general murmur of conversation and presently swirled the wine in his glass, slanting it to the side as though inspecting its color.
“What happens tomorrow?” Shelly asked, much to my surprise. She wasn’t one for talking, especially not in a group.
The sound of her voice apparently surprised everyone. Conversation mellowed and folks seemed to turn toward her and Cletus in unison.
“I know some of y’all are still suffering from jet lag, but we have tickets to Michelangelo’s David first thing in the morning and we need to sort who’s going and who’s staying.”
Jess lifted her hand. “Duane is going to make sure y’all find your way. My parents and I are staying with Liam and making dinner for when you get back.”
“Maya wants to go, but Sienna, the boys, and I are staying.” Jethro spoke for his family.
“What? Why?” Cletus glanced between Sienna and Jet, setting down his wine glass.
“The last time we were in Florence, Sienna was recognized,” Jethro replied, shrugging. “I had to get her through a crowd fifty folks deep.”
“He had a black eye after and his back was covered in bruises,” Sienna tutted, placing her hand in his on the tabletop.
“Okay, well then, I hope the rest of y’all are going because otherwise we’re going to lose our group tour discount, and then I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Shelly and I are going,” Beau said, slinging his arm on the back of the chair behind Shelly and playing with her long brownish-blonde braid. “And I know Ash and Drew are coming with Beth.”
“That’s right,” Drew confirmed. “We’re looking forward to it.”
My attention drifted to the two-year-old across the table. She was drinking from a big cup, holding it with two hands and peering at me over the rim, her gaze steady and intense. Her eyes were a mix of her daddy’s silver and her momma’s blue. I suspected she’d wield that stare like a sword one day.
One might say Bethany and I had an understanding. Every time she brought me a book, I read it. Didn’t matter where we were or what I was doing. If I was on the phone, I hung up. If I was in the middle of a conversation, I excused myself. If I was cooking, I turned off the stove. Every. Time.
Basically, I was her favorite uncle.
“Are you coming, Claire?” Shelly asked, like it was an interrogation, her dark blue stare piercing, as was her way.
Scarlet smiled warmly at the woman, shrugging. “Oh, I don’t know. I actually have some work to do before heading to Rome in a few weeks.”
Cletus threw his hands in the air. “Well, that’s it. Groupon ain’t gunna give me a refund.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, chuckling at Cletus’s dramatics. “I’ve always wanted to see, uh—” her eyes flickered to mine and then away “—I’ve always wanted to see that statue.”
“Claire is coming. What about you, Billy?” Shelly turned her interrogating glare and tone on me.
“He’s going,” Duane cut in before I had a chance to answer. “I cleared his schedule with his secretary. He has the whole day free.”
“Actually, I don’t know.” I scratched my beard, wondering if me staying meant Claire would feel more comfortable going. I didn’t want to be the reason she missed out. “I have a call with the mill. Dolly said she wants to run some numbers with me.”
That wasn’t a lie, technically. Dolly Payton did want to run some numbers with me, but the call we’d scheduled was for 3:00 a.m. Italian time.
Cletus squinted and he gave his head a subtle shake, likely an action he hoped I’d interpret as a warning. I ignored it and him and sipped from my wine glass.
Leaning back in his seat, Cletus steepled his fingers and dropped his gaze to his plate, a tight expression on his face. I couldn’t imagine what was going on in his head, what kind of punishment he had in store for me. It could be anything. Well, almost anything. I doubted he would—
“Hey, Billy.” Ashley tapped my arm lightly, drawing my attention to her. Giving me a sweet smile, she said, “I know this is completely random, but Drew and I were talking about that new rehab facility in Green Valley the other day and I always wondered, what happened to that car?”
“Car?”
“Yeah. In high school, the one that hit you, and then you ended up in the hospital for all those weeks, losing your scholarship and such.”
I stared at my sister, confused as to why she’d be asking this now or at all. The more I stared, the less sweet her smile looked. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted, strained, like I was being watched by a predator. Or several.
Glancing around the table, I found only Sheriff and Mrs. James, Maya, Scarlet, Jethro and Sienna and their boys not staring in my direction. Otherwise, all sets of eyes were watching our exchange and they each wore a similar expression. Determined.
My stomach dropped.
They know.
Clearing my throat, I wrestled to keep my racing pulse under control. “Can’t say I recall,” I managed to choke out, returning my gaze to my plate and dabbing at my mouth with my napkin, trying to think.
He’d told them.
“That was right about the time that Scarlet left town, right?” Beau asked, and my eyes cut to his.
I sat stock-still, staring at my lovable brother and his affable smile and the unholy light of mischief in his eyes. And then what followed would have been comical if my heart hadn’t been beating out of my chest.
I looked to Jethro. Besides Cletus, he was the only other person at the table who knew it had been the Wraiths, not a car accident, that had left me with so many broken bones. If he figured it out, he’d tell Scarlet the truth straightaway, that’s for sure. Time and time again, he’d shown how little loyalty he had for me.
Jethro glanced at me. Then Jethro glanced at Scarlet, who was frowning at her plate. My gaze cut to Cletus and I glowered, because my industrious brother was smirking. At me. His wine glass lifted in my direction.
“So, you’re coming to Florence tomorrow? To see David?” Beau asked, his eyebrows raised meaningfully.
“I guess I am,” I responded, my words carefully calm, my eyes never leaving Cletus’s.
Meanwhile, he’d lifted a wrist and pointed to the watc
h there with his index finger, mouthing, Time’s up.
Chapter Nine
*Claire*
“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.”
Thomas Merton , No Man Is an Island
At 8:00 a.m., the streets of Florence smelled like leather and fresh bread. Cafés were still setting up, placing chairs, small circular tables, and folding signs—advertising both espresso and gelato—on the narrow cobble streets.
“Why does it smell so much like leather?” I asked Duane, who currently held my hand tucked in the crook of his elbow.
Duane led the way, guiding us through the back streets, from the train station at Piazza di Santa Maria Novella to the Accademia Gallery, where the huge fourteen-foot statue was kept. Everyone else was behind us, including Billy. I’d glanced over my shoulder a few times, hopefully stealthily enough not to be noticed. He brought up the rear, walking with Sienna’s sister Maya who—I hated that I noticed—was looking at him like he was an ice cream cone.
Not that I blamed her.
“They got these open-air markets here where vendors sell all manner of things, used to be fine linen table clothes, Italian marble chessboards, and such. But now, it seems to be more touristy kind of stuff, knickknacks and whatnot, bobbleheads of the pope, hot priest calendars.”
“Hot priest calendars?” I both frowned and smiled.
His eyes slid to mine and he smirked. “Anyway, a lot of the stuff is made in Taiwan and China, not so much in Italy anymore. Makes sense, global economy and whatnot. But they still have the leather market, where most everything is made here by local crafts people. That’s why it smells like leather.”
He motioned to a row of stalls with canvas coverings lining both sides of a street. “That’s Via dell'Ariento. This’ll be busy in about two hours, packed with people.”
At a few of the stalls, men, women, and some children were moving about, taking goods out of wooden crates and pulling the canvas forward to create a kind of cloth roof in front of the stall.
“Beyond that is the San Lorenzo food market.”
“A food market? Sign me up.” My brother’s smirk became a small grin. “We like the Sant'Ambrogio market a little better, on the other side of town, but it’s a walk. Though, I don’t know if Jess likes Sant'Ambrogio better ’cause we take the long way, crossing the Ponte Vecchio and walking along the other side of the river. She says it’s quieter on that side, cooler in the summer.”
I nodded, deciding to ask Jess for some suggestions on places I could go on my own inside the city. I’d never traveled, wasn’t certain I would make it through a day without getting lost, but what the heck? I was in Italy. No time like the present to learn new skills.
A storefront display caught my notice, and then another, and another. An antiques store, a book shop, a stationery shop with colorful papers and note cards. I tried to make a mental map of where each shop was, the market, the stalls. Yeah, I’d come back one day next week. When I returned—because now I was determined to return—I’d check them out.
But by the time we made it to the Gallery, I’d lost count of the shops to visit, feeling a little overwhelmed by all the spots of interest. Too many to track. Our tour guide seemed to be expecting us and stepped forward from a small square gathering space as we arrived. Soon we were all handed earbuds and a device to wear around our neck for plugging them in. Our guide wore a little microphone that transmitted her voice to our device. We could listen to her through the earbuds, if we so chose, as we walked through the various rooms of interest.
Earbuds draped around my neck along with the listening device, I waited until Billy and Maya passed before following the crowd of Winstons into the Accademia Gallery. He was limping, just a little, but I noticed. Chasing a twinge of worry away—because it was not my job to worry over Billy Winston—I did my best to absorb the general splendor of my surroundings.
The general splendor was certainly splendid, and empty.
“Where is everyone?” I touched Shelly’s arm to get her attention. “I can’t believe we’re the only ones here.”
Eerily quiet, we passed several huge paintings. I mean, they were huge. The size of a whole wall. And then in front of us rose a giant statue of a man lifting a woman. Upon closer inspection, I realized he wasn’t lifting her up. She was struggling against his hold while he attempted to wrestle her into submission.
Though I could appreciate the craftsmanship and artistry, it was kinda disturbing.
“Sienna pulled some strings,” she explained. “This isn’t the usual tour; at the end we’ll get a chance to see some of Michelangelo’s lost sketches.”
I felt my forehead wrinkle, tearing my gaze from the statue. “This is part of the Groupon?”
Shelly pressed her lips together, her eyes smiling. “Claire. There’s no Groupon for seeing David. The tours are usually sold out months in advance, especially over the summer.”
“Oh.” I gave her a tight smile of mild embarrassment. “I guess I should’ve known Cletus was just being Cletus. Sorry.”
“It is okay. You are very cute sometimes. I forget that you’ve never left Tennessee before. That statue—” she lifted her chin toward the one in front of us, where everyone had paused “—is by Giambologna. It’s a plaster cast model for The Rape of the Sabines. The marble sculpture, carved from one solid piece, is in the Piazza della Signoria under the Loggia dei Lanzi.”
I stepped closer to her as I studied the sculpture again, looping our arms together, and wondering why anyone would want a piece of art depicting a rape.
You’d never know it by Shelly’s outwardly stoic demeanor, but Shelly was an extremely affectionate person. As soon as I touched her, she latched on to me and that was exactly what I needed at present. My stomach fluttered, and for once it didn’t have anything to do with Billy Winston.
“What is wrong?” she whispered, holding my hand tightly. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just silly.”
“What?”
“I guess I’m nervous.” I glanced at her and found her watching me intently as our footsteps echoed on the stone floor, moving away from the statue. “I’ve never traveled like this, been to a museum before, definitely nothing like this.”
“You’ve performed in front of thousands of people.”
“More like hundreds. A thousand people, tops.” I’d been given an open invitation to the Nashville Music Festival in a few weeks, and that would have thousands of people. I’d given them a tentative yes, but then I’d talked myself out of accepting several times. The festival was scheduled for the week I’d be in Rome, and though I could definitely make it work with my schedule, the idea of performing in front of that many people had me breaking out in cold sweats. “So far, I’ve only agreed to smaller events. I’ve never done one of the big stadium shows or festivals, but my label keeps threatening to send me on tour.”
“But you went to college, right? Your major was music? Didn’t you go to any museums then?”
“Ultimately, my major was music education. But I wasn’t one for going out. I went to class and then home. Aunt Mary and Uncle Peter—uh, Ben’s aunt and uncle, they’re who I lived with—were older and needed help. So when I wasn’t in class, I was at home with them.”
“Did you like being there? Or did you wish you could socialize more?”
“Oh, I liked it. They were so nice. We’d play cards at night or I’d sing and play the piano for them. And she taught me how to cook.” I whispered a bit quieter since we’d just entered a sorta hallway and something about it felt extremely sacred, like a church but on sanctity steroids. On either side were half-finished marble carvings of men.
Our guide murmured something from the front of our group. “Should I put the earbuds in? Is she already talking?”
“You are nervous. I can tell.” Shelly’s eyes moved between mine and, totally serious, she said, “I’ll protect you.”
A surge of warmth and affection for this w
oman had me sending her a big smile. “Thank you, Shelly. I appreciate you. But I’ll get over being a dummy in just a minute, I think.”
“Let me tell you a story to distract you.” Arm in arm, she marched us forward, past Jenn and Cletus, past Drew and Ash and Bethany, past Billy and Maya, Duane and Beau. She even strolled right on past the guide and—
“Holy crap!” My feet stumbled and my mouth dropped wide open because there he was. David. Right in front of us, like he was real. I mean, holy crap. Just like that, all my silly nerves were forgotten.
“That’s David, and he’s beautiful,” she said, her voice definitely not a whisper. “You can’t see his face very well from this angle.” She led me forward, bringing us to a stop adjacent to his giant left foot. “But he is frowning, he looks stern, focused, a little angry. And yet, his posture is so relaxed, don’t you think?”
I nodded dumbly, mesmerized by . . . well, by the whole dang thing.
Billy had once told me the Bible story when we were teenagers and I’d looked it up since. I tried to imagine this beautiful boy—brave and noble and undeterred by fear—with only a sling and rocks, facing the gruesome giant Goliath.
But this? Beautiful wasn’t the right word for what David was, the description felt paltry given the reality of him. It. The statue, I mean.
Shelly tugged on my arm and walked me slowly around the barrier so we could see his backside. And, my goodness, he had a glorious backside, glorious, and an inkling of a suspicion occurred to me. This statue wasn’t a depiction of a Bible story, not really. This was a celebration of the male form, of its rough beauty, hard shape, severe angles, and graceful lines, and—for so much of history—its purpose.
“When I was in school, at the University of Chicago, we were told a story about Michelangelo, more of a legend with two endings.” Shelly stopped us right at the center of his back and we both took a moment to gaze upon the amazing details of his torso, legs, and right hand.
“A legend?” I asked, my eyes fastened to the white marble, only tangentially aware that we’d just been joined by Cletus and Beau as well as Billy and Maya.