Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  “Flatter. As in one-dimensional?”

  “Not quite, but you see how linear these are, with no depth, no rich shading that would give a sense of the three-dimensional. Both were Florentine artists, but most historians consider Giotto the father of the Italian Renaissance and Cimabue the last of the Byzantine artists. Not everyone agrees, of course.”

  “Where’d you learn all that? Obviously not from the booklet in your hand.”

  “Art history classes. Early European fascinated me.”

  “But you’re an engineer.”

  He shrugged.

  “Art history, languages, anything you don’t do?”

  “Well-rounded.” His eyes continued to twinkle as he took her arm. “Come, let’s finish this tour and then get something to eat.”

  “You sound like Acie. All she thinks about is food.”

  He laughed. “She and I have a lot of space to fill.”

  Her food space wasn’t much smaller, but she didn’t comment. As they left the church, she said, “You ever want to change careers, you can always become a guide.”

  “That’s a thought.”

  Outside again, he held up his phone. “How about pictures?”

  She let him snap one of her, and then he asked if he could take one of them both. She tried to smile when he moved in and held the phone aimed in their direction, but she was acutely conscious of how close he stood. And how large he seemed. Oh, and how good he smelled when she caught a whiff of lime.

  “I’d love a copy,” she said, putting a few feet between them.

  “What’s your phone number?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Email?”

  “I didn’t bring a computer. Can’t you get real photographs with that?”

  He raised a brow. “You have broken free from technology, haven’t you? I thought you were just being cautious when you didn’t give me your cell number.”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. “I just wanted to be independent for a short time. To write and receive real letters and not have to report my every move.” His grin warmed more than her face, but it drew a sheepish smile in return.

  “I get it,” he said. “Sounds like something we should all try on occasion.” Tucking his phone back in his pocket, he nodded. “I’ll have copies printed.”

  “Thank you.”

  She felt lighter after his easy acceptance and let him lead the way to the flower-bedecked terrace of a quaint restaurant, where she ordered a ravioli dish, succulent morsels of mushroom and zucchini stuffed in homemade pasta. Tony chose a pappardelle alla lepre or wild hare ragu. She watched jealously when he took his first bite. He grinned and offered her a forkful.

  She moaned as the flavor released in her mouth. “Incredible.”

  “You want me to switch with you?” His brow had hiked.

  “No, mine is delicious, but I think I ought to come back another time so I can order that one. Oh, and the lamb dish. And maybe—” She broke off with a laugh.

  “Anytime, cara. Anytime.”

  Cara. She knew what that meant. Dear.

  He shouldn’t use such a word with her. He shouldn’t.

  And yet when he passed the bread and his fingers touched hers, she shivered in a way that made her forget anything except the moment. With a man who could actually make her shiver.

  He began to talk about his home on a lake in New York that had come down from his grandfather to his father and now to him. He sounded wistful, as if he missed his home and his parents, and she wanted to ask more about them. Only, she caught herself watching the movement of his hand as he added meat to his fork. Those long, oddly graceful fingers distracted her from his words.

  The ear. She should focus on his ear, not his fingers. An ear was safe.

  “Anyway,” he continued.

  The word shifted her gaze to those lips—which she would not think about. Back to the ear. The left one. The one that had that curl of dark hair settling on the top edge.

  He stopped speaking.

  Embarrassed, she stabbed a morsel of food, staring at her plate and not at him. “I’m sorry. My mind wandered.”

  He laughed.

  She tried to laugh, too, but it didn’t sound convincing to her ears. And didn’t that just bring the red rushing back.

  As they strolled in the direction of the car, taking the long way around, he spoke in a voice that held a promise of something. “Gubbio on Saturday?” And then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “That sounds like that book series—Gubbio on Saturday, Paris on Sunday. I didn’t read them myself, but I remember seeing the catchy titles in a used book store.”

  “I did, by way of my auntie. About a rabbi detective, if I’ve got the right series. Old, but fun.”

  “Well, I can’t offer you any detective work—though I wouldn’t mind stumbling onto a few answers to our unsolved crimes—but we can take a trip or just look around Perugia more, see some of the lesser known places.”

  “I’d love to see the pottery in Gubbio, and I’ve done most of Perugia.” Hearing her words, she paused. “Can you ‘do’ a town?”

  “I don’t know. But we can certainly try to ‘do’ Gubbio.” Suddenly, his face paled as he looked over her shoulder, and he pulled her toward a narrow side street.

  “What the—?” She sputtered when his grip tightened, and she tripped after him. As soon as she regained her footing, she yanked her arm free and turned to see what had caused his obvious panic. There was nothing. “What,” she said, glaring at him, “is going on?”

  “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” His gaze continued to dart back as he pretended to smile. “It’s just that I remembered something down this way that you really must see.”

  “And so you grabbed me?” She flipped stray hairs away from her face. “Sure. Like I believe that.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “See that little church on the corner? I understand it has two painted statues adorned with real pearls and gold necklaces.”

  The chapel door was locked. Of course it was. He’d probably made up the pearls and gold.

  “Why are you lying?”

  “I’m sorry I grabbed you. I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “That’s not an answer.” She headed back toward the plaza and the curio shop where she’d seen silver crosses and pottery.

  He could follow.

  Or not.

  He remained by the shop door while she picked out a few items to ship home. Outside again, he broke the silence. “Your fiancé should appreciate that vase. I suppose it’s for his office?”

  She stowed the parcels in a mesh bag and frosted her tone. “His mother. The cup is for him.”

  “Ah. You ready for something to drink?”

  “We just had lunch.”

  “All that hurrying after you has made me thirsty.”

  She settled her sunglasses back on her nose, ready to return to the car, and then thought better of it. Sitting at a café in the center of town would give her another chance to discover what had changed things in the last half-hour. Who had changed them.

  He pushed open the door. “It’ll be nicer inside.”

  She didn’t argue and headed to an empty table by the window. Espresso cups littered the counter where several men chatted as they sipped. “A limonata, please,” she said, letting him order while she watched the pedestrian traffic file past.

  Tony carried the drinks to the table. She was reaching for her glass but shifted the moment she spotted that face with its familiar scar. “Did you see—?”

  “You know, I—”

  “Listen to me! That man—” But his elbow leaned too near the edge of the table. Half her limonata sloshed into her lap and splashed on her silk shirt.

  She gasped. He grabbed his napkin, apologizing profusely as he handed it to her. She mopped at the excess.

  He dabbed at her with a cloth handkerchief. “Use this, too. Is it coming out?”

  “Stop.” She knocked his hand away. “Just
stop.”

  Hoping to salvage the washable silk, she ducked into the restroom, a towel-less cubbyhole that made her regret tossing aside Tony’s handkerchief. The best she could do was dab water on the spots, and she emerged, damp and wanting to club him—or pour his coffee over his head.

  Why had he done that? To stop her from mentioning the gunman?

  “Good as new, are you?”

  She stood beside the table, arms crossed. Who cared if all eyes were turned this way? “You did that on purpose.”

  “No, really, I…”

  “Don’t lie to me again. I want to know why you’ve ruined a perfectly lovely day.” She raised her chin a notch. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing, really. I shouldn’t have grabbed you back there. I’m sorry. I guess I don’t know my own strength. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt you. And if your clothes are damaged, I promise to take you shopping.”

  She turned to leave. He dropped a tip on the table and followed, his long legs more than keeping up with hers.

  “Hope your things recover.” He waved his hand at the big, glaringly wet spot.

  “Sure you do.” But she doubted he heard the mumbled words.

  “You wear that color blue a lot. It’s sort of a turquoise, isn’t it, except a little greener? It does great things to your eyes.”

  “I wear it a lot? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just admiring your taste. A compliment, okay?”

  “It didn’t sound like one.” The edge in her voice buoyed her spirits, and wasn’t that interesting?

  “So, get used to it.”

  They didn’t speak as they wended their way back to the car, or as he opened the passenger door for her, then headed to the driver’s side. Now that she’d vented some of her anger, she perversely minded his. He started the engine and began to back out.

  This was his fault, and look at him, acting all hurt and childish. She released a deep breath that whistled slightly. “I can’t abide liars or people who evade the truth. Didn’t you listen when I told you about my father?”

  “Yeah.” He raked fingers through his hair with his free hand. “I did.”

  “So?”

  Downshifting, he eased the car around a sharp bend in the road and shifted back into high gear. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I think you owe me several explanations.”

  “Several?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You weren’t just clumsy back there, and you didn’t accidentally grab me.”

  His lips tightened.

  “And then there’s the issue of that man.”

  “Man?”

  “Stop that.” She took another deep breath while she tried to push her anger far enough back to carry on a conversation. “Please, either talk to me as if I’m an intelligent adult or take me back to the convent, and let’s end this charade.”

  He turned off onto a small road and again onto a smaller lane. She tightened her grip on the armrest. What was he doing? Did he plan to kill her and dump her body out here?

  “Where are we going?”

  He was too quiet. Were murderers quiet as they plotted their next move?

  She peeked over at him. He wasn’t biting his lip. She’d be biting her lip if she were planning something dastardly.

  Thinking the word “dastardly” reminded her of her aunt’s romance novels, and she almost smiled. Until she glanced at him again and noticed frown lines furrowing his brow.

  She wanted the frown gone and a happy, as in non-murderous, driver next to her. A happy, smiling, kind driver. “Is this some sort of short cut back to Perugia? I mean, I don’t recognize it, so if you’re planning to get me back there early enough for me to meet Acie—I did tell you that Acie’s expecting me to join them for dinner, didn’t I? She won’t want me to be late. And she knows I’m with you, so we probably ought to go on back the direct way, you know?”

  “Stop babbling. I’m only looking for a place to pull off so we can talk.”

  Talk. Talk sounded good.

  Right. Talk was what she’d wanted all along. An explanation.

  A grassy spot opened up, and Tony pulled over and shut off the ignition. Here she was with another spectacular view in front of her—the stone-walled city, olive groves, arbors, fields—and she couldn’t even enjoy it.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and angled his body in her direction. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have behaved as I did.”

  She waited.

  “I know you saw me in town, talking to Ibrahim.”

  “The gunman from the train.”

  Tony nodded. “I figured as much from your description of him. I met him through the dead Syrian, Yusuf, and wanted to see if he knew anything about the murder.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t want me to see him today.”

  He slid his fingers down both sides of the steering wheel. “I don’t trust him, not only because of how he made you feel on the train, but also because he threatened me. I think he’s more than he seems on the surface, and I figured it would be better if he didn’t see us together. I don’t want him to link you with me.”

  “Well, he was in Assisi the day Acie and I visited. We saw him, and he saw me.”

  He slammed his palm against the wheel and mumbled something that sounded very much like a curse in some foreign tongue. The anger behind it made her cringe.

  “Does him being here twice mean something?”

  “I don’t know.” He did the finger-combing thing again. “I just don’t like coincidences.”

  That word again. Coincidences.

  “I don’t suppose you know any Libyans, do you?” Because if he did, that would just be too much.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “One of them broke into the convent and rifled through my room. At least, one of the boarders is pretty sure it had to do with her boyfriend who is head of the Libyan student group in Perugia. Something about them wanting to discredit her and mistaking my room for hers. They’re right next to each other.”

  “Did he take anything?”

  “No, but I surprised him when I walked in the room. So, he hit me over the head, and I blacked out.”

  Another exclamation, this one in English. It exactly mirrored her thoughts.

  “Did the police investigate?”

  “They had nothing to investigate by the time the maid had cleaned up and at least six girls had put their fingerprints on every surface. I was too out of it to stop them.”

  “And the other girl—”

  “Hilda. She’s German.”

  “She knows for certain this had to do with her?”

  “Well, no, but she’s pretty sure of it. Because there would be no reason for anyone to want me.”

  “No, of course not.” He beat a tattoo on the steering wheel. “What are they doing to keep anyone else from breaking in? I noticed last night that the outside door was locked. Is it always?”

  “Not before. Before, they didn’t lock it until midnight. Now, it’s always kept locked.”

  He sighed. “Well, at least that’s a beginning. I think you ought not to be out at night alone.”

  He was scaring her again. “I’m not,” she said. “Not late, anyway. And, besides, no one would be crazy enough to try to break into a convent twice. Especially when he got the wrong woman.”

  “Still, to be on the safe side, will you only go out in company?”

  “At night, sure. Though I don’t know why you should care.”

  “Of course you do.” He started the car and made a U-turn.

  She felt every curve and every rough patch on the road. Neither of them spoke. Was it their shared frustration or something else? She was an idiot, but her nostrils again filled with the scent of something that held hints of lime and soap. Her gaze focused on long, sun-darkened fingers curving over the steering wheel.

  With one quick glance, he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissin
g her palm. It tingled at his touch even after he let go. She made a fist, flexed her fingers, and tried to steady her breathing.

  When she thought she could speak without embarrassing herself, she said, “Don’t do that again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry. Again he was sorry, but what did he mean by it this time? Was he apologizing for the day, for last night, or for the kiss? Or even for bringing all these crazies into her life?

  Because he had, hadn’t he?

  When he stopped the car in front of the convent, she jumped out with only a quick, “Thank you for lunch and the tour.” She spoke the words as coldly as possible, hoping to project what she didn’t feel—trying to convince the both of them.

  “Goodnight,” he called through the open car window.

  She didn’t turn, and she didn’t answer.

  “Grazie,” she said when Monica opened the door for her.

  A letter from Jason waited on the hall table, but nothing from Uncle Adam. And Adam’s was the one she wanted, just a note to confirm their rendezvous in Italy or Paris or anywhere once she’d finished her course—sooner, if he could get away.

  Jason, dear Jason. Thoughts of him heaped coals of guilt on her head. She should be thinking of their wedding, not of an unwanted attraction to a chance-met man. She felt the envelope’s lack of heft and tried to focus on it, on Jason, on home. On any place, really, other than the interior of that snazzy car now navigating Perugia’s spiderweb of streets.

  She set the letter on the bedside table and changed out of her drink-stained blouse and into her robe. Filling the basin with water, she dabbed soap on the spot and dropped it in to soak.

  All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and read a book. Perhaps dream a little. Only, there was the letter.

  “Fine.” Her sigh lingered as she tore open the envelope and began to read.

  By the time Jason had described his mother’s trip to the doctor, all she could do was blow out a puff of frustration as she remembered Mrs. Whittaker’s complaints of agony from a ruptured disc mere hours before the older woman had crouched down to count the silver pieces in a corner cupboard, her “twenty-nine” chortling into “thirty” as she pulled a fluted bowl onto her lap. How different from Auntie Luze’s silence with only a pinched look and indrawn breath to show her pain when she moved the wrong way.