Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  “None at present.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The brow hiked, but he grinned. “You’re sorry for me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Then?” He extended his hand.

  “All right.” She shook it. It was large and warm. “But friends and no crossing over.”

  “Friends.”

  She sipped her water. He asked about Acie. She said they’d been having fun together. He said he was glad. She smiled like a fool. It was time to find an excuse and leave.

  “I need to go study. One of us wants to pass her exams.”

  That brought a laugh from his side of the table. “Save me a seat in class tomorrow?”

  “You’ll need it.” She stood. “Not to have a seat saved, but for you to get yourself to class and study.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She strolled through town on her way back to the convent. Once, she stopped to gaze at the yellow and black patterns in a dress-shop window. When she eased her focus, her own image reflected back at her. Was that a smile playing on her lips or a deer-in-the-headlights stare because she had initiated contact?

  She straightened her back, trying to walk tall and yet pass unnoticed. Only, no one her size went unnoticed in Italy.

  As if to prove her point, a group of teen boys whistled as they passed yards from her. One called out, “Ciao, bella. Che cavallina!”

  She did a quick translation. Had they actually called her a pony? A pony? She ducked down a side street, unwilling to work through the Italian idioms to figure out what exactly those boys had meant.

  Instead, she flipped her thoughts back to Tony and the fact that she had approached him. She, herself, none other.

  She must have been born without backbone. Or willpower. Or the ability to stick to resolutions.

  With no fear of the consequences?

  Obviously.

  But she’d seen him. Talked to him. Giggled. How could someone who made her giggle be a threat?

  She would not think of history’s deluded women, women seduced by a smile, by a kind word.

  He invited her to Siena, calling it Italy’s best-preserved medieval town. She agreed, and here they were, driving under a brilliant sun that lit colors and buoyed spirits.

  “I’ve wanted to make this trip,” she said. “I’d have had to rent another car, and you seem to have the only luxurious one in town.”

  “I’m grateful to have your company.”

  Her smile remained as they toured the Museum of the Opera and stopped for lunch at a restaurant called the Grotto Santa Caterina da Bagoga. “Don’t you love that name? Bagoga?”

  “I do.” He held open the door. “Will we like the food as well?”

  Who wouldn’t like the perfectly seasoned lentil soup with pheasant, the handmade pasta with a beef-pork mix in the sauce, the savory cheese tart with walnut cream?

  She moaned. “My palate will never recover. How, how will I go back home or ever cook for myself again?”

  “It would be fun to take a cooking class here, wouldn’t it?”

  “Actually, when I was researching my trip, I did discover a couple of gorgeous places near Firenze that offer courses. I thought of it.”

  “After you finish here?”

  “I could, actually. And wouldn’t that be fun? The problem is having too many options. I never thought I’d go anywhere, and now…?”

  “Now you can.” He grinned over his raised glass of wine.

  “So many choices. And too little time.”

  “What do you enjoy doing back home?”

  “You mean, like a hobby?” She thought of her little sailboat, tucked up in the back yard, waiting for her return. “I sail.”

  His eyes widened, and a slow smile stretched his lips. “You sail. Of course you sail.” His smile became a bark of laughter.

  “What?”

  “I keep a small Laser at our New York lake cottage.”

  “You’re kidding.” Now her grin matched his. “Mine’s a Sunfish. I sail it out to Cape Lookout.”

  “And that’s where?”

  “Can you picture the map of coastal North Carolina? You know how it hooks in on the north at Cape Hatteras.” She drew an outline in the air. “Well, if you go about halfway down, there’s another hook in the Outer Banks. That’s Cape Lookout.”

  “I bet it’s gorgeous. Sand and sea.”

  “It is. And we have wild ponies on Shackleford Banks, barrier islands that lie between Beaufort and the Cape. I can get right up to shore in my little boat.”

  “I’d love to go out with you.”

  “I normally have to sail alone. Jason would rather golf.”

  “Well, there you go. He can play golf, and we can go sailing.”

  She could imagine Tony on board, almost dwarfing the small boat, either at the helm or ducking under the boom and changing sides when they tacked. “I’ve never been to New York. What’s it like?”

  “Beautiful where I sail. The lake is big and tree-lined, with most of the houses set back from the shore. Some are vacation homes, and in the summer there are boats of all sorts out on the water. And in the fall, when the leaves change color, it’s an incredible sight.”

  “And yet you live in Jordan. Not much sailing there.”

  He sighed. “None at all. But I’ve been giving serious thought to changing jobs. Not only is there no sailing unless I drive all the way to the Red Sea, but it’s hot.”

  She hooted. “You didn’t just say that? Hot? What did you expect?”

  “I know. But the job offer was intriguing. It’s all part of the adventure, living other places.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So, on to another subject.” He retrieved an envelope from his blazer pocket. “I have your copies of the pictures from Assisi.” He spread them on an empty area of the table. “Good of you. Not so great of me.” His grimace was cute.

  “You’re smiling. That’s all that matters.”

  “I was having fun, but I’ve found that if I avoid mirrors and photos, I can imagine better things about this face of mine.”

  She’d begun to think him very attractive, but she wasn’t going to say so.

  Nothing unusual marred the rest of that day, no strange men, no spilled drinks. Tony played the role of friend and escort to perfection. The drive home gave her time for more questions.

  “Did you learn any more about your dead friend?”

  “No.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and his expression hardened. “The police continue with the line that Yusuf’s murderer was probably a thwarted thief who killed him accidentally, then got scared and took the body to the country to conceal it.”

  “In broad daylight?”

  “The officer’s response was a shrug and a ‘Beh!’ I believe that’s Italian for ‘Who knows or cares?’” He glanced quickly in her direction with lips quirked to one side.

  “I’m guessing your friend Yusuf didn’t live on a deserted street.”

  “Just off Via dei Priori.”

  “Which is always crowded.” There was no way a body could be hauled down that street without someone noticing. “So the murder had to happen away from his apartment. Either in a car or somewhere near a car.”

  “That’s my thinking.”

  “What about the other guy, the one you were talking to that day? The gunman. He must have a car or access to one.”

  “He seems to have left town.”

  She sure hoped so. “I don’t ever want to see that typecast face again. You’ll never convince me he isn’t behind all these deaths.”

  Tony’s fingers did a rat-a-tat-tat on the wheel. “That’s what I suspect, but as he’s gone, I doubt we’ll ever know.”

  “You’re certain he left?”

  “For now. If he comes back, we’ll deal with that then.”

  Having a gunman anywhere in the district added way too much adventure to her life and not the sort she wanted to pursue. She didn’t answer.
r />   Another quick glance her way. “So, how about a picnic at the lake tomorrow?”

  She hadn’t visited Lago Trasimeno yet, and a picnic? She barely hesitated. “Yes, please.”

  See, she told herself after he dropped her off, friendship with a man really could work.

  It wasn’t until she was in bed and turning out the light that she remembered she hadn’t mentioned Hilda’s new theory about the break-in. At moments like this, she regretted her own disconnected state that had kept her from asking for Tony’s cell phone number.

  It felt as if some force conspired to keep her in ignorance of what was going on, which would have been fine if she weren’t so intimately involved. Most of what she knew was merely supposition, and although Tony might not be able to provide other answers, she wanted him to consider the possibility of a Palestinian tie-in, as Hilda had suggested. Maybe he could ask around—once she remembered to tell him. She wrote herself a note so she wouldn’t forget and slipped it into her purse.

  Rain pelted the convent windows the next morning, depressing expectations for a day by the lake. But at exactly ten o’clock, an undaunted Tony arrived, armed with a big beach umbrella. “I’ve got two waterproof ponchos, a couple of blankets, and a basket of food packed by a friendly restaurateur.”

  She glanced from him to the downpour sloshing into the street. “We can’t go out in this.” She felt soggy just looking at it.

  “Why not? It’s a warm rain, there’s no lightning, so the worst that can happen is a little soaking. Besides, it’s slowing to a drizzle. It’ll probably stop by the time we get to the lake. Wear a hat and bring a change of clothes.”

  She must have been mad. But she dashed upstairs to gather her things.

  He held the big umbrella as he escorted her to the car. After stowing her bag on the back seat, he climbed in and rubbed the drips off his face with a towel. “Where’s the hat?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Doing you a lot of good.” He put the car in gear.

  “I thought you’d ordered blue skies.”

  The wipers slapped from side to side, sloshing raindrops off the glass. He swept a hand in their direction. “I was going to, until I decided this would be more fun.”

  “You think?”

  “We’ll have the beach to ourselves. We have great food, great company. What more could you want?”

  “No rain.”

  “Imagination, my girl, a little imagination.”

  The smile he turned her way held enough heat that she forgot the chill—and almost everything else—before Hilda’s words came to mind. “Remember I told you that one of the boarders thought a Libyan had broken in and entered my room by mistake?”

  “Yes.”

  “She found out he couldn’t have done it, so she wondered if maybe it could be tied to my knowing you, because you seem to be friends with all those Palestinians.”

  His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t be anywhere near you. You shouldn’t be seen with me.”

  “But you said that man is gone. Surely it’s safe now.”

  His sigh was long and deep. “I certainly hope so.”

  So did she. “Let’s just enjoy the day and worry about him later.”

  He gave her a quick smile. “I intend to.”

  Lago Trasimeno lay nestled in the middle of the mountains, today gray water surrounded by grayer hillsides, the only color relief a light brown sand and the bright red blanket Tony carried out to spread over a tarp under the large black umbrella. A few houses half-hid among trees on the slopes, but any inhabitants were snug indoors. Boats from Passignano sat tucked in the harbor, and mists shrouded the lake’s far reaches.

  While Tony set up camp, she watched from the car, enjoying the patter on the roof—and the car’s dry interior. When he called, she raced for cover, carrying one of the baskets of food and ducking under the umbrella.

  He uncorked a bottle of white Orvietto. “Wine?”

  She held out a hand to stop the flow. “That’s plenty, thanks.”

  He dug into the hamper and, with a flourish, served cheese, bread, prosciutto, and grapes. “There’s some fattening stuff for dessert, too.”

  “I’ve never picnicked like this, water in front and above.” She bit into a grape, juice squirting into and out of her mouth.

  He wiped his cheek where the grape juice had hit and licked his lips.

  “Sorry.”

  “Tastes good.”

  They ate in a comfortable silence, watching the rain drip off the umbrella, until Tony surprised her with a question. “Do you like sounds?” He paused, waiting, but she didn’t know how to answer. “Close your eyes and listen. The rain as it hits the umbrella, the taut nylon, then the water. Next, quieter now, as it meets the sand.”

  She stared at him. His eyes had the same intensity she’d seen in Jason’s right before he told her he had to go home or they’d both regret it. Her breath caught, and she looked away.

  “Close them. Listen.”

  Unable to do anything else, she obeyed.

  The rain plopped in the stillness between them. The tension grew but a different kind of tension, this one focused on sound, until each became distinct, visceral, as she pictured separate drops, separate textures.

  Opening her eyes, she slid out her hand and let the water trickle off her fingers. It created a small hole in the sand, filled the hole, drained, filled it again. As she controlled the flow, the drips rippled puddles and formed minute craters in the sand.

  A yearning rose in her, and she smiled shyly at him. He released a sigh, reached toward her, and then suddenly withdrew his hand.

  “We’d better get going,” he said, gathering their things.

  Her last thought was reprieve. Her first, she banished.

  The drive back to Perugia felt heavy, pregnant with emotions she didn’t understand. When he parked and walked around to open her door, he helped her out, paused, and then whispered something that sounded like “I’m sorry. I must.”

  And then his fingers traced her cheek, glanced over her lips, and she just stood there, mesmerized. The tingling in her skin felt like fire dancing around her. His head lowered, his lips followed the path of his fingers, and she tasted something akin to magic.

  For the very first time in her life.

  His lips finally eased their tormenting caresses. Hers felt bereft when he broke away.

  “Come,” he said, leading her to the convent door. He had to turn her so she’d enter when Monica opened the door. But he didn’t speak again. And neither did she.

  She lay in bed that night and remembered his touch, his fingertips brushing skin, his lips resting gently on hers, prodding them, releasing a moan in her. She was sure he’d heard it. Her breath quickened as she imagined his lips pressing and his tongue invading.

  “My God, what am I doing?”

  God didn’t answer.

  Tony had moved them beyond fun today, beyond laughter. He had touched a place deep within her as she’d listened to those sounds and watched the raindrops, a place she’d never known existed. She’d never even imagined that depth of sensory involvement just from listening.

  “Stop that,” she whispered to the dark. “You’re going home in a few months. Besides, you don’t even know him, not really.”

  But after that picnic, her heart disagreed. She felt as if she knew him better than she knew anyone. Jason had never, ever made her flesh—or her mind—yearn like this, had never asked her to hear or see or feel like this.

  She beat her fist on the pillow. “It doesn’t matter. I love Jason, and he loves me. He loves me.”

  As she lay there with her eyes closed, she remembered Acie’s dream, her prophetic dream of them on a blanket in the rain near the water. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she listened to the unquiet night. Amazing how much one could hear, as if the silence weren’t silent at all.

  22

  TONY

  Once again, he was holed up in
his room, checking his phone for messages. Nothing, nada, niente. He could have complained in another three languages, but that didn’t answer the question: Where was Paola?

  Her last instruction to stay alert and keep in touch meant about as much as Zif’s promise to get back to him as soon as evidence became available. Was this just bureaucratic ineptness, or was someone doing something somewhere, just not in his part of the world—or not to be shared at his pay grade? A security issue made the most sense, because even though headquarters was just an unnamed part of the big picture, it was Israeli, which meant those who ran it were among the best in the world. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

  He did not want to think about the convent intruder. And yet.

  He dropped into the chair in front of his computer, logged in, and wrote another note to Zif, telling him about the break-in and asking if he’d heard anything new from the person supposedly tailing Ibrahim/Kamal. Because if the man returned to Perugia, Tony had to protect more than his own sorry self.

  Picking up his water bottle, he leaned back in his desk chair, and his thoughts shifted from madmen to protecting Rina. There’d been that kiss.

  Which shouldn’t have happened, but it had felt so right, the action so imperative—in spite of her fiancé. Who, frankly, didn’t sound like much of a man to him. But being his father’s son, Tony considered the impediment real and hoped Rina would free herself before much more time had passed.

  Of course, he had a little freeing of his own to do. He bowed his head and begged for help from the Lord his parents had trusted. And then he dusted himself off—figuratively speaking—and paced his small room. Where his thoughts pinged from one subject to the next.

  It was so easy to forget the war that raged around him when he was with Rina. Sitting in class since that kiss had been torture, because she sat next to him and they couldn’t talk. Or touch.

  Not that he was allowed to repeat the touching he longed for even when they weren’t in school. But he could take her arm when they walked or lay his hand on the small of her back when ushering her into a restaurant.

  His computer beeped. That had been quick. He opened Zif’s note. Have nothing new re: Paola. Kamal’s tail reports no news of quarry. Starting to worry. More soon, I hope.