A Court Gesture

by Jenny Gardiner

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Take it at face value,” he said. “You can be the most confounding of women. You constantly send mixed signals, though of course, the overriding one is that of ice princess. So perhaps that would be perfect for you to have a royal wedding, maybe even atop a frozen glacier. In the Antarctic. Where you can rule over the empire of the frigid.”

  She stretched out a hand and slapped him across his face.

  He reflexively reached for his cheek, rubbing against the sharp sting. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

  “You,” she said. “It was decidedly for you. Calling me frigid. How dare you?”

  “Wait a short minute,” he said. “I never said anything about you being frigid. I happen to know for a fact, that when you put your mind to it, you’re anything but frigid. When I said empire of the frigid, I meant because you keep trying so damned hard to be so cold. At least to me. Which I can’t understand because I’m nothing but entirely hospitable to you.”

  She stood at a distance from him, simmering for a minute, knowing she was behaving a bit like a petulant child, yet somehow being incapable of reining in her temper when it came to him. Something about Luca just set her smoke alarms off.

  What she didn’t want to admit, even in the deep recesses of her mind, was that maybe those alarms were going off because where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and like it or not, the embers of desire for him were smoldering inside of her, much to her deep dismay.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In some alternate universe—where one could return physical insult with an equally physical and insulting insult—Luca would have loved to have thrown that exasperating woman over his knee and delivered a retaliatory spanking as if she were a two-year-old who’d run into heavy traffic and needed to be taught a lesson. It’s a good thing he wasn’t ever inclined toward physicality, even though perhaps a sharp smack on the ass was really what she craved. Maybe she was one of those chase-me-beat-me types who just challenged and challenged her adversaries until they counterattacked like it was some perverted sort of power play.

  He’d known that type before. There was a guy on his football team at boarding school who did that sort of thing. Would slide tackle at practice with the intent to hurt someone, jab a strategically placed elbow into a teammate’s kidney, or cleat a player’s thigh when he was down. Luckily in those circumstances, you could rally your team around you and they’d all put him in his place. But with this, Luca was merely left to scratch his head, mystified about how to handle Larkin.

  He kept going back to that spooked animal metaphor. You had to gentle them. So what type of gentling worked? He pulled out his phone, right there on the side of that busy boulevard, and Googled it. By then, Larkin had already returned to the plush confines of the car, and he wasn’t quite ready to occupy the same climate-controlled space as her. Not to mention be within arm’s reach of that powerful hand-slash-weapon of hers.

  “Horses, the saying goes,” he read from on an online horse-riding publication, “are scared of two things: things that move, and things that don’t.”

  Well, crap, that sure sounds just like her.

  “As a prey species, they’re genetically programmed to seek safety above all else: flee first, ask questions later. And if you happen to leave a horseshoe imprint on someone’s forehead in the process, well, so be it.”

  He rubbed his sore cheek. Horseshoe imprint indeed.

  He read on:

  “Ultimately, if you desensitize your spooky horse with as many stimuli as possible, you’ll be delighted with the results. And the fact that you’re spending all that time with your horse and building the bonds of trust and communication between the two of you is part of what makes these strategies work.”

  The piece went on to say your mission is accomplished when that horse is calmed: with visibly relaxing muscles, lowering of the head, releasing of a breath, and finally, showing interest in that very thing that had scared them.

  Luca resolved that all Larkin—that adorable yet very spooked filly—needed was a little exposure therapy. He’d just give her enough time with that very thing that scared her—him, evidently. Sooner or later she’d warm up to him once she learned he wasn’t going to hurt her. So that’s all he had to do: reassure her that he wasn’t a rattlesnake poised to strike and pierce her flesh with his deadly venom.

  Good luck on that one.

  ~*~

  With great trepidation, Luca got back into the car from the other side to avoid having to climb over her. While he’d have loved some physical contact with the woman, he’d have to put that on the back burner till he could earn her meager trust. Although, damn, it’s not as if he ought not to have earned that a thousandfold already.

  “Well,” he said, breaking the ice with the ice queen herself, “that was fun.”

  He could practically see steam coming from her ears, she was so ticked off. But he also sensed she felt remorse when she glanced at him rather sheepishly.

  Her lips were closed so tightly you could barely tell there was even a mouth there. Her nose was scrunched up. He almost thought he’d seen her drag a hoof through the dirt, preparing to attack. That is, if she were a bull.

  “Want to talk about that at all?”

  “Look,” she said. “Maybe that was a bit of an overreaction.”

  He arched his brow. A moment of honest introspection. This showed promise. “Oh?” He rubbed his cheek for emphasis.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I’ve never struck someone in my life. It’s just that, well, geez, I don’t know. Something about you stirs up something in me—”

  “That makes you want to smack me upside my head,” he said with a nod. “I gotcha. I piss you off so much that you want to exact revenge on me.” He no sooner said it than realized this was no way to gentle his spooked horse.

  “No! I don’t want to smack anyone!”

  Luca backpedaled. Instead, he reached out and closed his hand around hers, softly stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. It was all he could come up with, and hey, it was, after all, exposing her to him. Who knew? Maybe it could help. At first, she flinched, but soon her hand relaxed within his grasp, and he could visibly see her shoulders settling down.

  “How about we forget that ever happened and continue with our tour?”

  She blushed. Clearly, this episode was not a bright shining moment for her either. She didn’t speak, though. Instead, she just nodded her head.

  They agreed to take a quick peek inside the cathedral before heading on to the palace. Maybe with a few calming minutes amidst the sanctity and solitude of the church, they could settle their tensions down.

  They crossed the busy boulevard and climbed the steps, and Luca pulled open the imposing wooden doors of the towering medieval Gothic structure so that she could lead the way.

  The quiet and darkness of the grand cathedral enveloped them. Between the dim pendant lighting and the warm glow of the flickering lights of thousands of prayer candles, the atmosphere lent a most soothing of sensations to the visitors.

  “I’m not going to bore you with architectural details and information about columns, arches, vaulted domes, or flying buttresses because, frankly, I don’t know a lot about them,” Luca said. “As much as skilled architects deserve the credit for this gorgeous structure, I’m sorely lacking in adequate information on any of that. So instead, I thought we could just ramble around and soak the place in. There is beautiful artwork everywhere, so take your time.”

  He let Larkin wander off on her own while he sat in a pew, alone with his thoughts. The place was mostly empty but for one or two tourists. Off to the side in the confessional booths, he could hear the muffled voices of a priest and parishioner talking over whatever transgressions he or she was confessing to.

  Luca must not have realized how anxious the whole episode had made him, because before he knew it, he’d drifted off to sleep, and finally, calm desc
ended on his stressed-out body.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Larkin kept replaying that awful scene over and over again in her head. It made her crazy, whatever it was that inspired her temper to flare when in his midst. Never in her life had she a) hit someone and b) been driven to such fits of ire. She felt absolutely horrible about it, and then, crazily, found it super uncomfortable to just own up to it and apologize without feeling totally mortified and out of control for having confessed to being out of control.

  Note to self: might want to figure out what it is about you that needs to control the situation so badly.

  She was grateful for the chance to go off on her own and wander through the cathedral, stopping to admire the craftsmanship throughout and reading about the portraits and statuary and massive carvings of Christ on the crucifix. As far as cathedrals went, this one ranked up there with some of the most spectacular she’d seen, and having been through Europe, she’d seen a few. It wasn’t Saint Peter’s Basilica, but then again, nothing was that grandiose. Well, maybe Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. That place was none too shabby. She couldn’t help but reflect on how they just didn’t build things like they used to.

  As she wandered, she felt a sense of calm descend upon her, and it felt good. Just having this little buffer of peace and quiet and beauty helped to restore Larkin the Fierce to Larkin the Lamb. She had to admit, she preferred the lamb version of herself a bit more than that fire-breathing beast she became with Luca. Clearly, she just needed to hasten through this weekend and get back to Rome and then all would be fine and she’d return to her normal, subdued Luca-free existence. All good. In the meantime, she needed to get a grip and stop being such a bitch.

  She looked at her watch and realized she’d been there for over forty minutes and assumed Luca was cooling his heels waiting on her. Discreetly, so no one would know what she was doing, because, God, that would be so embarrassing, she decided to sort of slowly stroll down the center aisle of the cathedral. She recalled learning it was called a nave long ago in Sunday school. And she kind of pretended she was in a bespoke hand-embroidered ivory satin gown with thousands of pearls sewn into the bodice and a Basque-lace veil that draped over her virginal—well, maybe not exactly—face. And she was trailing a fifty-foot train that was held aloft by a cadre of adorable nieces in their coordinating ivory taffeta gowns with their white patent leather shoes clicking quietly on the stone floor.

  As she approached the altar, she imagined catching her first glimpse of her future husband, so handsome in his red formal military uniform with a sword dangling from his waist (maybe when she got up to him, she’d whisper in his ear, “is that a sword you got there or are you just happy to see me?” because they’d have that kind of relationship, where they joked and laughed and had such fun). She’d probably have a hard time not kissing him, so taken would she be by the handsome figure he cut, there, waiting with loving eyes for his bride. And she’d look up to see the archbishop, or someone equally important—maybe even the Pope! Finally, she’d get her day with that man. Though no doubt Piers would make her write about it, the spoilsport.

  Larkin heard mumblings nearby and turned to see no one. It appeared that Luca had nodded off, which was fine by her. Gave her an added buffer from the man for a few more minutes. Obviously at some point, she’d have to rouse him if he didn’t wake on his own, but for now, she was content to take in the majesty of the place.

  She followed the muffled sounds of a man’s voice and finally arrived at what looked like a series of wooden wardrobes, straight out of one of her favorite childhood novels, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Only these weren’t wardrobes but rather confessionals, cabine di confessione, and were works of art created by master craftsmen with scenes of the life of Christ carved into them. They sure didn’t make them like this back home at her church.

  It had been so many years since she’d ventured into a confessional, she wondered if she’d melt into a puddle if she stepped foot in one, sort of like the Wicked Witch when water was thrown on her. She also wondered what you actually say to the priest. At this point, it would take days, maybe even weeks, to get it all off her chest. No doubt she’d sinned her ass off over the past decade or so. As she stood there admiring the handiwork of the beautiful wood carvings, the purple curtain parted and whoever was laying it out there for the priest must’ve finished up with his Hail Marys and was heading home, soul cleansed. He gave her a clipped nod and held the curtain for her, assuming she’d been waiting in line.

  For a minute, she stood there, frozen in place, her hand on the edge of the purple privacy curtain, debating her next move. She wasn’t sure what motivated her. As her mother was wont to say, maybe it was the spirit that moved her, but for some reason she decided this made sense and squeezed into the confining space, drawing the curtain across to assure at least Luca wouldn’t eavesdrop. He’d never know she was even in there. She no sooner knelt down than she worried she’d stepped into a confessional with a priest who didn’t speak English. A hell of a lot of good it would do to confess to someone who only spoke Italian or French, two languages commonly spoken in Monaforte (according to her Wikipedia search on the place).

  She cleared her throat, forgetting the protocol. Amazing she could forget it because those nuns made damned good and sure she knew what she was doing before she went through the official sacrament at the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. And she’d given up a lot of Saturday mornings of cartoons to learn all of this stuff because someone thought it was a great idea to make Sunday school a Saturday thing, at o’dark thirty no less, when any self-respecting kid should have been either sound asleep or slopping down a second bowl of Count Chocula cereal with milk while checking out what Scooby Doo and the gang were up to.

  She probed the recesses of her brain, trying to remember.

  The priest opened up the little window, the one with the metal screen, so neither confessor nor confessee could see each other. She could only see a dim light and a shadowy figure on the other side of the wooden wall. For all she knew it was the janitor, who’d snuck in there to take a nap.

  “Uh, um, er, uh. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began in a hushed whisper, not wanting anyone—maybe even the priest—to hear her owning up to her behavior. “It has been,” crap, she started trying to compute in her head how many days it was because that’s how she learned to say it, like “It’s been ten days since I last confessed.” But she was past day counting (even month counting) at this point. “It’s been quite a while,” she said with a whistle, figuring that would run the gamut.

  “Go ahead, my child,” he said in a gentle voice.

  “Okay, I’m going to be honest with you,” she said. “I’ve sort of lapsed on this whole thing. I mean I like to visit beautiful churches when I travel. They’re remarkable testaments to faith and the lengths to which people will go to honor God or whoever their higher spirit is. So it’s not like I haven’t stepped foot in church. I do all the time. But I haven’t been attending church, per se. I just wanted you to know that.”

  He just grunted a little and said, “Very well. Continue.”

  “So I guess I’ve been feeling sort of bad lately because I don’t know what’s come over me but I’ve realized I’ve been kind of judgmental and not very nice when other people have been so lovely to me. There’s Taylor, and God, trust me, that woman is the most beautiful person on the planet. And it took me so much to finally accept that she could also be a really kind person on top of being impossibly beautiful (still trying to forgive her for that. Just joking.)

  “Then there’s Luca. You might have heard of him. He’s kind of a big name in these parts,” she said, regretting instantly that she name-dropped. Who name-drops with a priest?

  “I mean, he’s a really nice guy. And he’s been lovely to me, really he has. Yet for some reason, I struggle to reciprocate it. And I can’t figure out why. The only thing that sort of wants to creep into the recesses of my brain is that either I have s
ome sort of mental disorder, and I hope like hell that’s not the problem. Oh, wait. I’m so sorry. That word. Goodness. I apologize. I’m so sorry about that. I’ll try to remember to put a dollar in the swear jar! Okay, where was I? I hope like heck that isn’t the problem. But the only thing I can imagine besides that is maybe I’m repressing feelings for him. But that’s impossible. Why would I even have feelings for him? And if I did, then why would I repress feelings for him? Well, I’ll tell you why: because I’m scared. Scared shitless. Oh, crap. I did it again. Sir. Father. Father, sir. That was so rude of me. See, I’m really terrible at this.” She made a mental note to add another dollar to the swear jar. Cussing out a priest. Geez!

  Larkin wondered if she might be hyperventilating. It was kind of stuffy inside of that cabine di confessione. And she kept thinking of the tight confines of the wooden box, and the only other wooden boxes she could think of that were life-sized were coffins, and well, upon further consideration, this thing wasn’t much different from a coffin. She could never be a priest and be stuck in this thing for hours. She wondered if they drank in there, just to calm their nerves. Or to escape the boredom. Maybe they were on their smartphones in that little coffin room, the whole time someone is confessing to a murder or adultery or some other lewd and lascivious act. Perhaps Father Patrick is on the other side of the darkened screen trying to beat his high score at Angry Birds.

  Except then the priest would have to go to confession with another priest to confess to that one, which must be a sin, even if not one of the seven deadly ones. Did priests confess to other priests? And if so, did they even bother entering the coffin box? Or rather, did they just chat it up over eggs and toast, absolve each other, and move on to the front page of the newspaper?

  The priest cleared his throat again. She wanted to offer him a throat lozenge, but she didn’t have one on her anyhow. Her knees were starting to ache. Whose idea was it to have to kneel in this thing? A comfy recliner would be so much better.