Eternity Skye
Page 33
Skye remained perfectly still. Sal’s words echoed in her mind. Seventeen men found a reason to die, while I had not one reason to live. Her mind raced back to the feel of his body close to hers, to his hand around her waist as she lay with him on the bed, crying after the Morrow Awards, the story of Savorno, and Sal’s soft lips on hers, and the way he looked up at her on the balcony when he rested from his toils in the garden.
Dr. Mehminger stared at Skye, waiting for her to nod at him to respond. Skye remained fixated on the blue space behind him. The ruins of the Colosseum flashed behind her eyes. The way Sal sat in the Emperor’s viewing area, his hands crossed over his lap, gazing at the decrepit stone around him.
“By all means,” Senator Clarion continued. “By all means, we are to protect our nation from these attacks. I know this invasion of privacy, these denials of civil liberties we are used to; and when I say we I am referring to Americans, make everyone uncomfortable. Most people suspected of terrorism should not be privy to the rights we as Americans enjoy. We are behooved as elected officials to protect this country at all costs, and frankly if that means listening in on a few phone calls, so be it. Anyone without a guilty conscience shouldn’t mind. We all want to enjoy our lives, take care of our homes and families, and simply be without worry of being attacked at our own place of work, or in the American city we reside in or choose to visit.”
“Is reelection coming up, Senator Clarion? That was a wonderfully biased campaign speech,” Dr. Mehminger smirked.
Edie twirled her fingers frantically at Skye, signaling the last seconds on air. The darkened shadows of the cameramen and crew remained perfectly still, black statues hovering in the half light. “We will continue this discussion tomorrow,” said Skye. “Thank you for joining us this evening on From Tragedy to Triumph, where, in the wake of the September Eleventh attacks, the definition of triumph is open to debate.” Skye paused again. A look of panic crept into Edie’s eyes. She pointed at the ticking timer above her head. Skye looked into the camera, speaking to millions of Americans as if she spoke to one scrutinizing, perfect friend. “I have only seconds left before I leave you, on the day after the one-year anniversary of perhaps the greatest turning point of our lifetimes,” said Skye. “I ask the questions, so that you may find answers to the grief and horror we all experienced when the attack on the World Trade Center occurred. I must admit, the answers may not be found for you here, on this show. Where they will be found is in the arms of those you care for, and in the memory of those you loved. They are answers you will look for, for the rest of your lives, when you reach out to others in honor of their memory. Please join us again tomorrow. Good night.”
The timer clicked down to zero, and lights flooded the studio. “I wish I had the opportunity to get a few more words in, Skye,” Dr. Mehminger grumbled.
“Thank you for being a guest. There will be plenty of opportunities for a rebuttal tomorrow,” Skye said. She turned to Senator Clarion and thanked her as well. Spinning on her heel, she ran out of the studio into her office and rummaged through her desk. She brought out the burlap satchel given to her by Adriana, the flower vendor.
Clarissa walked in. “Skye, I had the dress you’re wearing to Blaine Pfeiffer’s wedding steam cleaned and delivered to your room at The Plaza. The front desk manager welcomes you and is pleased to offer—”
“Thanks Clarissa. I’m sorry to cut you off but could you just send me an email?” Skye said as she maneuvered past her. Running down the hall, she pressed the arrow pointing down for the elevator, pacing back and forth until a bell announced the elevator car’s arrival. Skye rushed inside and rode to the ground floor.
The sky darkened into early evening. Skye jumped in front of a cab, her hands flailing over her head. The cab swerved to avoid her but came to a halt. The two cars behind it screeched to a stop as Skye quickly jumped inside.
She pressed her face to the window the entire twelve blocks it took to travel to the site of the former Twin Towers. She threw cash at the driver as she exited. Bulldozers and excavators busied about their work of shoveling debris.
Solemn crowds surrounded the site, of all ethnicities and racial backgrounds, some with their hands clasped in prayer, others simply watching the ongoing clean up, and some placing bundles of flowers near the fence separating a long raised platform from the construction zone.
Skye hopped the short distance down into the pit. A man with a hard hat called out to her as she set foot onto the deconstruction site.
“Hey! You can’t come in here.”
She swept up a handful of dust, pouring it in the satchel as the man in the hard hat broke into a jog toward her. Agile as a cat, she climbed out of the pit, her eyes darting around at the people around her, who gazed at her with an unspoken sense of understanding. The man in the hard hat shrugged his shoulders, resuming his work.
Tourists slowly filtered away as the sky darkened. Skye held her prize, the burlap satchel filled with the dust from the ruins of the World Trade Center, close to her heart. She propped herself on the ledge and watched as the floodlights switched on, enabling the construction workers to continue their around-the-clock clean-up duties. She felt the crowd of people behind her grow ever thinner. With a sigh, she turned to leave.
A few feet behind her, dressed as finely as a Marchese should, stood Sal Olivieri. He wore a light cream-colored overcoat, and a black fedora.
“Buona sera, Skye.”
“Buona sera, Sal. I have missed you.”
He stepped toward her, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I think I found my reason to live. And so have you, it seems.” He nodded at the burlap sack.
“Loss. Tragedy. What better reasons to rise again?” She cradled the burlap sack between her fists.
“Like the great Savorno. Now a fighter who is also a lady. The greatest lady.”
Skye threw her arms around his neck. “There’s nothing worth leaving each other for. We have that much in common.” She pulled back and stared at his hands. “What in the world happened to your thumbnail?”
He showed her how he had worn the edge of his thumbnail down with the nail on his index finger.
“The plane ride made me nervous.”
“Yet another thing we have in common.” She showed him her perfectly manicured fingers, save for the chewed skin surrounding her pinky. “This one’s hard to see on camera.”
She wrapped her hands into the crook of his arm, and they turned a corner down the very street where Gibbs passed away. Skye stopped, opening her mouth to speak. “What is it?” Sal asked.
She placed the burlap sack where Gibbs’ body had lain and dabbed her eyes with her sleeves. She touched Sal lightly on the chest. “Nothing. Nothing as important as being with you.”
“Who else can you spend the night crying to?”
“Or about. If I became used to being without you, I might’ve never cried again. I’m glad you found me.”
“Let us be clear from the beginning. Crying is allowed. Encouraged. An Italian man cannot resist a woman who cries.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Did you really give everything to the Signora?”
“No,” he laughed. “I have other homes, here and abroad. I suppose you like that.”
“It is nice,” she said.
“I do not like that at all. I want you to love me as a poor man, as you thought I was. It makes me feel… special.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “We’ll survive without your money. I make a fine living.”
“Absolutely not. I am a man of tradizione. I insist on taking care of you beautifully, in every way I can. In exchange for devotion. Besides that, you are free to do as you like.”
“You got it, Marchese Olivieri.”
“So, as they say in America, you got plans for tonight?”
“I’m going to a wedding,” she said, looking up into his face and smiling.
“We certainly are. May I kiss the bride?” Placing his hand on her waist,
he pulled her toward him, and kissed her deeply. In his arms, she felt whole and complete. She traded him kiss for kiss, coming up only for air. He crushed her body to him, lifting her into his arms and continuing to kiss her until they became aware of the late hour.
Skye and Sal smiled, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. He placed his arms around her shoulders, and they walked into the city night. They found comfort there, in the darkness, and in each other. Now in New York, in the aftermath of the greatest tragedy the city had ever seen, love would spring eternal, as in Rome. The light would shine again.
*The End*
About Liz Newman
Liz Newman writes contemporary, historical, paranormal, supernatural, and fantasy romance for adults and young adults.
Novels by Liz Newman have been published by Secret Cravings Publishing, the Romance Writers of America’s Choice for Publisher of The Year in 2012, as well as Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXstasy Books. Breathless Press, Lycaon Press, and Solstice Publishing.
Along with crafting novels, the art of Bellydance is a passion and joy for Liz, who appears under the stage name Lila. She is a professional Bellydancer who headlines at several restaurants in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is a Certified Bellydance Instructor who teaches the art of Bellydance to students of all levels and backgrounds in her hometown of Campbell, California. Liz is represented by Talent Plus, San Francisco’s most prestigious talent agency
Liz Newman earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Mass Communications with a concentration in Broadcast Journalism in 1997. She interned at KTVU Broadcasting Station in Oakland, California, and at KWOD 106.5 in Sacramento. Liz holds a Master of Arts in Clinical Psychology, and has provided counseling and guidance as a Mental Health Counselor to people of all ages. She has contributed to many texts created to assist teens with social and domestic issues. Liz practices as a Board Certified Coach and an image consultant specializing in relationship recovery, dating, and life transitions.
She resides in Silicon Valley with her four children and her cat, Zeus, and her French Bulldog puppy, Lola.
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