Carly thought about walking around to look for him, but that bordered on stalker behavior, and she didn’t want to advertise the fact she was seeking him out in the wee hours of the night, even though it was purely work-related.
Carly brought out her purse and wrote on the back of a grocery receipt. Need your help with Italian translation asap. Carly Davis, Room three fifty-two. There. That sounded professional.
She slipped the paper under the door. Now she could go back to her room and look up key phrases on her phone and start memorizing right away. Michelangelo could help with pronunciation.
Carly took the elevator back to her room. Disappointment settled over her and she tried to push away her illogical feelings. Was it because he couldn’t help her right away? Or was she really so hung up over a tour guide she’d barely met? If it was the latter, then she had to slap some sense into herself. She needed him for her gig and that was it. End of story. No flirting allowed.
The door to her and Alaina’s room stood ajar, with golden light glowing into the hallway. Panic jolted through her. Alaina would never leave the door open with all of her expensive jewelry and perfume. Had someone broken in?
A thud reverberated from inside. Was it luggage hitting the floor, or a body hitting the wall? What if the intruders were attacking Alaina?
She reached for her phone to call nine-one-one. Then she remembered they were in Italy, and she had no idea who to call. By the time she figured it out, Alaina would be dead.
Carly held her purse as a weapon and her oboe case as a shield. She whirled around the corner into the room.
Alaina leaned against the wall, kissing a man. She wore see-through undies, which didn’t leave much to the imagination.
Carly blushed with embarrassment and looked away immediately. ‘Holy Mary, mother of Victoria’s Secret! Sorry to intrude.’
Alaina pulled back, and Carly’s stomach dropped to ground level.
‘Michelangelo?’ What a hopeless flirt. Had he seduced every naïve woman on that tour bus? She felt so utterly stupid.
‘My apologies.’ He looked more shocked than she was. Didn’t think both women you hit on had the same room, you jerk?
Carly glanced back to Alaina, who leaned against the wall with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘We were just discussing the departure time for the tour tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure.’ Carly turned back toward the door. ‘I can find somewhere else to sleep if you two want to be alone.’ There was no way the three of them would be having a slumber party.
Michelangelo pushed by both of them. ‘No, there’s no need. I was just leaving.’ He glanced at Carly one more time, his eyes looking innocently vulnerable considering the circumstances. ‘I’m sorry, Ms. Davis.’
Carly gawked with nothing to say as he left. A second after he was gone, she thought of all the wittiest responses in the world.
‘You scared him away.’ Alaina pouted. ‘We were having such a good time.’
‘You could have let me know so I didn’t walk into the most awkward moment of my life.’
‘It was a surprise, dear. After the embarrassment of our aria, I needed something to cheer me up.’
Carly sighed, still reeling from the second embarrassment of the day. ‘And I didn’t?’
‘Wait a sec.’ Alaina crossed the room and narrowed her eyes at Carly. ‘Are you jealous?’
‘Hardly.’ Carly picked up her phone as an excuse not to meet her gaze. She didn’t want to see so much of Alaina’s skin anyway.
Alaina put both hands on her hips. ‘How do I know you don’t want him for yourself?’
Carly collapsed on the bed wondering if she could learn Italian from Wikipedia and Google. She had a gig to prepare for. The last thing she needed was idle distractions. What a total waste of thought and time.
‘Believe me, I don’t.’ She gave Alaina a thumbs-up. ‘He’s all yours.’
Chapter Eight
Details
‘So the Pope and a lawyer reach the gate to heaven.’ Al leaned over expectantly at Carly as Edda drove the tour bus toward St. Peter’s Square. Still ruffled by the memory of a mostly naked Alaina and her red lipstick smudged on Michelangelo’s lips, Carly didn’t have the willpower to fight him off.
‘And?’ She hoped this wasn’t a dirty joke.
Al grinned. ‘So, all these saints, angels, and other holy people flock around the lawyer. They carry him on their shoulders and cheer. The Pope doesn’t get the time of day.’
Carly bit her lip. I have no idea where this is going, but it can’t be good. ‘Go on.’
A few of the violinists turned around in their seats with eyebrows raised. Al nodded to them and raised his voice. ‘So the Pope is pretty disappointed—I mean, I’d be disappointed—working for God my whole life just to be short-changed in the end. That’s like me meeting some Low Brass God and having him show more interest in a piccolo player! Anyways, St. Peter comes down and tells him not to worry.’
‘Why?’ Carly felt as though she was walking into a trap, but anything was better than thinking about Alaina’s black lingerie.
‘St. Peter explains they get popes in there all the time, but it’s not every day they get a lawyer!’ He slapped his knee. ‘Ba dum dum.’
‘Hearty har har.’ Carly shook her head but smiled despite herself. The older violin ladies chuckled.
Mike, Al’s brass buddy and suspected drinking partner clapped from the front of the bus. ‘Tell us another one, Al.’
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Carly shouted. Her eyes scanned the bus, landing on Michelangelo. Dark circles edged his gorgeous eyes as he sat next to Alaina Chatterbox. He gave Carly a longing, melancholy look, as if they were lovers having a quarrel. She flicked her eyes up in annoyance and turned to the windows.
The dome of the basilica stood in the center, surrounded by a semicircle of thick columns on either side. Within stood an obelisk, like a giant sundial. The grand scale dwarfed all of the tourists in the square. Even if Carly had brought her camera, she wouldn’t have been able to capture the full effect in one complete shot.
‘It’s amazing,’ she whispered under her breath to no one in particular.
Michelangelo’s voice boomed on the intercom. ‘Welcome to St. Peter’s Basilica, a late Renaissance church designed by…’, he glanced down at his hand, ‘Donato Bramante, Carlo Maderno, and Gian Lorenzo Bernini and, of course, Michelangelo—not meaning myself, by the way.’
While a few members of the orchestra chuckled, Alaina let out the biggest laugh Carly had ever heard. Must be those opera-singer lungs.
Michelangelo cleared his throat and adjusted his collar, as if the heat had risen on the bus. ‘St. Peter’s is the most renowned work of Renaissance architecture and one of the largest churches in the world.’ He shut off the intercom.
Carly thought he’d go into more detail. It was arguably the most famous place in all of Italy, and maybe even in the world.
That’s odd. She kind of wanted to know more about it, not having had the time to look it up back in Boston. Maybe he’d say more during the tour.
As she got off the bus, she made sure not to look into Michelangelo’s eyes. They’d had enough awkward moments, and she bet every time he looked at her he thought of how she’d interrupted his kiss with Alaina. Not the most favorable memory to keep dredging up. Thankfully, Bertha needed extra help getting her purse from the overhead, so he was too busy to notice Carly sneaking by.
The Italian summer air warmed Carly in a bath of sunlight as she walked across the square. A sudden urge to spread her arms and whirl around amidst all of the majesty overcame her, reminding her there was more to life than orchestra seats and gigs. The sheer size stole her breath away, making her feel like a speck in the middle of a giant universe.
Someone grabbed Carly’s arm and she whirled around. ‘Got another joke for me, Al?’
Michelangelo stood beside her. At the mention of Al’s name he shifted uncomfortably. ‘I need to speak with you.’ In
his hands he held a small receipt.
The note! She’d forgotten all about it. ‘Oh that. Never mind, I’ve found another teacher.’ Yeah, Google and Speak Italian dot com.
Michelangelo scratched his brow as if what he was about to say was difficult. ‘First of all, I’m sorry about last night.’
Great. The one subject she didn’t want to talk about. Carly waved him off. ‘You can kiss whomever you want. Why should I care? I should be apologizing for interrupting.’
She walked toward the fountain in the middle of the square, and he followed her, wincing at her words. ‘It was never my intention to kiss Alaina.’
‘Already told you—none of my business. Go ahead and date who you want.’ Carly opened her phone to pretend to take a picture, but he grabbed her arm.
‘Why do you need an Italian translator?’
She wiggled out of his grip. ‘No reason. Just curious. That’s all.’
‘Your note made it sound fairly important.’
Carly fumbled with the camera function on her phone. She was always too busy to use it, so she had no idea how to quickly snap a picture. ‘I’m a little overly dramatic at times.’
She swallowed down her lie like a rock in her throat. That didn’t sound like her at all. Where was Al and his pope jokes when she needed him? Turning to the fountain, she hoped Michelangelo would just go away.
‘I hope you’re not planning on sneaking off during your stay.’ His voice dropped to a velvety low, suspicious tone, and Carly held her breath.
What? Was he now their chaperone as well? She turned back toward him and narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you have a tour to be giving?’
‘I’m just warning you, not everyone speaks English, and if you don’t know the city, you could end up in a shady part of town. I can’t have something bad happen on one of my tours.’
‘I can assure you I can take care of myself. Just because I’m a classical oboist doesn’t mean I’m not a ninja in disguise.’
Self-satisfied with her clever retort, Carly turned to walk away.
Michelangelo grabbed her arm. He leaned toward her, and his voice fell to a whisper. ‘Either I assign a luggage boy to watch your room and stop you from sneaking off, or I help you with what you need and turn my back. Either way, your choice.’
Carly froze. Could she trust him not to tell Ms. Maxhammer? No. She couldn’t even trust him to keep his lips in his own hotel room.
A playful sparkle returned to his eyes. ‘What if you ask where the concert is and someone says Vada dritto! E poi giri a destra.’
He spoke so fast, it all sounded like one big slurred word. ‘Huh?’
He crossed his arms. ‘My point exactly.’
Carly fidgeted with her purse strap. Maybe he chose a really strange saying just to prove his point. ‘So what does it mean?’
‘Go straight, then turn right.’
‘Oh.’
Michelangelo teased her with a raised eyebrow. She had to admit he looked good in his navy button-down shirt and easy-going jeans that hung in just the right places. ‘Or what if they ask come si chiama?’
She put her hands on her hips. Two could play this game. She’d learned a few things last night on her phone. ‘Non sono affari tuoi!’
He grinned. ‘Your name is none of my business?’
Whoops. Carly’s face fell. ‘I thought you were asking where I lived.’
He tossed his head back, his luscious waves of hair falling around his shoulders. ‘There’s no hope.’
What if Michelangelo was right? She didn’t want to make a fool of herself at one of Dino’s gigs—his first gig in Italy. He trusted her to do a good job, and how could she do her best if she had no idea what they were saying? She might even piss someone off in the process.
She sighed. ‘Fine. It’s a gig at the Cesari Amento, tomorrow night at 7 p.m. I need to learn as much Italian as I can between now and then.’
His beautiful eyes widened. ‘Tomorrow night?’
‘Can you help me or not?’
Michelangelo pursed his lips as if considering. ‘I can. Meet me for lunch around noon at Caffè Picasso on Via Crescenzio.’
He turned to leave and she grabbed his arm. ‘Why can’t we start right now?’
The side of his lips curled as he gestured toward the square. ‘Like you said, signorina, I have a tour to give.’
*****
Michelangelo rounded up all of the orchestra members with a boundless sense of relief. He’d tossed and turned all night, trying to figure out a way to get Carly to forgive him. Even though his logical mind told him he’d never see her again after two weeks, he couldn’t have her thinking he was some Italian womanizer romancing all the young ladies on his tours.
Not only had he seemingly led her on with his flirting, but then she’d found him with her roommate on the same night she’d been devastated by her performance in the solo. What kind of an awful tour guide does that?
He had to make it up to her, and helping her learn Italian for her gig was the ideal way. This was beyond what Ms. Maxhammer had said about making sure each orchestra member was comfortable. This was about reinstating his honor.
Michelangelo led the orchestra to the steps of the basilica and into the grand cathedral. Thinking about Carly had kept his mind off his tour job, and he’d left most of his notecards back at the hotel. He had no idea what he was going to say.
Every one of them stared wide-eyed, awed by the ornate artistry and high ceilings. Even Michelangelo felt a sense of reverent peace, stealing his breath away as he passed through the high arches. He hadn’t visited since a field trip in upper secondary school. Since the last time he went, the church had seemed to grow vaster.
Michelangelo brought the group to a quiet alcove and thought back to what he’d learned in università.
‘Welcome to St. Peter’s Basilica. Legend has it St. Peter, one of the twelve apostles of Jesus, was buried right below the altar.’
Darin, the son of one of the violinists, raised his hand. He did the whole Gothic rocker look, with two earrings in his upper ear. ‘When was this built?’
Ummmm, a long time ago. Michelangelo thought back to his studies. ‘There has been a church at this site since the fourth century.’
‘Yeah, dude, but when was this place built?’ His blue-haired sister, Trixie, didn’t even bother to raise her hand. Crossing her arms over her emo band t-shirt, she chewed a big wad of gum and blew a bubble. An iPod ear bud hung from one ear.
Impetuous, rude Americans.
He considered ignoring the question, but Ms. Maxhammer looked on with interest.
Michelangelo scratched his head. Who kept track of these things? ‘In the Renaissance, of course. Fifteen hundred and…twenty…six-ish.’ His voice trailed off and he coughed. Smoother than gelato, right. If only his friends could see him now. Pandering to Americans just to buy one more month’s rent.
All eyes stayed on him, so he waved his arm at the ceiling. The place could speak for itself. ‘You can see the Renaissance architecture is typical of that time. Go ahead, take a walk around and see for yourself.’
The group dispersed and he sighed with relief.
A woman in her forties approached him. She wore a blouse buttoned right to the top, with her dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. He might have seen her playing the cello somewhere in the back but he couldn’t exactly remember because his eyes had been focused on Carly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘You said this cathedral was built in the fifteen hundred and twenties, but I distinctly remember learning in a documentary on the History Channel they started building in April of fifteen hundred and six.’ She challenged him with a haughty glare in her eyes.
Rude American number two. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.
Michelangelo crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. ‘Yes, well, some speculate the original architects began even before that, in fifteen hundred and three in a secret society, in the original underground church. Th
ey called themselves…the Manifesto.’
Her eyes widened, and he resisted the urge to smile. ‘The Brotherhood of the Manifesto claimed St. Peter whispered to them himself in spirit form—giving them the dimensions to represent a cruciform shape. Tell that to the History Channel.’
She adjusted her skinny, rimmed glasses. ‘They said nothing about it.’
He held up a finger like he’d checkmated them in a chess game. ‘Nor would they.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Because it’s secret.’ Argue that.
She opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a finger. ‘Excuse me. I have to check on the others outside.’
Michelangelo exited the Basilica and breathed in the fresh air. He collapsed on the first step. How am I ever going to get through the day? He dug out his phone and did a Google search on the Basilica. The cellist had been correct. They did start to build in fifteen hundred and six then finished in sixteen twenty six. Why couldn’t he remember?
Because you thought you’d ruined your chances with Carly. That’s why.
Michelangelo rubbed his temples. He had to focus on what was really important; doing a great job to get the paycheck that would buy his vineyard and everyone who lived and worked on it more time. Everything else was secondary. As much as he wanted to make things right with Carly, he had to make sure he was still performing at his best.
He brought up the Wikipedia article on the Basilica, and started memorizing all the facts.
One of four Papal Basilicas or Major Basilicas of Rome.
The church covers an area of two point three hectares, or five point seven acres.
A scream interrupted his thoughts.
Michelangelo glanced up from his phone.
Bertha and Trudy stood at the bottom of the steps. Bertha pointed to a skinny man in a torn black leather coat running between the columns with a woman’s white purse. ‘Thief!’
Anger welled up inside him as he threw himself down the stairs. Sweet little old Bertha, who’d told him to call her Bert and said he’d be a treat for the ladies had been victimized. Hadn’t he heard her husband had passed away? What if she had an irreplaceable picture of him in her purse?
An American Girl in Italy Page 6