Hearts at the Holy See

by Hearts at the Holy See [Passport to Romance] (retail) (epub)

  Not that Amalie could fault Casey for that. Weren’t she and Giovanni doing exactly the same thing? And hadn’t it worked? Leo and Casey had made up, after all.

  She glanced at Giovanni and found his gaze centered on her mouth. Had he been watching her eat? Imagining feeding her the way Leo fed Casey?

  Bending her head to hide the blush she was sure spread across her face, she considered what it meant to her if Giovanni had been watching her. Eating could be an intimate thing. Watching someone closely—also intimate. And she might have flared up, let her fear build walls to keep him out. But she didn’t want to.

  The next time she looked up, she met his gaze and let it last. A smile played over his face, bringing out his dimples in waves like leaf shadows dancing across the wall.

  And panic hit her, mowed her down, choked on the food in her mouth. What happened to that spurt of confidence? What happened to the trust she’d promised to have in both God and Giovanni? It had collapsed under the weight of fear once again.

  She had no business leading on anyone when she couldn’t keep her resolve.

  Swallowing at last, she put her plate on the hotel desk. Maybe she couldn’t do this. But if not, was she being fair to Giovanni?

  Of course not.

  Maybe she ought to just tell him she couldn’t make up her mind.

  But if she did that, he might abandon her for someone better. Did she want to risk that?

  She closed her eyes and longed to be able to run somewhere safe—somewhere she could figure herself out. Not that it had worked the last few times she’d tried. Did she give in to fear, or give in to love? And how did she know which was the truth?

  “Amalie, help me up. I need to use the bathroom.” Casey grabbed her arm and dragged her out of her worries for a moment. Amalie put her arm around Casey to help, but after a few seconds, Casey shrugged her off. “Look at that. I can put my weight on it. Well, maybe not all my weight—” she stumbled over the bathroom threshold, “but more than earlier. It must not be as bad as I thought.”

  “The elastic is helping,” Amalie called through the door.

  “And the pain relievers.”

  “That’s great.” Leo stood, his face shining. “Will you try to go out tomorrow?”

  “She’d better not,” Amalie said. “At least for a couple days, don’t you think? Maybe we can meet you guys somewhere for dinner tomorrow?”

  “In the café downstairs and maybe not tomorrow,” Casey said as she emerged from the bathroom. “It doesn’t feel that great anymore.”

  Amalie looked up, her chest tight. “Casey, our tickets for Mass with the Pope.”

  Casey groaned. “Are for tomorrow. Hand me my purse.” When Leo did, Casey dug in it for a moment then handed a few bits of cardstock to Amalie. “You guys will have to take her.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of going on my own.”

  “We all know that,” Giovanni said.

  Her chin came up. “All right, then—”

  “But I told you before. I always try to make time to get to Mass while I’m here. And Mass with the Pope? Even better.”

  She looked down then up at him. She didn’t want to disappoint him more than she already had. If she had. If he really liked her as much as she hoped. She shuddered, trying to fight off the insecurity and uncertainty, and oddly enough, guilt. “I—All right. I really don’t want to miss this.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Casey leaned her head against her cousin’s shoulder. “Didn’t you tell me this was the only thing on your bucket list?”

  Leo poked Giovanni. “Bucket list?” he mouthed.

  “A list of things she wants to do before she dies.” Giovanni kept his voice low.

  Eyes wide, Leo stared at Amalie. “That’s morbid.”

  Casey shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s a thing in America. It was popularized by a movie.”

  Leo nodded. “Oh, yes.” He shrugged. “But it’s still morbid.”

  “Not to Americans.”

  Leo raised one eyebrow then spent the next few minutes studying Casey. Maybe he was thinking about cultural differences, maybe he just wanted to know what Casey had put on her list.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.” Amalie went back to her discussion with Casey.

  “I’ll be fine,” Casey kept promising. “A whole day in bed sounds pretty amazing right now.”

  “But the Pope—”

  “You might not even get in, you know. They give out tickets all the time, and sometimes they run out of room.”

  Amalie clutched the papers to her chest until she saw Giovanni’s smirk. He’d probably be laughing, if he weren’t such a gentleman.

  ****

  Giovanni remembered the first Mass he and Amalie had—as he thought of it—crashed. They’d come in a bit late and had not participated much. But the connection he’d felt with her at the time still filled him with a sense of—what? A woman, he told himself, his lips twisting in self-mockery, would call it a sense of wonder. Giovanni was more inclined to call it a miracle. This was what he’d been looking for, all along. If that was being picky, he’d accept the label with pride.

  And then do everything he could to convince Amalie to look at him with the same fervor. If the only thing she’d wanted out of this trip—or her life—was a Mass with the Pope presiding—no wonder the thought of being turned away was enough to panic her.

  Fulfilling Amalie’s bucket list suddenly took the number one position on Giovanni’s. And he hadn’t even started that kind of a list yet.

  ****

  She’d get to see the Pope. In person. Probably not up close—with space in the basilica for more than fifteen thousand people, she had no chance of getting near him. But in the same building—hearing his voice, seeing his gestures—Amalie ought to pinch herself to stop herself obsessing.

  The Pope was just a man.

  But a man determined to lead as many souls to heaven as he could reach.

  Giovanni strode through the basilica entrance, and Amalie shivered. It looked the same, but it felt so different. Before, it was a holy enough place, but more a museum—a place to enjoy the beauty. Now, it had become a sanctuary.

  They reached the entrance to the Mass—she could tell by the lines cordoning off the space—and she glimpsed the empty seats spread in front of them. Her heart lifted. There would be room for two more people; that was sure. Giovanni held out the tickets. After a moment of conversation with the guard, he pulled her out of the line.

  “I’m sorry. There was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” And why did she suddenly feel so hot, as though she’d gotten the worst of bad news?

  “Il Papa—” He stopped himself, switched to English. “The Pope isn’t saying Mass today after all.”

  “Oh.” She stared at him and couldn’t say another word. The lump in her throat stopped even a sob from coming out.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. How were you to know?”

  Now a dimple showed in his cheek. “I know how disappointed you are.”

  Yes, she was. Far too disappointed for even her own comfort. “I’ll be OK.”

  “I know you will.” He glanced back at the rapidly filling seats. “Do you want to go to Mass anyway?”

  “Of course.”

  And she’d make herself enjoy it, too.

  Just as she’d enjoyed the snippet of Mass, back on the first day Giovanni had brought her to the basilica. She’d take it in, give herself over to thanking God rather than demanding why she hadn’t gotten what she’d wanted. What a spoiled child she must seem—here, in the Vatican City, complaining over one tiny oversight. “I’m like the Israelites complaining about manna,” she muttered.

  “You’re not. It’s OK to be disappointed. Maybe not OK to keep harping on it, but I’ve never seen you do that.”

  And she wouldn’t now.

  “We’ll go to Rossetti’s for dinner.” He tucked her hand under his arm and led
her through the crowds to a pew with enough space for both of them. “Leo said he’d try to get Casey there if she could walk that far.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  He shrugged. “Let them decide. When Mass is over, I’ll text him to let him know what’s up.”

  By the time they filed out of the basilica with the rest of the crowd, Amalie decided that Mass was a great remedy for self-pity. With the sun down, she didn’t need her hat, and she lifted her chin and let the breeze feather her cheeks.

  “That was beautiful. Even without the Pope.”

  “Isn’t Mass always beautiful?”

  “Of course.” But she couldn’t stop the jolt that went through her. This man believed the same things she did. Why the fact acted like an electric charge to her heart, she wasn’t willing to answer.

  Giovanni pointed out various spots he thought she might enjoy—a small shop that sold handmade icons, a tiny tea room that had closed for the day, but which, he promised, catered to the many British who came to Rome.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you any more about food, though.” He grinned down at her, and she smiled back.

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t you say you’d never be hungry again?”

  “Oh, that was days ago.” She patted her stomach. “I’ve given in. You’re the one who claims food is a major part of the Italian culture.”

  “That’s good, because my aunt promised a feast for tonight.”

  By the time they reached the doors to Rossetti’s, Amalie was more than ready to have another meal. Leo and Casey were already waiting at a table, and Amalie settled next to her cousin, the better to reach Casey’s plate of appetizers.

  “Leo practically carried me here.” Casey gave Leo such a sappy look that Amalie hoped her cousin didn’t expect her to pretend she didn’t know they’d made up.

  “Good for Leo.” She helped herself to more bread and olive oil.

  Giovanni explained about not getting to see the Pope, and Leo frowned. “They don’t usually make that kind of a mistake.”

  Giovanni shrugged. “It’s not something to make a big deal over.” He glanced at Amalie. “Unless it’s your bucket list.”

  Amalie ducked her head, feeling her face heat up.

  “But I’m not the only good sport around here. She was very patient and sweet about it all.”

  Armino, the waiter Amalie had met before, leaned over the table and deposited more plates, then brought drinks. He and Leo got into a long discussion which ended with Armino, his hand over his heart, saying, “You will hear Il Papa. I promise.”

  She had to grin at that. “Prayers appreciated,” she answered and waited while both Leo and Giovanni translated.

  “I think he likes you,” Casey whispered.

  “The waiter?”

  Casey nodded. “He’s only sixteen, you know. A sweet kid. Leo’s dad really likes him.” The smirk on her face said there was more to the story.

  “Really?”

  Casey shrugged. “Really. I think he might be the answer Leo needs.”

  Amalie grinned. “Does Leo know this?”

  “It was his idea.” The look Casey gave Leo that time could have melted the coldest heart. No wonder Leo caved for her. And yet, if they were both happy, why shouldn’t he compromise?

  A twinge of—was it jealousy?—suffused her, but Amalie prayed it away. Casey deserved whatever happily-ever-after she got, whether or not Amalie got one. She had to get over her own stunted wants and pay attention to God alone.

  For a few minutes, she let herself regret not getting to hear the Pope say Mass, and then she turned to celebrating being with friends, almost falling in love—or maybe, already being there—and being in Rome. God is good. God is so good.

  ****

  The next morning, after more negotiating, they decided Amalie would go with the men to the next attraction on Casey’s list. “It’s not a place I especially want to go, so I don’t mind missing it. But Amalie sure does.”

  Leo winked at Amalie. “Wait. You’ve been to the St. Peter’s and the Sistine Chapel. What’s left?”

  Amalie barely stopped herself from punching him, playfully, or not so playfully. “You’re kidding, right? There’s a whole country out there for me to discover.”

  “Two countries.” Giovanni took her elbow. “You’re forgetting Italy, aren’t you?”

  “I could never forget Italy.” Neither the country nor the men she’d met there. She’d never forget the way such a simple touch could affect her, as though Giovanni had injected her with a sparkling energy.

  “I hope not.”

  Amalie turned back to Casey. “I’ve got my phone. Call me if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  She didn’t look at Leo, but Amalie got the impression that it was only by a great effort Casey and Leo didn’t glance at each other. Their very deliberate pretense of ignoring each other was starting to get on Amalie’s nerves. She shook it off, though. Let them plot together. It only meant they had to spend more time falling for each other.

  If only Amalie could trust that spending the day with Giovanni would push her own romance to the same place.

  As soon as they reached the ground floor, Leo peeled away from them. “I have to leave you two to find your way alone. I’ve been away from the restaurant too much this week, and Papa needs some help with the books.”

  Giovanni’s lips twitched, and as soon as he met Amalie’s eyes, he started to laugh. “My cousin isn’t so good at discretion. I would have handled it better.”

  Amalie blinked. “Handled what?”

  “Trying to set the two of us up. Are you sure you want to spend the afternoon looking at more art?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Then we’ll go.” He led her across Saint Peter’s Square. Then they wound their way through more buildings she hadn’t explored yet. Soon, though, they reached the palace—the living quarters of previous popes.

  “You know Il Papa doesn’t choose to live here, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t the whole world know? When he was elected, it was all over the news.”

  “People seem to have gotten used to it.” He slid his hand into hers. “I forget who I’m talking to. You know so much about the Vatican City. What do you know about the Raphael Rooms?”

  She shrugged, her mind more on the feel of Giovanni’s palm, warm and rough against hers, than on what he’d asked. “Oh, one of the popes asked Raphael and his workshop to do the work. I think he wanted to outshine the previous Pope?”

  Giovanni nodded. “And it seems he succeeded. When we get up there—the rooms are on the third floor—we can look down into the Belvedere Courtyard. I think you’d like it there. Of course, I’m prejudiced it its favor. It’s beautifully built.”

  They wandered slowly through the rooms, and Amalie took in as much as she could. But it wasn’t nearly as much as she took in from the feel of Giovanni beside her, holding her hand, brushing against her side occasionally, his brown eyes smiling into hers and making her heart dance.

  They were studying The Vision of the Cross—the painting depicting the cross which appeared to Constantine—when Giovanni’s phone rang. He glanced around, then, cupping the phone to his face, he turned toward a window so as not to disturb others. His conversation, in quick Italian, lasted only a few moments, and then he shoved the cell into his pocket, his face rueful. “That was my uncle. They can’t seem to find Leo. Looks as if he didn’t go help at the restaurant after all. Sometimes I think Zio Manuelo has a toolbox with my name on it. For some reason he thinks since I know how to design a building, I must know how to build it, and if I can build one, I ought to be able to fix everything in it.”

  “Can you?”

  He raised his hands in an expansive gesture. “Not usually, but this time I think I can manage. It’s a leak in the kitchens. Look, I hate to take you away from this. Do you want to stay for another hour or so, and then we’ll all me
et up again for dinner at the café?”

  No, she wanted to trail along behind Giovanni for the rest of her life. But then again, she’d just been wishing for some solitude. And while the crowds in the Raphael Rooms didn’t quite qualify, they were all strangers. She might be able to find some sort of guidance if she had a few minutes to herself—or rather—to herself with God. She nodded. “That’s fine, Giovanni. I can find my way back. Are you sure it won’t take you any longer than an hour or so?”

  Giovanni grinned. “If it does, I’ll tell him to call a real plumber while I desert the ship. Or the restaurant. See you soon.” He started to turn, spun back, and kissed her cheek.

  Long after he’d disappeared down the stairs, Amalie felt his salute on her face and could think of nothing else. Half tempted to revert to high school and swear she’d never wash it off, she finally turned her attention to what had brought her to this place.

  The abundance of shining gold suddenly felt too much, and she made her way to a window where she could look down into the courtyard Giovanni had mentioned.

  A parking lot? He’d thought she’d enjoy looking at a parking lot? Granted, the fountain in the center was pretty, but the asphalt was not.

  Maybe she’d found the wrong courtyard.

  Maybe she was stalling talking to God.

  But she couldn’t find one spot in the whole beautiful space where she could stop for a moment and even think, much less pray.

  She was just tired. Not heartsick, not confused, not scared. That’s why the rooms had lost their appeal. Not because Giovanni had to go.

  She wandered down the stairs, and finally found a bench with a few inches she could squeeze into. She tucked her purse on her lap, then curled around it, not to protect it, but to shield her thoughts.

  God, I’m sorry. I came here to be closer to You, and it seems I keep slipping farther away. I’m confused. There. She’d admitted it. What’s Your plan? Is Giovanni part of it? And if not—then what? Am I supposed to let myself fall in love, and then see where things go?

  But then, wasn’t that always how God’s plans worked out? One had to follow where one thought He led, and then, sometimes a person would get a confirmation, sometimes, one would never know.