“So you relied upon my father to be the intermediary? To inform me of your intentions?” Her voice rose, eyes flashing. She reached over and turned on the table lamp. “I think you know I don’t like being treated like a little girl, especially when my father is concerned. Please don’t communicate with me through him.”
Amir looked confused, miserable, angry. “Why are you overreacting like this? I thought you’d be glad to see me!” He grabbed her by the shoulders. Their fiery eyes met, and held. Her body stiffened—then, breathing deeply, relaxed.
She let her head drop onto his chest. He softened his grip, wrapped his arms around her, holding her, and both began weeping, exhausted by the old desire that now seized them. They began breathing together, the near panting that marked longing. Finally, he raised her chin to meet his and kissed her tenderly, the embrace long, delicious, leading to hunger, then to demand. Shivering, she pushed him back, enveloping him with her eyes. He was handsome, sensual beyond belief. Slowly she began to unbutton her blouse.
He took her in his arms, spun her back toward the bed and let them both fall, press into her quilt. He kissed her with near desperation, born of unrequited obsession.
She held him tightly as they embraced, her legs wrapped around him now, and rolled on the bed. They slowed as they flourished in each other’s bodies, exploring with touch, caressing, finding the heat of buried passion. Shadows danced across the walls, then stilled. No words were spoken before they fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 5
Do you know how it feels to want something you think you can’t have; Or to awake in the morning only to find the day does not belong to you?
—L.S. McFadden
JUSTINE SPED NORTH from highway A1 across Florence toward San Domenici. It was another one of those glorious days, morning mist clinging to the cypress like billowing skirts. Turning the convertible onto Via Giuseppe Mantellini, she ascended the main road climbing up to Fiesole. The vibrant and abundant foliage reminded her of the Nile Delta in early summer. Her body shuddered as she recalled making love with Amir the night before. She was a little embarrassed by her initial immature behavior. She had left Cerveteri early, sneaking out before either Amir or her father were awake. What would it be like now to work with her father—and Amir? Last night she’d had a long, satisfying evening with both of the men in her life. Now it might be difficult to face Amir when they both came to dinner tonight.
At Largo Leonardo Da Vinci, just below Villa San Michele, Justine squinted into the sun and turned onto Via Maiano, a narrow street hugged by ten-foot-high stone walls. A left turn into the third driveway with its towering cypresses brought her to the winding road that led home, up to Villa Cellini. Before she could turn off the motor, Prego opened her door.
“Good morning, signorina. Your friend here. Come in last night. Prego,” he said, reaching for her small suitcase.
“Grazie, Prego. Is my mother home also?”
“In the garden, signorina.”
“Andrea!” Justine cried out as she burst through the door, dragging her bag. She had not seen Andrea since their meeting at the Cairo Marriott the previous fall. Andrea was the visiting professor of linguistics at the American University in Cairo whom Ibrahim had drawn into translating the codex. Justine had been surprised to learn that Andrea had known Lucrezia for many years and had occasionally co-hosted salons with her in Paris and Fiesole.
“Justine!” Andrea walked out of the breakfast room, still in her lavender dressing gown. Even without makeup she looked much younger than her forty-eight years. She often reminded Justine of the French actress Juliette Binoche with her high forehead, over which she had taken to wearing half bangs, which complimented her pronounced cheekbones and impish grin. Andrea’s father had sculpted her when she was a teenager, but both of her parents had died in a car accident before she was out of secondary school.
“How did you get here so quickly? Never mind. It’s wonderful to see you. You look like a real anthropologist in those khakis. Just great.” She pulled Justine to her and kissed her profusely on both cheeks, then held her at arm’s length, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling.
Justine hugged her fiercely in return. “So what’s new, my friend?” she asked as she leisurely removed her boots and wiggled her toes. “Have you fallen in love? Translated more secret diaries? Been followed by cloaked villains?”
“Touché, my beautiful friend. Your mother and I caught up on our secrets last night, I am now ready to hear yours.” Andrea folded the length of her dressing gown between her white legs before sitting down. “You were with your dad in Cerveteri?”
“I was. He’s back from Peru and is part of a new UNESCO team searching for Etruscan ruins. He and another member of the team will be joining us for dinner tonight. Also, to my surprise, Amir is here, as Dad’s new archaeologist.”
“You mean that dashing, sexy man with the curly hair and flashing black eyes? Ibrahim’s grandson? I could eat him up,” said Andrea.
Justine blushed. “The very one,” she said flatly, turning toward the stairs.
Andrea stared at her but changed tack. “Well . . . that gives us the day together—I’ve so many questions. And a few ideas.”
Whatever you know, I’m bound not to hear all of it at once, thought Justine with affection. Andrea revealed information slowly, a habit that had driven Justine crazy until she’d taught herself to tolerate the power play as an affectation. “I’ll change and meet you in the garden. Mom will want to be part of this conversation.”
Once back, in black linen shorts, a white cotton shirt, and carrying her buckskin sandals, Justine moved gingerly down the stepping-stones into the garden. Her damp hair corkscrewed into ringlets around her face. In the small patch of lush grass halfway down the garden, Andrea stood talking with Lucrezia, who was on her knees weeding a patch of herbs: oregano, winter savory, sage, and chives.
“Put on your sandals, my dear. You know bare feet are scandalous in Italy,” cautioned her mother without looking up. Lucrezia seemed consumed by her renegade herbs.
“I have trouble following rules that I don’t understand.” Nonetheless, she sat down on a stone and slipped into her sandals. “This is nonsense.”
Her mother ignored her.
“Justine, the independent woman,” Andrea teased, ignoring the frowns from both women. She changed the subject. “All right. I want to know what was in that little brown package you left Cairo with. Either answer will be scandalous.” She grinned and leaned back in the garden chair, drinking in the warmth, her pale blue blouse falling in folds around her. “Paris is still dreary this time of year.”
Lucrezia raised an eyebrow and turned to Justine. “What is she talking about?”
“You already know the answer. The day before I left Cairo, Amir brought me a package from Ibrahim. By the way, Mom, Amir is here. He’ll probably join us tonight for dinner. I didn’t know until I landed in Florence what was in the package. Was it the actual codex, or a copy?”
Lucrezia relaxed; she knew the answer.
Andrea fidgeted with impatience. “And??”
“I’m afraid it’s a copy—but a good copy. Fortunately, it had been almost entirely translated, so it gives us much to work with for our requested article for Archaeology. Did you bring the translations? Hopefully we’ll find time to write while you’re here.”
“I don’t see why not—although I only brought one file of the translations. I thought we’d start when Mary was yet a young girl.”
“I’m going to need a copy of those translations, Andrea. I’m certainly not a linguist, so having the copy in and of itself will do me little good.”
“I realize that, Justine,” Andrea said, lifting her hand in a mock salute. “Those pages should give us a good start, and I do have to go to Rome for a few days.”
“I’ll come with you. Dad expects me to work with him, but we haven’t found a slot for me yet—and Cerveteri is close by.”
“But you’ll be here
for dinner tonight?” Lucrezia interrupted, waving a small spade in her gloved hand.
“Absolutement!” exclaimed Andrea, as though it was the only thought worth harboring.
Prego moved unsteadily down the stepping-stones, balancing a tray with three cups of tea. “Prego,” said Lucrezia sharply, “you must let Maria do that. I don’t want you breaking your neck . . . or my good china.” Before she could stand, Justine stepped in front of her to take the tray from Prego and kiss him softly on the cheek.
Andrea paid no attention to the tea drama. “If we had the original codex,” she said, “we’d be able to digitize it, which would make it much easier to read. Stanford has a Synchrotron Radiation Lab X-ray scanner that can strike ink on parchment or papyrus and cause certain elements in the ink to glow. These detectors pick up each element’s distinctive wavelength of fluorescence and a computer converts the data into images. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Doesn’t the fluorescent glow come from the iron in ink?” asked Lucrezia, brushing dirt off her knees to attend to the tea. “I don’t think Mary’s ink could have contained iron, since such technology wasn’t in use until about 700.”
“Very astute,” acknowledged Justine. “But isn’t such X-ray action needed only if the ink has been scraped off and the paper reused? In this case, the equipment might show us the original text closer to the way it was written, imaging the missing formations, completing the words, so to speak, like bringing the binary code of computer language into full formation.” She said casually, thinking it through and adding a squeeze of lemon to her tea as she spoke, “I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, but this is just not to be, Andrea. At least for now.”
Andrea nodded and added two lumps of sugar to her tea before looking up at the scrutinizing stares of her friends. “I like sweet things,” she said defensively. “I know. I know. We’ll get the original back one of these days, perhaps sooner than you think,” she said, rather mysteriously, not looking them in the eye.
“You seem uncharacteristically optimistic,” said Justine, narrowing her eyebrows while balancing her teacup on her knee. “I’d like to reread the few translations you brought before we start writing.”
Andrea ran both hands under her long, dark hair, lifting it off her neck. “It’s beginning to get very warm.” Then, as though reading Justine’s mind, she said guardedly, “It’s not as though I’m unaware of my secretive tendencies, dear friends. But my suspicions can be quite useful. A strength, really.”
Justine rolled her eyes and grinned. She knew Andrea only too well. At least, she thought so.
Lucrezia laughed fully. “The heat will soon be unrelenting, too intense to sit out here without an umbrella,” said Lucrezia, ignoring Andrea’s confession. “But spring weather in Northern Italy is so unpredictable. Hot one day, cool the next.” Soon she was back on her knees, digging among the savory. “How long can you stay?”
“A week—perhaps longer, if things get interesting.”
“And you must be Morgan,” said Andrea, stepping forward to take his hand in both of hers. She had dressed in her favorite traveling outfit, a red linen suit with matching heels. She stared into his deep blue eyes with unguarded curiosity. Morgan blinked.
It was evening now, and family and guests had gathered for dinner. A ribbon of tangerine trimmed the horizon, buffering the deep purple sky. Amir had not accompanied Morgan and Riccardo. Justine was disappointed, hurt. Does he regret last night? Or . . . ?
The still-humid air flowing through the French doors warmed Andrea’s jacket, which she slowly removed to reveal an almost sheer white camisole. The sweet scent of lilacs and honeysuckle arose from the garden, blending with the garlicky aromas of roasting wild boar.
Justine paused momentarily in the doorway, watching her father and Andrea, a gentle evening breeze claiming the tender chiffon of her mauve dress. She noticed the slight flush at her father’s temples and was amused to realize that Andrea had rendered him speechless. She had seen her mother accomplish this feat a few times, but Lucrezia was not in the room at the moment to enjoy the rare occurrence. She walked in just as Morgan spoke.
“May I get you a drink?” Morgan managed to say, assuming the role of host. He busied himself, trying to regain his composure. “And Riccardo,” he said, turning toward his neglected guest. “What can I get you? Sorry. Creta. Andrea. This is my colleague Riccardo Chia, a member of our team.”
Riccardo stepped forward and shook hands with the two women. His dark hair was tidily pulled back into his signature ponytail, which fell stylishly over his black linen shirt. His easy smile revealed near-perfect teeth, yet did not improve on his rather odd expression, his tight-set eyes, or his shelf of undomesticated brows.
“Campari and soda for me,” Andrea said, walking to the buffet bar to assist Morgan. She stood close, her smooth arms feeling cool against his arm, beneath a thin cotton shirt.
“I’ll have the same,” echoed Riccardo, realizing that no one was listening.
“I’ve heard so much about you from Creta and Justine,” Andrea said, turning to face Morgan. “I must say, you exceed my expectations.”
“How so?” he asked with a dry mouth. He expected to be embarrassed by whatever answer was forthcoming. And he was right.
“I expected the tanned, dashing archaeologist, but you’re somewhat more handsome. A little taller. More hair.”
“I’m glad I don’t disappoint,” he said, sighing deeply, as though his breath had been arrested by alarm, and raising his glass to toast his palpable relief.
“Not at all.” Andrea smiled at him as she turned and walked toward the historian. “Tell me, Riccardo, are you part of the renowned Chia family of vintners?”
From across the room, Justine noted that her father stared at Andrea as though he’d been left standing naked. She walked toward him, brushed his cheek with her fingers, then turned and poured herself a glass of champagne.
Morgan put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and hugged her lightly. “This was your idea, honey.”
Justine wondered just what he meant by that. She watched him walk across the room to join Andrea and Riccardo. My idea? Is he talking about Riccardo . . . or Andrea?
“Exactly,” Riccardo said, answering Andrea, pleased at the attention. “Are you familiar with our wines? We’ve been making Brunello at Castello Romitorio for more than two decades.”
“Has your family been affected by the recent scandals about doctored wine and olive oils?” asked Morgan, joining Andrea and Riccardo. He had not been pleased that Justine had invited Riccardo for the weekend, nor that they had been forced to ride together. Not that he had anything against the young man. Decent sort for a historian, he’d told himself.
“Not directly, although in Italy you’re guilty until proven innocent. With our slow justice system, by the time you’re exonerated, you’re out of business.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Andrea, her brown eyes on Morgan suggesting that she was wondering why he brought up the scandals. “Your wines are excellent. Surely this will blow over.”
“It is difficult to see wine written about in the way you’d write about terrorism. Even in The New York Times,” Riccardo said, his voice intense, his accent becoming more pronounced. His hand tightened around his glass of Campari. “Not in tune with our world. Italy is a land of subtleties and innuendo. Fortunately, I have a day job.”
“Dinner is served,” Maria announced from the hallway. Lucrezia motioned everyone to a chair. She and Justine were on either end of the redwood table, Riccardo and Andrea together on one side and Morgan alone on the opposite side. Candles and a chandelier lighted the room, over which presided The Woman with Long Hair, Picasso’s painting of Justine’s grandmother.
“Will you do the honors, Morgan?” Lucrezia handed him a bottle of Tommasi Classico ’98. She had forsaken white linen this evening for a delicate black silk with wrists trimmed in miniature black satin roses. Small emerald earrings, the color of her eye
s, shone when she turned toward her ex-husband.
“Not a bad wine for a competitor,” grinned Riccardo. “Women call it earthy.”
“And men call it complex,” added Morgan, offering Andrea the first taste. She held the wine in her mouth for several moments before swallowing, her cheeks closing in under her high cheekbones. “Lingering sweet cherry,” she said, drawing out the words, then licking the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. She nodded her approval.
“The Etruscans may have been the first to make wine,” Riccardo said after he’d swirled the liquid around in his mouth. “The vines . . . they were over thirty feet high, some of them climbing up into trees. At that height, they could catch sea breezes.”
“What is this I hear about an Etruscan appellation near Naples?” asked Lucrezia. “Do you know anything about that, Riccardo?” She and Riccardo had met when he and Morgan arrived, before they dressed for dinner. She found him unassuming and warm, a man who would not bend easily to her ex-husband’s expectations.
“I think you mean Asprinio di Aversa, one of the world’s smallest and most obscure appellations. They’ve planted less than 150 acres,” answered Riccardo, continuing to savor the Tommasi. “Nearly 2,000 years ago, Pliny the Elder wrote about the wine. As I recall, it went something like this: ‘The vines espouse the poplars and, embracing their brides and climbing with wanton arms in a series of knots among their branches, rise level with their tops, soaring aloft to such a height that a hired picker stipulates in his contract for the cost of a funeral and a grave!’”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Andrea. “Bravo. Very sensual.”
Morgan was uncharacteristically quiet, watching the wine swirl in his glass as he turned it slowly by the stem. “Pliny the Elder wrote extensively of the Etruscans in Naturalis Historia,” he said casually, still twirling his wine. “I’ve been most impressed by his observations on Etruscan hydrology. He pointed out that the system they built under Rome was perhaps the most stupendous of all, ‘as mountains had to be pierced for their construction.’”
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