The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  “Aw, look at him,” I whispered, placing my hand on the glass. “A sleeping angel.”

  “A little devil is more like it.” Kirsten blew a stray hank of hair out of her eyes, then opened the driver’s door. “Come on, let’s get home. I’ve got lasagna in the oven.”

  Sean’s successful pediatric practice provided a lovely home for Kirsten and Travis, and as I studied my sister’s reflection in the windshield on the drive home, I wondered if Sean made it home to her as often as I did. Despite Kirsten’s happiness about the coming baby, I had noticed a strained tone in her voice of late, and her mouth took on a determined look whenever I mentioned Sean. She hadn’t complained of anything, so she wasn’t ready to discuss whatever was troubling her, but she couldn’t hide anything from a sister . . . especially not me.

  I turned in the seat to face her. “So, is Sean home or is he tied up in Manhattan?”

  Kirsten turned to stare at something on the side of the road, literally blocking my question. “I heard about your trial,” she said. “Congratulations. You must be glad it’s over.”

  We chatted for a few minutes about how Colby had managed to snow the jury, and I told her how revolted I had been when the senator leaned over and practically grabbed me in a bear hug.

  “The worst aspect of that trial is the possibility he’ll kill someone else.” I leaned my elbow on the car door and pushed my hair out of my eyes. Night had fallen outside, but the heated, cozy confines of the car felt safe—a feeling left over from childhood. “What if he does, Kirsten? Will some other woman’s blood be on my hands?”

  She glanced over at me, her eyes bright with speculation. “Does that worry you?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.” She lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I thought by now you would be like a lawyer, sort of hardened to it all. I mean, surely not all lawyers’ clients are innocent. Which means that exceptionally good lawyers prevent exceptionally good criminals from ever having to account for their crimes.”

  She looked at me again, her lips twisted into a cynical smile. “I figured guilt was something you learned to live with. Everyone has to learn to live with things . . . that aren’t so pleasant.”

  There. I heard a pleading note in her voice, a quiet signal that meant she was about to open up and share whatever had thrown that shadow onto her oval face, but then we passed the oak at the entrance to her driveway. The car slowed and turned, and something in the movement brought Travis awake.

  “We home, Mama?”

  “Almost, honey.”

  I turned in the seat, and saw Travis’s wide blue eyes staring at me. He blinked slowly, then his perfect mouth widened in an O. “Auntie Claudie!”

  “Hi, stinker.” I reached out and tugged on the toe of his tennis shoe. “Are you ready for dinner? I’m starving for your mama’s lasagna.”

  “Me too!”

  The car coasted over the gravel driveway; the headlights lit up the front porch. The home was charming, warm, and welcoming . . . so why didn’t Sean visit it more often?

  I climbed out of the car, unbuckled Travis from his car seat, and settled him onto my hip, then followed my sister into the welcoming, empty house.

  “OK,” Kirsten said, lacing her fingertips over a half-finished plate of salad and lasagna, “here’s reason thirty-nine why you shouldn’t go to Rome—you might meet a dark Italian who looks like Antonio Banderas. He’ll sweep you off your feet and break your heart—”

  “Kirsten!” I threw my napkin at her. “It’s a good thing Kurt isn’t here! I’m certainly not in the market for a man.”

  “She plays a good devil’s advocate, doesn’t she?” Sean said, grinning at me from across the table. Kirsten looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning, but his smile didn’t change when her gaze crossed his. I watched them a moment, then sipped my iced tea, still unable to define or understand the undercurrents moving throughout the house.

  Sean had come home just before eight, kissed Kirsten’s cheek, rumpled Travis’s hair, and retired to his office to return a couple of phone calls. Fortunately, we had just sat down at the dinner table, so he joined us a few moments later as if nothing whatsoever was out of the ordinary. He asked me about Kurt, congratulated me on the outcome of the Mitchell trial, and listened intently as I told them both about Darien Synn and the opportunity to work in Rome.

  Kirsten had protested immediately, of course, wailing that I wouldn’t be with her when the baby came, but after a few minutes her indignation cooled to a reluctant pout. I also told them about Elaine Dawson’s odd call, and that’s when Kirsten volunteered to play devil’s advocate. “Let’s just test your resolution,” she said, straightening her shoulders, “and see if a trip to Rome is really in your best interests.”

  She plunged right in with questions about money, Kurt, risk and reward, and on those issues I managed to convince myself that going to Rome was a good idea. Now she snapped her fingers and leaned close so Travis wouldn’t hear. “If you go to Rome,” she whispered, “you’ll have to fly over the Atlantic.” She pulled away and lifted her brows as if daring me to counter that objection.

  As casually as I could, I looked her straight in the eye. “So?”

  “Come on, Claude.” She flicked a basilisk glance at Travis, who simply went on eating his finger foods as if nothing in the world were out of the ordinary. “Can you honestly say you can fly over the ocean—over that spot—and not think about the crash?”

  “What crash, Mommy?” Travis’s treble voice cut through the silence.

  “Nothing, honey. Eat your noodles.”

  I lowered my gaze and concentrated on prying a sticky slice of noodle from my plate. I knew very well what she meant, but the jetliner crash that killed our parents had occurred in July 1996, years before Travis was born. I didn’t think about it much anymore, but I hadn’t flown over the ocean since it happened, either.

  “You’ll have to fly virtually the same route.” An undercurrent of desolation filled Kirsten’s voice. “Flight 800 was en route from New York to Paris, then it was going on to Rome.”

  With a sharp clatter, my fork fell to my plate. “Good grief, Kirsten.” My voice went hoarse with frustration. “I thought you’d want me to take this job. You are actually beginning to sound as if you think I should stay here.”

  Her eyes welled with hurt. “I want what’s best for you. And maybe it’s best that you stay home. You’ll be getting lots more attention now, and you may be walking away from all sorts of wonderful opportunities if you take off and go to Rome.”

  “On the other hand,” Sean interrupted, a faint line between his brows as he felt his way into the conversation, “you might find it refreshing to work for the good guys for a change. You can’t feel good about Mitchell walking away from that trial with blood on his hands.”

  The dining room went as silent as a church. Kirsten’s blue eyes, as dark as gun barrels, grazed her husband’s face, then trained in on me. “He didn’t mean that, Claudia. You only do what you have to do; we understand that.”

  I forced a smile. “It’s all right. It’s a job, like anything else. I’m not supposed to care about whether or not the defendants are innocent—”

  Sean ignored Kirsten’s sharp glance and aimed his fork at me. “Still, Claudia, I doubt Sir William Blackstone ever dreamed people like you would exist when he wrote his Commentaries on the Laws of England. A trial by jury is supposed to be a trial by peers, not hand-selected people who are chosen on the basis of whether or not they’re likely to favor a certain verdict. At the time our legal system was instituted, no one had ever conceived of jury consultants, mock trials, or computers that predict trial outcomes.”

  “What are you saying?” Kirsten said, each word a splinter of ice.

  Sean shrugged and smiled at me. “I think Claudia might find it refreshing to work for people who are interested in helping others instead of empowering themselves. From what I’ve read about Santos D. Justus,
he’s honestly philanthropic.”

  “Mama!” Travis pounded the table. “I want bread!”

  “Ask your father.” Resentment edged her voice.

  Ignoring Kirsten’s growing irritation, I urged my brother-in-law to continue. “What have you read?”

  “Not much.” Sean broke off a piece of garlic bread and placed it in Travis’s grasping hand. “But last week there was an article in Newsweek about his peace movement. International Unity . . . or something like that.”

  “Global Union?”

  Sean snapped his fingers. “That’s it. The article described Justus as a local fellow who hit the big time. Apparently he began his career serving a single term in Italy’s Chamber of Deputies, which is like our House of Representatives, then decided he liked politics. He’s now serving as the Italian ambassador to the WEU.”

  I swallowed another bite of lasagna and considered this latest bit of information. Obviously, I’d have to do more homework before officially accepting a job with Global Union, but I couldn’t deny that Sean’s comment had hit a sensitive spot. It would be nice to work for honorable people for a change . . . if Darien Synn and Santos D. Justus were as honorable as they seemed. Maybe doing good in Europe would counteract the queasy feeling that rose in my stomach every time I remembered Senator Mitchell’s smug smile . . .

  “Thanks for the info,” I told Sean, lifting my head in time to catch him sending Kirsten a really pointed look. I glanced away, not wanting to intrude on the unspoken war of sharp glances and prickly tones. As an afterthought I added, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  After helping with kitchen cleanup, I went out to Kirsten’s front porch and sat in her rocker, my arms and shoulders covered with a soft chenille afghan I’d plucked from the back of her sofa. With its scents of salt water and burning fires, the velvet dark seemed to enfold me like a gloved hand. Out beyond the dunes, the incessant roar of the sea provided steady background music, like the swishing sounds of an exotic percussion instrument caressed by skillful fingers.

  For the moment, it seemed, Sean and Kirsten had called a truce. Sean disappeared into his study after dinner; after helping me in the kitchen, Kirsten went upstairs to put Travis to bed. The ensuing quiet gave me time to think, but after ten minutes of rocking in time with the sea, I knew what my decision would be.

  I wanted to go to Rome. The idea, inconceivable at first, now beckoned like an exit sign in a dark and suffocating chamber. Sean was right; I needed to work for something honorable. Rory was right too; I needed to escape from Elaine Dawson’s shadow. And despite my affection for Kurt, some voice inside whispered that I needed to go to Rome for the sake of my impending marriage. It wasn’t a hunch, and I don’t believe in presentiment. Perhaps it was my subconscious insisting that I needed one wildly independent adventure before marriage, I don’t know. I just knew I wanted to go.

  I also know that I’m different from most young women my age— I never wanted to be married. While my friends in high school were dreaming of husbands, I concentrated on college applications. And in college, while my friends fretted about their future matrimonial prospects, I dreamed of working in Elaine Dawson’s firm. My college roommate got married the day after graduation; I served as her maid of honor, went back to the dorm, chucked the froufrou satin dress and shoes, then picked up my suitcase and took a cab to the airport. Two days later, I was answering telephones at Elaine Dawson’s firm and studying books on body language.

  Two years later, I was content to be Elaine’s executive assistant . . . until an emergency television bulletin informed me that TWA Flight 800 had gone down over the Atlantic, killing all 212 passengers and 17 crew members aboard. My parents had been aboard that jetliner, bound for Rome to celebrate their thirtieth anniversary.

  “I can’t wait to see Rome,” my mother had told me in our last phone call. “Palatine Hill, the Colosseum, the Pantheon. I’ve always dreamed of visiting the Eternal City.”

  The shrubs beyond the porch vibrated softly with an insect hum as I blinked the sounds of the past away. “Maybe that’s why I hear Rome calling me,” I whispered. “Maybe I’m supposed to take the trip my parents never finished.”

  Maybe I just wanted to see if Rome was worth the suffering I’d endured on her account.

  As the screen door creaked on its hinges, the chirping of the night creatures ceased. I knew without looking that Kirsten had come out to join me. She stood in the sudden silence for a moment, then moved heavily over the wooden planks and lowered her increasing bulk into the swing at my side. She exhaled a long sigh. “Finally. That boy fights sleep.”

  We sat for a moment in a companionable silence broken only by the rhythmic groan of the rocker and the metallic creak of the porch swing.

  “I know I’m being selfish,” she finally said. “Wanting you here when the baby comes. If you want to go to Rome, don’t let me stop you.”

  “I could come back.” I turned my head to look at her. “Sean could call when the baby’s born. I don’t know how busy I’ll be, but I’m sure I could take a few days and come help you.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’d love it if you could, but you really don’t have to. Sean’s mother has offered to come. I’ve never been able to stand the woman, but Travis adores her.”

  Beyond the porch, the wildlife had accepted Kirsten’s arrival. The darkness came alive again with creatures that chirped and buzzed in the dark. I listened to the mingled sounds for a moment, then reached out and touched Kirsten’s arm. “You know I’d come if you needed me.”

  “I know.”

  “For anything, Kirsten.” I leaned forward until she looked into my eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sean, but if there’s anything I can do—”

  “It’s just the seven-year itch.” Sighing, she shifted her weight and crossed one ankle over the other. “We just need to spend more time together, that’s all. He works too much, and I’m too much into the preschool set. After the baby comes, we’ll need to find some time to get away together, just the two of us.”

  I nodded, grateful she hadn’t denied the stress that would have been obvious to anyone with eyes.

  “You don’t need to worry about me.” Her hand covered mine. “I know this Rome thing is a great opportunity. Mom and Dad would want you to take it. Mom always did love that city—Roman Holiday was her favorite movie.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Thanks, K.”

  We separated, then she pulled something from the pocket in her heavy sweater. “I found something for you. Mom gave it to me a long time ago, but I never dress up anymore. You’ll be able to put it to good use.”

  The light from the living room window reflected off a lovely piece of jewelry—a gold circle on a delicate chain. I had seen it before; it was a ladies’ pocket watch designed to be worn as a necklace.

  “I’d nearly forgotten about that.” I took it from her and ran my thumbnail along the curved edge. When it sprang open, I saw the delicate watch face and the blur of words inscribed inside the cover. “What’s this engraving?”

  “It’s a Benjamin Franklin quote: ‘Do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of.’ Dad gave it to Mom on their tenth anniversary.” Kirsten looked at me with dewy moisture in her beautiful eyes. “Go to Rome, kiddo, and live it up. Then you can come home and tell me all about it.”

  “Thanks, Sis.” I leaned forward to embrace her, then we parted and enjoyed the night sounds until the advancing chill sent us in to the warmth of the fire.

  SIX

  DAWN CAME RELUCTANTLY TO ROME, GLOWING SULLENLY THROUGH A cloud-dark sky. Asher stared at the gray morning through his window, then pulled on his navy trench coat in case of rain. After leaving his appartamento, he walked the few blocks northward to Montecitorio Palace, the seat of the Chamber of Deputies. The Eternal City had risen with him on this misty Monday morning, and as he stretched his legs the city likewise seemed to shake out its limbs and stretch to face a ne
w day. Televisions blared through open doorways; merchants lifted their awnings and swept the sidewalk while automobile horns blared in the steadily thickening traffic.

  At the street corner, under a group of scaly barked plane trees, a group of city sanitation workers blasted the sidewalk with a pressure cleaner, a stream of curses flowing as powerfully as the water. Asher suppressed a smile as he stepped into the street and strode past them. The object of their enthusiastic scorn was a carpet of bird droppings on the walkway, an inevitable sign of autumn in the city. For as long as Asher could remember, each fall swarms of starlings flew into the city from the north and roosted in the plane trees at dusk.

  Though their presence mandated extra work for the sanitation workers and the necessity of umbrellas for pedestrians walking home at sunset, Asher had always liked the birds. He marveled as he watched them fly high above the ancient roofs and domes, turning simultaneously to veer in a new direction as if they were of one quick mind. How did they learn to fly so effortlessly in unison? God, who had set the sun to measure man’s day and the moon to measure his months, had set the seasons and the starlings to measure man’s years. Asher had watched the starlings come and go more times than he wanted to remember. Still he liked the little birds.

  On the Via degli Uffici del Vicario Asher passed Giolitti’s, where a crowd had begun to fill the outdoor tables in the piazza. Many of the onorevoli, representing both the country’s left- and right-wing parties, were present, all differences set aside as they shook out their copies of the daily Corriere della Sera and sipped espresso. Later in the assembly hall they would argue like in-laws, but the early hour and the socked-in sky seemed to have cast a drowsy spell over the politicians.

  The main entrance to Montecitorio Palace lay just beyond Giolitti’s. Asher slowed his steps as he approached it, then leaned against a street sign and slipped his hands into the trench coat’s roomy pockets. Behind the dark lenses of his glasses, he surveyed the cars parked along the street. Only a few privileged citizens could obtain passes allowing them to drive in this part of the city, and fewer still were permitted to park. But surely the man he sought would be one of the fortunate few.