As she walked toward the barrier, she tucked her rosary into its pocket then zipped it and slung her purse over her shoulder. She’d find Giovanni now. She’d tell him the truth. Not just the truth about her feelings, about her past, but the truth about her worth. About what she was willing to do for him, to do for God, as long as it was all God’s will. And for once, she was sure she’d found the right path.
In fact, her path intersected with a group of excited tourists, and she paused while they bunched and shifted around her. Looking over their shoulders, she expected to see Giovanni. He’d have come after her, of course. He’d have waited, respecting her need to pray, and he’d be waiting for her now. She knew it, just as surely as she knew God meant her to find him.
One of the tourists bumped her, and a second later, she felt her purse slip from her shoulder.
She lifted her arm, to keep it from falling, but realized, as it jerked off her arm, that it had not slipped by accident. She turned, saw the back of a dark-haired young man, and then another man, reaching for him.
****
Giovanni leaned against a pillar, watching Amalie as she knelt in the side chapel dedicated to the Pietà. Just watching her, her head bent, her reddish-blonde hair brushing her cheek, the intensity of her clasped hands wound with a rosary, filled his heart. Now he was sure he’d loved her from the moment he’d first seen her, but he loved her more with each day, with each opportunity to get to know her better. Good or bad, foible or virtue, he was destined to love this woman forever. He knew it. And every day he’d love her more. The prospect of how much that love would grow in the coming years—the rest of their lives—filled him with an excitement that he could barely contain.
He would love and protect Amalie for as long as they both lived. When she stood, and fumbled with her rosary and purse, he straightened. Did she not remember what he’d told her, about keeping herself and her purse safe? When a group paused between him and her, he shouldered his way through just in time to see a young man snag the strap and yank it from her shoulder.
He must have been a first-time snatcher. He certainly hadn’t paid attention—not so much to the woman who wasn’t taking care, but to the man who was. He ran right past Giovanni, and Giovanni tackled him.
Three guards converged, a few people screamed, most either scrambled away or crowded close, eager to watch a criminal brought to justice.
Giovanni took the purse, practically peeling the kid’s fingers from the strap, and handed it up to Amalie. Then he pushed upright, keeping one knee on the kid’s back.
“We will take him,” one of the Swiss guards told him.
Giovanni nodded and started to rise.
Amalie got between Giovanni and all three of the guards.
“Can’t you see? He’s just a little boy!”
He gaped up at her. “Amalie. He stole your purse. You’ve got your passport in it, don’t you? Do you know how much of a hassle that is to replace?”
Instead of answering, she turned to the guards, holding up her hand. “Don’t I have to press charges here? What if I don’t? What if I say—” She spun back to Giovanni. “It worked when I slugged you, remember? Tell them it was a mistake.”
“That would be a lie, and—”
“No. He just made a mistake.” She reached for the boy.
Through their whole conversation, or rather, argument, the kid had watched Amalie’s face. Now, he held out the hand that had been clenched around the purse strap, and said one word. “Misericordia.” Mercy.
Amalie melted. Giovanni could see it in the way her eyes filled, the way her mouth shaped around a shred of sound, the way she grasped the kid’s fingers and pulled him up.
“Mercy. Giovanni, you tell him. No, wait. First, tell them it was a mistake. The boy made a mistake. He won’t do it again.”
Giovanni studied her for half a second then turned to the guards. In Italian, he said, “She doesn’t want you to do anything to him. She wants to extend mercy.”
One guard shook his head, but the other two looked at each other and then at Amalie. Finally, the one who seemed in charge smiled. “Misericordia?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Yes, yes, thank you. Grazie.” Everyone smiled at her poor pronunciation, and she turned. “Thank you, Giovanni. Now, you tell him, the boy—” As the guards drifted away, she dug in the depths of her purse then raised her head. “Ask him his name.”
Giovanni did.
The boy, hope dawning on his face, said, “Marco.”
“Marco, this is for you.” Amalie thrust a wad of Italian money into the boy’s hands. “You tell him, Giovanni. Tell him he’s not to do anything like this again, all right? That once is a mistake, and twice is wrong, and more than that is a habit and a sin.”
When he turned to translate all that to Marco, she again grabbed his arm. “No. Don’t tell him that. Tell him this is for mercy. This is because God loves him.”
Giovanni hesitated. “Are you sure? Because everything else you said was pretty good, you know.”
She shrugged then shook her head. “It was. But God’s love is better.”
Well, he couldn’t argue that. “Marco,” he said, “She wants you to remember God’s love.”
The boy nodded. “I will. Tell her I will always remember her, too. And I will always remember her mercy. And you—you are good at games, aren’t you?”
With his mouth open, Giovanni watched the boy cover Amalie’s hands with salutes. Then, standing tall, he walked away. The crowd that was left, some muttering, parted to let him go and wandered away.
Only Giovanni and Amalie stood outside the Pietà chapel. He took her arm. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” She beamed up at him, but then her face clouded. “Oh, Giovanni, I messed up, didn’t I?”
He blinked. “I don’t follow. You mean with Marco?” He waved in the direction the boy had gone.
“No. I mean with you.”
He lifted his chin. “Oh, me,” he said, trying to make it sound like a joke. It came out sounding more like a complaint.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head and turned away, though she didn’t leave him standing there.
“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I judged you based on someone else’s actions.” Now she turned back, her chin lifted, her eyes defiant and challenging. “No one should do that.”
“And yet, we all do.” He shrugged. “Now? How are you judging me now?”
“I’m trying not to.” She shook her head, pinching her lips and reaching out a hand, not to touch him, but to make her point. “I’m not judging you at all.”
“Isn’t that worse?” And what did she mean by that? Did she mean that he wasn’t important enough for her to form an opinion about? That everything he’d thought was going on never had, he’d been delusional—what? This woman, yes, he loved every bit of her, every facet of her, but he sure didn’t understand her. “Listen, I just watched you extend the mercy of Christ to a kid who planned to rob you. You could extend mercy to him, but not to me. How can you doubt that I love you?”
Her mouth opened, her face crumpled, and Giovanni, feeling as though he’d said too much, far too soon, and done exactly what she’d just claimed to do with their relationship, turned his back on her and walked away from the mess he’d just made.
11
Giovanni stomped away. His mother would sure call it that. He halted, hoping Amalie hadn’t noticed his unspoken, but very loud, attitude. He took a deep breath and tried to release at least some of his irritation.
But what was the matter with her? Here she’d complained—well, explained was a better word—how that other guy put her down. Giovanni didn’t blame her for not believing him the instant they’d met, but she’d been in his company almost constantly for a whole week now. Wasn’t that enough time for her to see what he was really like?
Reality interrupted his internal rant, and again, Giovanni stopped walking. One week? She’d known him one s
hort week, and he blamed her for not trusting him implicitly. Well, go, Giovanni. He’d just done the exact thing his family kept accusing him of doing—being too picky.
Two strikes against Giovanni. Wanna try for one more?
So what if she didn’t trust him just yet? That gave him the time to woo her, didn’t it?
As long as Amalie gave him time.
How did he get her to forgive him for his little temper tantrum?
And for the first time in his adult life, he blushed over his behavior.
He’d only gotten halfway to the obelisk when he saw Armino running toward him, waving something.
“Armino?”
“Your uncle sent me.” Panting, the younger man thrust a few small rectangles of paper into his hand. “They say that today there is room for the Mass. For you to go. You and her.” He spun toward the basilica, where Amalie still stood, probably shocked, possibly in tears. “She wanted to go; she was so disappointed. Your uncle sent me with tickets. But you must go now.”
His uncle, an angel, an agent of God? Or was Armino the angel? Whoever had sent the tickets had sent him a second chance.
“But what do I say to her?”
Even though he hadn’t meant to ask Armino, the other man answered. “You say, pretty lady, Il Papa will say Mass in ten minutes. Come with me.”
Giovanni wasted several seconds staring at Armino with his mouth gaping before he grabbed the tickets.
“Grazie, Armino.” He shook Armino’s hand much faster than courtesy demanded and sprinted back to the basilica’s entrance.
Where had she gone? Would she even listen to him? Did they have enough time to get inside before Mass began?
A wildish cloud of reddish blond hair under a sherbet-colored hat kicked his heart into a joyous dance. He edged his way between tourists, until he was next to her.
She had been crying. Quietly, softly, blotting the tears with the sleeve of her sweater, but her eyes were still a bit pink. Giovanni felt like a traitor. A traitor allowed to redeem himself.
He hoped this time, he wouldn’t fail.
Her smile, under those few tears, was hope-inspiring.
He turned her where she stood, ignoring her look of shock. “Il Papa is about to say Mass.”
“The Pope?”
“Of course. And I have tickets. My uncle sent them. Armino brought them.”
She grinned, and the smile seemed to erase all signs of tears. “You have a great family.”
“I do.”
“Even the ones who play tricks on me are pretty great.”
“He is,” Giovanni agreed, knowing exactly who she meant.
“So—” she blinked up at him. “—when does it start?”
“Right away. Let’s go.” He took her hand, and they headed into the basilica.
****
So here she was, living the one item on her bucket list. Mass, the Pope—her Pope—presiding.
She’d had crushes on a few actors growing up, and she probably would have felt this way if she’d ever gotten to see one in person. But to get so squirmy over a stout old man—well, it was as if she’d gotten time alone with the family’s favorite uncle, the one who showed up only every three years and never had enough time to go around. Maybe that was better than thinking of him as a celebrity.
She glanced at Giovanni. He did have a great family, which cared enough about him to care about what she liked. He met her gaze, his eyes crinkling at the edges, smiling. Then he lifted his chin, indicating the front of the church, and she turned.
Mass. The Pope, saying Mass. Amalie there, sharing her God with both the Pope and this man.
Yup. The top item on her bucket list completed.
Giovanni leaned close and whispered a quick translation of the words into her ear. She had to get over the sensation, the feel his breath left on her cheek, and concentrate on the words, the words that led to God. Last week, she wouldn’t have had a lick of trouble. This week, different story, because Giovanni was in it.
Didn’t that tell her anything? Tell her that maybe God had been saving this man for her all along?
As they sat on the pew, she resolved that this would be her best, most attentive Mass to date. She wouldn’t think of Giovanni—if she could help it—she would think only of the words, the message, God. She’d dedicate her Communion to whatever relationship God had in mind for the two of them, and give the rest of the liturgy over to worship.
And Giovanni went on whispering into her ear. The readings, the simple prayers. And then, the homily.
I’m listening to the Pope give a homily. Goosebumps rose on her arms, not just because Giovanni interpreted it in short bursts of shiver-inspiring whispers.
Then the Liturgy of the Eucharist. When the time came, she shuffled with the rest, Giovanni’s hand near her waist, to receive the Body and Blood of her Lord. And then, finally, finally, she could concentrate on Jesus. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to thanking Him for His sacrifice, for His gift of the Eucharist, for everything He was.
Only when they straggled out into the sunlight did she come back into the present, to find Giovanni watching her with a smile, and look of deep patience.
“Mmm. Have I been out of it? I’m sorry—”
“And I’m not.” He took her arm, and they strolled between groups gathered in the square, towards the obelisk. “Isn’t that true worship? To lose yourself to the world and see only Christ?”
She stopped, her mouth open, staring at him. “You understand.”
He nodded. “I think I do.”
She slapped her hat onto her head and held it there with her left hand. “I’ve learned a lot this past week.”
He raised his eyebrows in question.
“I’ve learned that—well, first of all, that you really are a good sport—”
He groaned. “That again?”
“What? Don’t you like being known as a good sport?” The wry twist of his mouth sent more sensations down her spine.
“There are better things.”
“All right, then. I’ve learned that you’re a very good man. A wonderful man. A man I’d—” She swallowed, trying to force herself to go on.
“I’m a man you’d what?”
“Trust.”
He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising, and a smile started. “Are you sure?”
She reached up to touch his cheek. “Oh, Giovanni. I admit that’s something I have a hard time with, trusting men. So I have to keep practicing. Can you put up with that?”
“I think I can.”
“Then I’ll try with everything I have.”
He leaned close, just as he had in Mass, so close that his breath feathered her cheek.
She turned her head so their lips were half an inch apart.
The crowds around them merged into one, a freeform of swirling color and sound, there, but unimportant.
Amalie couldn’t move.
Giovanni closed the space and their first kiss came soft and gentle, questioning, waiting, patient.
When she returned it, his arms came around her, and she found herself spinning in a circle of safety.
He stopped, and her feet touched ground again.
“Did I make you dizzy?”
She shook her head, too breathless to answer in words, then pulled his head down again.
After a moment, she had to break away from the kiss. “Oh, Giovanni, but that does make me dizzy!”
“Maybe I’d better stop, then.”
“No. You’d better not!”
Thank you
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Hearts at the Holy See Page 11