by Freda, Paula
"Have you been to Pisa?"
A confused, desperate appeal on her face, Cybelle shook her head. The woman regarded her curiously. With a consoling tone to her voice for whatever was ailing the girl, she informed her solicitously, "We have a motor coach leaving in fifteen minutes. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is a stupendous sight, not to be missed."
Cybelle paid the agent the stipulated fee and put away her ticket.
"The motor coach is parked around the corner," the woman told her. Cybelle had no intention of boarding the bus. As soon as that frightening little group outside dispersed, she would make a dash back to the hotel and not set foot out of her suite unless Mark was at her side.
She thanked the woman, then heart in throat she glanced at the entrance and sighed with relief. The young men were gone. Quickly she exited. They converged on her from both sides.
The motor coach with Cybelle and several other passengers aboard roared to life. Cybelle's pert nose was pressed against the windowpane as she glowered at the grinning youths who had sent her shrieking and running in the direction of the bus.
CHAPTER SIX
Mark returned to the hotel about six whistling a tune. "A fine romance this is, with no kisses..." he sang as he unlocked the door and entered the suite. It had been an informative afternoon. The meeting with the free-lance physicist had gone well and all the necessary data for his superiors was in his briefcase, tucked under his arm. There was something else he was happy about. A decision he'd come to as he drove to and from the physicist's home. Cybelle had always been special and perhaps he was wrong about her infatuation. He'd never had to suffer with her through girlish crushes over boys. For five years she had stayed with her feelings for him. Maybe then, just maybe, what she felt for him was real. He was a fool to negate the possibility of a sincere relationship developing between them. She was no minor at twenty-three, intelligent and well educated. If her feelings for him were sincere, nothing on earth would please him better than to surrender his heart to Cybelle. Of late no one knew him better than she did. Cybelle had turned his life upside-down. But she had become a part of it. She was everything endearing he was not. Life without her would be very dull. He had only one qualm. Would her father have approved? Would asking Cybelle to be his wife, be reneging on the promise he had made to Jacques? Would Jacques consider him good enough for his "little fluff of cocoa curls and lacy skirts grown up? "Cybelle," Mark called, as he unlocked the door to the hotel room. No answer. He checked the rooms. Where was she, he wondered? It would soon be dark.
Pisa was a giant open-air museum with four landmarks encircled by a small red-roofed town. The bus tour was short, revolving about the Cathedral, a Romanesque basilica richly decorated with open arcades; the Baptistry, a circular edifice that resembled a monarch's crown; the Camposanto, a cemetery noted for its sarcophagi, statuary and frescoes; and finally, the Leaning Tower itself. Cybelle had seen photographs and film clips of the Torre Pendente, but to gaze at the marble tiers of columned arches that leaned awkwardly to one side, like a gracious lady who has drunk too much chianti, was another matter entirely. Tilting her head at the same angle as the Tower, she experienced a giddy sensation. Before boarding the bus for the return trip, she had her picture taken by an old man with a cap and baggy pants and a Polaroid camera. The camera buzzed and the picture slithered out. She paid the man an exorbitant price, but it was worth it to see herself, her arm upraised, her face taut and her body straining as she single-handedly supported the Leaning Tower.
In all it proved a pleasant afternoon. When the guide had checked the last of his passengers into the bus, the driver promised to have everyone safely back in Florence in time for dinner.
The trouble began when the coach suddenly swerved, wobbled furiously, nearly overturned, and coasted to a squealing halt. The driver swore profusely in Italian, while the guide tried his best to calm the passengers. Cybelle checked her wristwatch. It was after five.
For about fifteen minutes the driver and the guide altercated the situation. Cybelle turned to the elderly couple seated behind her. They were Americans and she had heard them conversing with the Florentine guide in his native language. "What are they saying?" she asked, pointing to the two men upfront. The elderly woman explained, "We've blown a tire. They will try to flag down some help, but I'm afraid we're in for quite a wait."
"Don't they have a spare one?"
"Apparently not."
"Oh, for Pete's sake! How far are we from Florence?"
The woman's husband answered, "At least ten miles." Half an hour later, the bus driver managed to procure the help of a passing motorist who agreed to give him a lift into the city. Unfortunately by the time Cybelle learned of this new development, the motorist and the bus driver were already speeding up the road. Had she known in time she might have begged a lift. By now Mark had returned to the hotel and must be pacing the floor wondering where she was. The guide switched on the lights on the bus. A gentleman tourist, who had dozed, snorted awake. Some of the passengers had left the coach to stretch their legs. Cybelle decided to do the same. It was a wise decision, she thought, as a taxicab stopped beside the motor coach. The cabby inquired if anyone cared to hire his services. Cybelle jumped at the opportunity and quickly climbed in. No one else appeared inclined to follow her example.
Whatever did the fates have against her; she wailed a short while later, as the cab sputtered to a standstill right on the outskirts of the city. The cabby like the bus driver executed his own tirade of curses and finally ended up shrugging in resignation. At that precise moment, the motor coach, a brand new tire in place, zoomed past. The cab driver beeped and Cybelle hollered, but to no avail. Either it was too dark for the other driver to recognize them, or he was in too much of a hurry to stop. When she finally entered the hotel lobby, after a long trek through the illuminated city, Cybelle was worn and footsore. The cabby had been kind enough to escort her. No other cab had materialized. Cybelle thanked the man and kissed him on the cheek when he refused payment.
She was about to push the button summoning the elevator when the clerk behind the main desk called to her.
"Signorina!" He hurried toward her. "Signorina, your friend has been so worried. He has searched everywhere for you. He is just now speaking with the Inspector."
"He called the police?" Cybelle exclaimed.
"Si, he was frantic. A young woman alone in a foreign country, at this late hour, with no knowledge of the language."
Where had she heard that before? And she would probably get an earful more. This trip was definitely not bringing Mark and her closer as she'd planned. If anything, it might alienate Mark completely. She had given him her promise, and broken it. What if he never trusted her again? Reluctantly Cybelle summoned the elevator. The door to her suite was open, and as she approached, she could see Mark in the sitting room, standing opposite the Inspector, a man of medium height who possessed an air of authority as well as the proverbial trench coat.
Mark was speaking anxiously. Worry lines furrowed his brow. "She's twenty-three, petite, hair the color of cocoa, eyes a dark luminous brown. She has a pixy nose and an impish mouth." His gaze shifted to the lighted cathedral dome visible through the open shutters. "Sometimes she is like a butterfly, other times a sparrow." So upset was he that he did not realize he had veered into the abstract. "If anything has happened to her—" Mark's voice shook with desolation. Were they tears gathered but yet unshed that made his eyes glisten a hazy blue in the light cast by the table lamps?
"Signor Carlson, I only require her outward appearance," the inspector said, closing his notepad. "And please, calm yourself."
"Excuse me, Inspector, I'm overwrought."
"It is quite understandable. You are deeply in love with the signorina. I am sorry this has happened."
Mark started to deny the allegation, then paused. "It's that evident?" The Inspector smiled. "L'amore bruciante e difficile a nascondere. Such burning love is hard to hide. Do not worry, we will fi
nd her." He tucked the notepad into his coat pocket and moved toward the door. He came face to face with Cybelle. "Ah, perhaps we have solved the mystery before the investigation has begun. Petite, hair the color of cocoa, brown eyes, a pixy nose and an impish mouth. Is this not the signorina you are so anxious about?"
Mark saw her. "Oh my God," he murmured. There was a noticeable lessening of tension on his face, a relaxing of his brow, and widening of his eyes with jubilance. He rushed toward her and folded her into his arms. "Cybelle, are you all right?"
"I'm fine. In fact, I feel wonderful!" All her weariness was forgotten the moment she heard him admit his love for her. She did not stop to consider the hurt her carefree words and attitude would cause a man who had just spent hours riddled with concern for her safety.
Mark held her at arms' length. "You feel fine? Wonderful?" His eyebrows knitted. Cybelle's smile faded as Mark exploded, "Then where have you been for the past ten hours?!"
"I—ah—well—you see—oh,"
"Signor Marco, you are confusing her," the Inspector in-tervened. "Signorina, please, tell us, where have you been."
She answered in such a small voice that both men had to strain to hear her reply.
"Pisa."
"Perchance you were on the chartered motor coach which broke down several miles outside the city, on its return trip?" And when Cybelle answered in the affirmative, "Not one of our better travel agencies. However, the agent reported the missing vehicle when it failed to arrive at the appointed time. But Signorina, I hesitate to add that the coach returned two hours ago."
Cybelle explained about the taxi and how it had stalled on the city outskirts, and the long trek to the hotel.
The Inspector appeared satisfied. "Va bene, you are safe. And you, Signor Carlson, have your friend back. I do not believe you require my services any longer." He addressed Cybelle again.
"Signorina, on future excursions, be kind enough to leave word of your whereabouts. You have caused this poor man a great deal of anxiety." Cybelle was tempted to tell them why she had boarded the coach in the first place, but she would look like a fool. An intelligent adult would have dealt better with her earlier predicament. She had panicked, done the ludicrous, acted as a frightened child. How they would silently laugh at her. She gazed at Mark. His initial anger had eased. Now he was watching her with a weary expression. He had admitted he loved her, but how could she expect him to swear undying love to an imbecile. "If you will both excuse me, I'm very tired." She risked another glance at Mark. His expression had become unreadable. "Good night," she said and retired to her bedroom.
The following morning, their mood subdued, a desolate silence between them, they returned home.
The silence continued between them, broken only by the occasional word, greeting, a remark here and there, a necessary bit of information. Summer blended into Fall, Fall into Winter, Winter into Spring, Spring into Summer....
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sun was close to setting when Cybelle passed Geraldine on her way to the garden and mentioned the rose bush under the shade of the oak tree. "It needs sunlight. If Harry could transplant it to a sunnier spot, I think that would do the trick."
"I'll tell Harry you wish the rose bush moved to a brighter spot."
Cybelle thanked her. "If Mark comes home before you retire, I'll be in the garden."
Geraldine nodded. Unless Cybelle left a message for Mark to see her, he would not look for her. These days he openly avoided her. So sad, Geraldine thought, because those times she'd caught him watching Cybelle, there was such tenderness in his eyes that in no way matched his behavior toward her these past two years. Geraldine returned to her housekeeping duties. Mark came home around nine o'clock. He greeted Geraldine who heard the front door opening and came into the foyer to see who had entered.
"Everything go well," she asked with a familiarity earned from years of service. "Fine, Geraldine, thanks. Just dinner with a prospective backer for one of the inventions the government is considering marketing." The house was quiet.
"Cybelle is in the garden," Geraldine informed him.
Mark did not comment. Geraldine hesitated, then summoning her courage, unable to stand knowing that Cybelle was unhappy, she dared, "Mark, I know it's not my place to say this, and I apologize ahead of time, but she's so lonely. She needs you, Mark." Geraldine waited for her employer to either ignore the remark or tell her it was none of her business.
But Mark was a gentleman first. "The truth is she's lonely because she wants to be. And she doesn't need me. She just thinks she does. You know Cybelle when she's made up her mind about something." He paused a moment, reflecting, then said. "I've come to a decision. She won't like it, but it's the only cure. You said she was in the garden?"
"Yes, sir. She's been crying."
Mark stiffened and pain flashed in his eyes.
"I peeked in a few minutes ago," Geraldine added.
Mark rubbed his temples. He looked tired. He sighed then smiled wearily at the housekeeper. "Thanks, Ger, I swear she's wearing me thin."
Geraldine nodded, feeling motherly towards Mark, especially when he called her "Ger", his nickname for her during his younger years. "Good night, sir," she returned his smile and headed for the angled wing that was hers and Harry's apartment. Mark loosened his tie and squared his shoulders. He went out the front door and around to the back of the house and into the garden.
Cybelle sat on the wrought iron settee under an indigo sky studded with stars. She wore a pink top and beige skirt that reached to below her calves. She never cared for miniskirts, not even as a teen-ager, stating they made her uncomfortable and she preferred the free, relaxed look.
The lights in the garden were on. One glance at her face confirmed Geraldine's words. Cybelle had been crying. This might not be the best time to tell of her his decision.
"Cybelle," he called.
She turned and her expression brightened. She leapt to her feet. "Mark, you're back! Earlier, Mark's sister, Doreen, and Harriet, the housekeeper's daughter, and Leatrice had joined Cybelle for lunch. "...They send their love, and guess what ..." She fought to say just the right words, as if one word out of place would send him scurrying away. "Harriet is having a birthday party for Val in a couple of weeks. They’re really hoping we’ll come.”
She was so young, Mark thought, so energetic and impetuous. She deserved someone better than him. He was settled in his ways, he liked order and tranquility. The shelter and conformity of his colonial home was indispensable to him. What right had he to need her? This was Jacques' daughter and he'd promised his friend to care for her and insure her happiness.
Whether it was the right time or not, he had to tell her his decision. "Cybelle, let's drop all the pleasantries. You're miserable and I'm miserable. This is not what your father wanted. You're a twenty-five year-old woman, no longer my ward. Your managing job at the plant and your writing career on the side pay well enough for you to rent your own apartment and live comfortably. I want you out of this house and on your own." Mark cringed at the uncustomary harshness of his voice. But if he showed one iota of what he truly felt at this moment, she would never leave. He could tell she was fighting to keep her composure, to keep from bursting into tears. "Fine, we'll drop the pleasantries," she said. "But you're not fooling me. You can wear that stone face and use that insensitive tone, and try your best to be cruel, but it's no use. I'm not a teen-ager or a young adult, I'm a woman and I know what I feel. And what you feel. At first I wasn't certain that you cared for me in the same way. I wanted so much for you to want me that I was afraid I was creating for myself a fantasy. Then that night in Florence when you summoned the inspector to look for me, the night the bus broke down and I was so late returning—"
"What about that night? Mark asked, a worry line creasing his brow. Her small chin rose saucily, her pixie nose flared. "I heard the inspector and you talking. I heard everything."
"You heard everything, clearly?"
"
Clearly, Mark. He guessed immediately how you felt about me. And when he asked you, you couldn't deny it."
No use pretending, then, Mark thought irritably. "Cybelle, for heaven's sake, I'm forty-two, you're twenty-five; I like elevator music, you're MTV; I'm a Republican, you're a Democrat," he ended, lapsing into the far-fetched. Cybelle closed the distance between them. There was a vigor about her now, an easing of sadness, as though at last she'd found the light at the end of a cold, dark tunnel. For the first time he felt unable to hide the chink in his armor. "You have to leave this house," he asserted, afraid all his defenses were being slowly, methodically destroyed. "All right, I love you; I've always loved you, from that evening on your eighteenth birthday. Remember, you got drunk on champagne and I found you crawling on all fours in the corridor outside the bedrooms." Cybelle chuckled. "And you lifted me up and I fell asleep in your arms. You carried me to my room. Is that when you knew?"
"Yes, it's when I knew. You were wearing the earrings I'd given you as a gift that day. You were the most beautiful, most alive, most unaffected being I'd ever known. That's when I realized I had to keep my distance. You'd made no secret of your feelings for me. But I also recognized that those feelings were only a crush on a benefactor. You'd gone through hell seeing your parents killed in the fire. Lost everything, torn from your home and your friends. When you decided you could trust me, I became your life buoy to keep you afloat until you could reach dry land. But you reached that dry land long ago. You insist on staying on the shore, refusing to go inland, where you can make a life for yourself."