by Nichole Van
2016
Branwell
Call me. I want to hear how things went.
Tennyson. Text.
It arrived just as Lucy and I pulled into the small courtyard behind the Renaissance-era family palazzo in the center of Florence. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, turning the world gold-glazed.
I carefully parked my restored 1974 Volkswagen Vanagon between Chiara’s Mini Cooper and Dante’s sleek BMW. The white and tangerine VW bus was my baby. My brothers dubbed her The Mystery Machine and if I let my hair grow too long, Chiara started calling me Raggy in her best Scooby-Doo voice. For my part, I had secretly named the VW bus Lucia, for obvious reasons—the auburn beauty that I could have.
It was a sad commentary on the general pathetic-ness of my life.
Lucy piled out of the van, grabbing her overnight bag from the back seat. Her red hair was escaping its bun again, rebellious curls bouncing down her neck and around her ears. Taunting.
“Are you sure this isn’t a bother?” Lucy asked as we walked back to the arched passageway that ran under the apartment building to the street.
“Not at all. Guaranteed I’d hear about it for months if I had come home without you.”
I was relieved Lucy was here with us. As the judge had declared Jeff and Jen’s apartment a crime scene, Lucy couldn’t remain there. Lucy had said she would go to a hotel, but Dante and I wouldn’t hear of it.
Lucy had called Inspector Paola to clear the move, giving Paola our names and address in Florence. Paola was fine with it as long as Lucy, “called in everyday and stayed out of the way of investigators.’”
I had then listened as Lucy chatted with her family on the short drive back to Florence. Apparently, they had been asked to remain in the United States, as Inspector Paola didn’t want more meddling Americans running about. Paola clearly had some strong prejudices. So after being grounded, Lucy’s family now expected Lucy to do more, more, more to find answers and they wanted them now, now, now.
Needless to say, Lucy’s voice was strained by the end of their conversation.
I propped open the door to the stairwell with my foot and took Lucy’s heavy bag as she passed through.
“You don’t have to carry my bag—” She stopped at the expression on my face.
“Do you seriously think Judith and Nonna raised me to be the kind of guy who would let an invited guest carry their own luggage? Male or female?”
She studied me for a long moment.
“Thank you,” she finally said.
She went up the stairs before me, stopping at the first landing with its enormous wooden door—the apartment I had once shared with Dante.
Lucy knew the layout of our building. Basement was for swimming pool, gym and my sound proof room. Ground floor was the storefront for our family art appraisal and acquisitions business—D’Angelo Enterprises. First floor apartment was the twins. Second floor, Nonna. Third floor, my mom and Chiara.
Tennyson hadn’t lived with us for several years, preferring to stay by himself in the family villa near Volterra. Far away from other people and their intrusive emotions.
“Dante and Claire live there now,” I said, nodding toward the first floor apartment door. “I’m Nonna’s new roomie. Let’s keep climbing up to the third floor and my mom’s apartment. Chiara will be excited to have you staying with them.”
We climbed two more flights of stairs in silence. Lucy reached the top apartment just as my mom opened the door—tall and curvy, dark auburn hair neatly styled.
“Lucy, it’s so good to see you.” Mom gave her a tight hug. “I’m glad the boys convinced you to come here for the night. We’re all praying for Grace—”
“Lucy!” A loud squeal sounded behind us.
Chiara pushed past me in a blur of color, practically plastering herself to Lucy.
Yeah. The women in my family had always been close with Lucy.
Chiara pulled back. “You poor, crazy thing. I’ve been following Grace’s story on the news.” My sister grabbed Lucy’s arm and pulled her into the apartment. “You need to catch me up on everything . . .”
Lucy’s eyes filled with tears, and she shot me a trembling look as she disappeared inside.
“Don’t upset Lucy, Chiara,” I called after them. “She’s already been through enough—”
“It’s called female therapy, Bran,” Chiara yelled back. “Lucy needs some girl time. Shoo.”
Sisters.
My mom shot me an apologetic smile. I tromped back down to my apartment. Silence slammed into me, the apartment dark.
That’s right. Nonna was having her ladies night with a group of friends. They rotated location each week, playing cards and drinking too much Chianti red.
Stepping into my bedroom, I pulled off my gloves with a sigh of relief, tossing them on a side table inside the door. I kicked off my boots, wriggling my toes inside their sound-proofing socks.
Like the pool in the basement, my bedroom was my safe space. My sanctuary. Nothing in this room could hurt me. Nothing would be unexpected.
My bedroom in Dante and Claire’s apartment had been spectacular, designed to my exact tastes with huge windows and an inlaid marble floor.
This room was less flashy but still my own. Dark beamed ceiling with a herringbone wood floor. Enormous king-sized bed against the wall to the right. Two large windows directly opposite the door, thrown open to let in the summer air. Shelves on the left wall held my . . . collections.
A bowl of broken sticks.
Down pillows stacked in bins.
Braided wristbands.
A large armoire and dresser flanked the bed. Italians have no concept of a ‘closet.’ Wardrobe. Armoire. Closet. It was all the same word to them—armadio.
Sunlight washed my bedroom in shades of sunset. Vivid reds and golds wrapping around shapes, casting half the room in long silhouette.
When photographing a heart, the trick is to find the shadows . . .
Lucy’s words from all those years ago tumbled through my mind. I understood what she meant—the stronger the light, the deeper the shadows, the sharper the form.
Before Tennyson’s call this morning . . . I had expected to never see Lucy again. But now, she had blasted back into my life—brilliant, blinding sunshine. Dazzlingly luminous.
Lucia. My light.
Shadows define the soul. They delineate your edges, bring you into sharp focus.
Lucy stripped me bare, exposing all that I was in her radiant light—a heart that beat for her.
At what point could I finally let her go?
Correction. I needed to let her go.
I reached behind and fisted Jeff’s too tight t-shirt, pulling it over my head and away from my skin. Stripping the sound of Lucy off my body. Literally.
Tossing the shirt into my laundry hamper, I surveyed the bandages wrapped around my right arm. The scratches had stopped stinging, but I could hear Lucy’s breathing with each strip of tape over gauze. The sound of her hands moving, soothing me.
Yeah. Those needed to go too. Too much Lucy.
Too much of what I couldn’t have and shouldn’t dwell on.
I picked off the bandages, one-by-one, tossing them aside.
The scrapes had already started to heal, pulling together into angry thin lines stretching down my arm.
I snagged an ace bandage (already stitched and prepared in advance; I genuinely was OCD in some ways) and more antibiotic ointment from a cupboard and re-wrapped my arm.
All the while, I methodically forced down all thoughts of Lucy, stuffing my adoration of her inside an enormous steel container, mentally imagining her in the center of an indomitable safe.
All with the single purpose of keeping Tennyson from feeling my most guarded secret. Heaven only knew if it worked.
I was a complete jerk to have allowed my love of Lucy flow free as much as I had today. Holding her, comforting her. Letting her light flood me.
I needed to keep my emotions und
er absolute control. But being around her like this . . . just me and her, without Tennyson . . . I didn’t know how I was going to survive it.
Stuff it away. Lock it up.
Finishing up with my arm, I snagged my phone.
Tennyson answered in the middle of the first ring.
“Talk to me.” Impatient. Concerned. Full of pain.
I swallowed back the flood of emotion.
My empath abilities were always strongest with Tennyson. Perhaps amplified by his own?
For the umpteenth time, I wondered how much he felt from me. Supposedly, he couldn’t feel emotions over distance, though he admitted to occasionally sensing things from Dante and me from afar. Did my affection for Lucy fall into that category?
So, Tenn, do you feel how madly in love I am with Lucy? Or have I been good at hiding that from you?
Questions I could never ask.
I pulled myself away from that cliff and focused on my brother, reinforcing the image of my feelings locked inside steel.
“It’s all good. She’s here at the house with us, Lucy is.” I sat on the edge of my bed.
“That’s good.” Anguish washed me. A flood of despair. Tennyson’s reaction to hearing Lucy’s name? “How is she?”
Not good. He wouldn’t even say her name.
“The same old Lucy. Upset and extremely worried about Grace but hanging in there. Though I’m betting you might have already felt that from her.”
Silence.
C’mon, Tennyson. Let something slip. How’s your GUT doing?
“I wish—” Apprehension. Frustration. More pain. “I wish it worked like that,” he finally said, voice soft.
Truth.
“It’s probably good my gift isn’t that strong,” he continued. That same anguish surged again through the phone connection, the same refusal to even say her name. “Otherwise, I don’t know that I could ever be free . . .”
More truth. An image punched through: Tennyson sitting out on the large, flagstone terrazza that extended off the back of the family villa. Face turned toward the setting sun. Real or just my overactive imagination?
“Talk to me, Bran,” he said. “What happened?”
I shook off the image and laid back on my bed, recounting the afternoon’s events for him. Omitting the incident with the vase, of course, but pointing out the problems with Professor Ross . . . ehr, Roberto.
I ended with a promise to call him tomorrow with an update.
Dante walked into my room as I pushed End.
He kicked the door behind him, crossing his arms and leaning back into it. He had changed out into his signature tight t-shirt and jeans.
His eyes flicked to my bandaged arm.
I didn’t need anything beyond simple common sense to tell me he was ticked off over my lack of communication.
“What happened?” he asked in Italian. Cosa succede?
I scrutinized him, rubbed a hand over my beard.
Dante stared back. Gaze firm. Determined.
He unlaced a hand and beckoned. Spill it.
Great. The anticipated showdown with my twin. The missing knock-out punch in this thoroughly craptacular day.
I stood, opened the armoire and pulled out my usual long sleeve, button-up shirt. Soft blue cotton. Contrasting cream stitched runes along the cuffs and hem.
“Today has been difficult.” My Italian words hung in the air. Dificile. “Can we postpone this fight? Put it on the schedule for next week?”
“Branwell—”
I caught the weariness in his tone. Frustration. Concern. Guilt.
A desire to fix things.
Standard emotions for Dante when dealing with me.
I put on the shirt and started buttoning it.
My breathing. A needle sliding through fabric.
Dante shifted, face hanging down.
He shook his head. Back and forth. Left. Right.
“Please.” He raised his eyes to mine. “I care about you. When you share what’s happening to you”—a flicked hand toward my bandaged arm—“or what’s going on in that head of yours, it means a lot to me. I’m not trying to control your life or even fix the problem—”
Trust Dante to mimic my own thoughts.
“—I just want to help, if I can.”
His voice dripped sincerity. Genuine.
Help. That was always Dante’s thing. Let me help.
Like I couldn’t handle life on my own.
Poor Branwell and Tennyson—the broken brothers Dante had to put back together.
I hated the self-pitying tone of my own internal whining.
“Neither of us is leaving this room until you talk to me,” he continued.
The worst part? Dante was just so damn nice about it.
I closed my eyes, forcing down that jealous, angry voice. Gah. I could be such a typical middle child sometimes.
I was a grown man.
Man up and grow up.
Wasn’t that what my dad would say to us as teens?
Finishing with the shirt, I shucked off the damp jeans and snagged a new pair from the dresser, giving Dante my back as I pulled them on.
Silence sat heavy between us.
I could feel his eyes drilling me between the shoulder blades as I buttoned my pants.
Finally, Dante sighed. Deep. Rumbling.
“How long have you been in love with her?” he asked.
My lungs seized.
No need to clarify who he was referring to.
No.
This was not happening.
No way I was having this conversation with him.
I grabbed a pair of leather gloves from my drawer and turned, face impassive, intent on shouldering my way past my brother.
He kept his big body firmly against the door, staring me down.
Same height. Same face.
Sometimes I hated looking at him . . . seeing what my life could have been, if only—
“Stop.” Dante whispered, eyes fierce. “You think you’re the only one who feels things? Who senses stuff? I don’t need a ‘gift’ to feel your anger. Your resentment. Your pain—”
“I’m not having this conversation.” I tried to draw the gloves onto my fingers, ruthlessly ignoring the slight shake in my hands.
“You love Lucy. You’re not denying it.”
I pretended to be absorbed in forcing my hands into the gloves . . . with minimal success. My fingers stuck.
“I’ve already lost one brother to that woman, I have no intention of losing another—”
“Don’t you dare!” My head snapped up, anger flooding me. “Don’t you dare say a bad word about her. She is the most caring, sweet, kind, funny—”
“Whoa.” Dante held up both hands, palms out. “I get it. Trust me, I do. But—”
Ding. Ding.
Bzzzz.
Dante’s phone chimed from his pocket. My phone vibrated on the bed.
I gave up trying to get the gloves on, tossing them onto the duvet, staring at my phone in the process.
Text. Tennyson.
Stop fighting you two.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Honestly. Could my life just be simple? Was that too much to ask?
Silence again.
“Does he know?” Dante finally asked.
I shook my head. “I pray every day he doesn’t.”
Dante nodded.
I threaded my hands into my hair, angling my head back to look at the ceiling. Refusing to meet his condemning gaze.
“I met her in a coffee shop, before I knew she was Tennyson’s girlfriend.” The confession popped free. “It was a lightning strike.”
Un colpo di fulmine.
“Damn. Branwell—” Dante’s horror washed me.
“I have loved that woman with every ounce of my stupid heart for six freaking years.” My laugh so bitter. “Watched her with Tennyson. Watched over her for him when he was in Afghanistan—”
“Branwell, good grief.” Dante
ran a hand over his face. Pity and dismay flooded my senses.
“—watched her break Tennyson’s heart, not once but twice, and hated myself for feeling the smallest bit of relief both times she did it—”
“Branwell. Brother. I get it. I do.” Dante pushed off the door and walked to me. Oozing that pity I so detested. “Tennyson, he’s still in a bad place. This would easily send him over the edge. You know you can’t pursue her—”
I laughed again. So sharp. So caustic. Fixed Dante with such a . . . look.
“Do you think I don’t know that? That I don’t wake Every. Single. Day. with that exact thought in my head? Forget about her. Stuff my emotions away. Lock them up so Tennyson will never know—”
Ding. Ding.
Bzzzzz.
Another text.
Seriously, you two. Knock it off.
Oy vey.
“Enough of this.” I waved Dante away. “Tennyson doesn’t need our added emotions right now. Obviously, they’re strong enough to reach him.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ve been handling this thing with Lucy just fine for years. She doesn’t know. Tennyson doesn’t know. We’ll find Grace, send them on their way and never see Lucy again. It’ll be fine.”
“Will it? What about you?” Dante started pacing, a hand back in his hair. “This is why you never date, isn’t it? Why you haven’t had a girlfriend in . . . forever?”
My silence was answer enough.
“I can move past her, Dante. Eventually. Time and distance will fix it.”
Dante snorted. “Like it has for Tennyson?” Sarcasm ringed every syllable.
Thwack, thwack.
A tap sounded. We both turned as Chiara stepped into the room.
“Hey.” She scanned us both up and down as she shut the door. “Tennyson asked me to come down here and end your fight.”
Of course.
“We’re done,” I said, moving to leave the room.
“No, we’re not. We’re just getting going.” Dante’s words stopped me.
“What’s up?” Chiara curled up on the edge of my bed, tucking her feet underneath her. “I want details.”
“You always want details.” I stared at her. “But I’m done—”
“Branwell’s been in love with Lucy from the beginning.” Dante threw me under the bus.
Chiara’s eyes flared wide, her mouth forming a perfect surprised ‘O.’