Celine knew someone who could make them new identification papers. They’d used their own passports to get into Italy, but Celine had advised her not to use them now that she was here. As soon as they had their IDs, Audrey planned to enroll Sammy in school.
Celine had a laptop, and Audrey sent an untraceable e-mail to the address she had asked her mother to set up. It was brief and simple, just to let her know that they were all right.
Beginnings were followed by middles, and for Audrey that meant finding a way to support herself. The money she had managed to bring with her would not last forever. It was frightening, in fact, how much of it she had already spent.
She brought the subject up with Celine one unusually warm afternoon in March. Celine had offered to help Audrey clear a patch in her small backyard for a kitchen garden. They were picking up rocks and putting them in the wheelbarrow Celine had brought down earlier.
“I’m going to have to figure out a way to earn some money,” Audrey said, moving the wheelbarrow closer to the edge of the plot they’d marked off.
“What did you do before?”
“I never worked after I got married.”
“Neither did I. My husband wouldn’t allow it.”
Audrey nodded, the words hitting a familiar chord, as they had many times between the two of them these past few weeks. Theirs was an unusual friendship, the bond between them immediate and deep. They had fought a similar war, understood each other’s scars on a level Audrey knew few people could. “There was something I—” She hesitated. “But it would probably never work here.”
Celine stood, pulled off a leather glove and shook some dirt from the inside. “What was it?”
“I painted flower pots and sold them to a kind of high-end retail store.”
“How’d they sell?”
“The owner was pleased.”
“Then why couldn’t you do it here?”
Audrey shrugged. “I don’t know. I—”
“Clay pots?”
“Yes.”
“We certainly have plenty of those available. What else would you need?”
“Brushes, paint, burnt umber for antiquing.”
“We should be able to find all that in San Gimignano. Think you’re ready to venture out a bit?”
Just the thought tied Audrey’s stomach in knots. She had left the house only twice since their arrival. Once to return the rental car, and again a week or so ago when she and Sammy had gone with Celine to the market for groceries.
Celine had invited them to go on various excursions with her, into San Gimignano, or up to Certaldo Alto, nearby hill towns that under Celine’s description sounded fascinating.
“Audrey, I know how you feel,” Celine said. “It’s terrifying to think of putting yourself out there again. Of risking the safety you’ve found here. But this is a different world. A new life. Don’t make the mistake of simply creating another prison for yourself and for Sammy. Only you can decide when you’re ready, but when you are, let me know.”
Audrey nodded, emotion tightening her throat. She glanced across the yard at Sammy, playing fetch with George, his face open and smiling as it had rarely been in his young life. Maybe it was time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CELINE PICKED THEM UP the next morning at just after nine. George and Sammy were in the back, both sitting as tall as they could to see out the windows of Celine’s small car.
“I made a couple of calls last night and found out that there’s a man a mile or so from San Gimignano who makes clay pots,” Celine said. “You should be able to buy some from him if they’re what you’re looking for.”
Celine’s generosity still amazed Audrey. “How will I ever be able to thank you?”
“By becoming the person you want to be. Someone else did the same for me. By helping you, I am repaying them. Maybe one day you’ll do the same for someone.”
It wasn’t anything she would ever have imagined, but even that seemed doable as the day itself overflowed with possibility.
They arrived at the man’s house some twenty minutes later. He came out to greet them, his weathered face shaded beneath the brim of a wide straw hat.
Celine spoke to him in Italian, very few words of which Audrey understood. He led them around to the back of the house and the small shop where he made his pots. He waved a hand down an aisle where they were stacked by type.
“He says to pick out what you like,” Celine said.
“Thank you.” Audrey nodded at the man and walked up and down the various rows, spotting several styles that she loved. She picked out four. “Can you ask him how much these are?”
Celine asked him in Italian and translated back to Audrey. Audrey nodded and said, “I’ll take two each of those four.”
The man packed the pots up and loaded them into Celine’s trunk. And, as they drove away, Audrey began to feel for the first time that she might be regaining control of her life, that she would determine its direction from here on out.
It was a wonderful feeling.
NEARLY SIX WEEKS had gone by, and he had hit dead end after dead end.
He’d spoken to Sammy’s teacher and the pastor at Audrey’s church. He’d talked to her hair-dresser, clerks at the stores where she’d shopped. He went back to the City Gardener and talked to Arthur Hughes, who had been distressed to learn that Audrey was gone, but it was clear to Nicholas that the man had no idea why. Nicholas had even gotten Audrey’s maiden name off a document she had signed with Jonathan. After numerous searches through Internet white pages, he had tracked down her parents, calling their home, only to be told they had not seen Audrey in a very long time.
It was as if she had dropped off the face of the earth.
Since leaving Webster & Associates, Nicholas had spent his days working on his house, making a checklist of repair jobs that kept his hands busy, if not his mind. Lola loved the fact that he was home most of the time. He could hardly believe the transformation in her. Where she had once wilted at the sight of a stranger, she now barked at the UPS truck, and walked from room to room with an assurance that her world wasn’t going to fall apart at any second.
He wondered if Audrey had gained the same kind of security in her new life.
Driving down Piedmont one evening, he passed the library he’d seen her turn into the afternoon he’d left her house. Farfetched, but worth a try. At this point, he wasn’t above grasping at straws.
He parked out front, then loped up the front steps to the cool, hushed interior of the library entrance. He walked through the main floor until he found the reference desk. The woman behind the counter was in her fifties with gray hair that looked as if it had been teased with an electric comb. A pair of wire-rimmed oval glasses sat low on her nose. She peered out at him over them. The name badge on her red blazer read Mrs. Olinger.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so,” he said. He reached in his pocket for the photo of Audrey with Jonathan at a fund-raiser he’d downloaded from the city newspaper’s Web site. “I wondered if you’ve ever seen this woman.”
Mrs. Olinger squinted at the picture, started to shake her head, then looked again. “No. I don’t recognize her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Is there someone else who works here that I might ask?”
Without answering, she got up from her stool and disappeared behind a door marked Private. A few moments later, another woman approached the desk, eyebrows raised. “Is there something I could help you with?”
He held out the picture. “I wondered if you remember seeing this woman in here.”
She took the picture, looked at it for a moment, then handed it back to him. “Is there some reason you’re asking?”
“I’m trying to find her. She’s…missing.”
The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh. And you are?”
“A friend. Nicholas Wakefield.”
She studied him for a long momen
t. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you.”
The hope that had begun to build inside him suddenly collapsed. “Are you sure?”
She hesitated and then nodded decisively.
“Thank you anyway,” he said, turning and threading his way through the tables scattered throughout the room.
At the elevator, Nicholas pushed the button, then dropped his head back and blew out a sigh. Maybe it was time to give this up, let it go. Let her go.
“Mr. Wakefield.”
The librarian trotted up, one hand at the neck of her blouse. “Wait,” she said. “In general, I don’t believe in giving out information about people without their consent. But you seem like a nice man. I do remember her. She asked me a few questions.”
“About?” he said, his pulse tripping now.
“MapQuest. She wanted a map of Florence,” the woman said. “Florence, Italy.”
LAURA’S apartment was in one of the better enclaves of New Haven, not far from the Yale campus.
She lived alone. Roommates were a bore. She’d tried that route a couple of times, decided it wasn’t worth the hassle even though her dad balked at the exorbitant monthly rent for the place she’d chosen. He still paid it.
It was almost eight o’clock, and she was beat. She dropped onto the leather sofa in one corner of the living room and flipped on the TV. Jerry Springer rerun. She watched for a moment as a man on the screen picked up a chair and hurled it across the stage. Did people like that actually walk the streets?
She hit Next. Animal Planet. Two cougar cubs rolled on the ground, nipping playfully at one another.
The doorbell rang. She glanced at her watch. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She went to the door and peered through the peep hole. Her heart began to pound. “Jonathan. Go away.”
“Baby, let me in. I need to talk to you.”
She ran a hand under the back of her hair. “What could you possibly have to say?”
“A lot if you would let me.”
She hadn’t spoken to him since they’d returned from the Dominican Republic. “I don’t want to see you,” she said. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“You won’t take my calls. What choice did I have?”
“Go home.”
“Laura. I miss you.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist, the old attraction igniting against better judgment. Crazy. She’d be crazy to start this up again. But he was like a drug. Out of sight, she could find the will to resist. On the other side of the door, within reach, the temptation was too great.
She put a hand to the side of her face, the bruises long healed. She closed her eyes for a moment, then removed the chain and let him in.
THE EXHILARATION LASTED all the way across the Atlantic. Nicholas landed in Florence just after noon on a Friday. He used a pay phone to call Kyle and check in on Lola. Nicholas had not told Kyle where he was going, but his friend knew him well enough to know it had something to do with Audrey. He assured him that Lola was fine and at that very moment playing in the backyard with the kids.
It wasn’t until his feet actually hit the streets of the old city that Nicholas realized the enormity of his undertaking. How did he find someone who didn’t want to be found in a population of 400,000?
For the next three days, he walked the streets of Florence until he began to feel like a man possessed. He sat for hours at a small café in the main shopping district, sipping strong coffee, a book on his lap, his heart stopping a little with every blond woman who walked by.
She was here. He could feel it, crazy as it sounded.
On the fourth day, he was up with the sunrise. He pulled on a pair of running pants and a T-shirt, then left the hotel for an early run. The city had just begun to wake up, shopkeepers sweeping the sidewalks in front of their businesses, a few mopeds zipping down empty streets, their drivers steering with one hand, holding cell phones to their ears with the other.
Nicholas ran fast and hard, his shoes hitting the sidewalk with a force his knees would later remind him of. But the pounding was a much-needed outlet for the frustration slowly replacing his hopefulness.
He hung a right and headed down a road whose stores would not open for a few hours. The shops here were mainly aimed at tourists with money to spend. The window cases were backlit, displaying goods for sale, leather-bound photo albums, stylish shoes and coats.
Halfway down the street, something caught his eye. He stopped and backed up, frowning while his memory tugged for recognition.
Two painted pots sat in the corner of the window, their brilliant colors distinctive and familiar. His heart began to pound. They were just like the ones Audrey had sold to the store in downtown Atlanta.
Audrey.
She was here.
He sat down on the window ledge, dropped his head between his knees and waited for his breathing to steady.
She was here.
He glanced at his watch. The shop wouldn’t open for another two hours. He would wait.
THE SHOPKEEPER ARRIVED at ten minutes before nine. By that point, Nicholas had nearly worn the soles from his shoes pacing the sidewalk.
The man smiled and nodded, then opened the door and waved him inside.
Nicholas went in and forced himself to browse the rest of the store before returning to the front window. “Excuse me.”
The man looked up from the cash register. “Si?”
“These pots. I would like to buy them.”
“Bello, si?”
Nicholas nodded. “Do you have more?”
“No, these are the only ones.”
“Will you be getting more?”
“On Friday, I think.”
“Are they made locally?”
“Yes. But by an American woman. Also very beautiful,” the man added with a smile.
Nicholas kept his expression casual. “Do you know what time Friday? I’m not sure how much longer I will be here.”
“She usually comes in the morning. Check with me around noon.”
“Thank you,” Nicholas said. “Thank you.”
FOR NICHOLAS, two days seemed longer than a lifetime. He went to the Uffizi Gallery, the Duomo, walked nearly every street in Florence, ran twice a day from the sheer need to burn energy.
When Friday morning finally arrived, he left his room at seven and headed back to the little shop, taking a seat at the café across the street. The store did not open for two more hours, but he wasn’t taking a chance on missing her. This felt like his one and only shot; he might very well never have another.
At exactly ten minutes before nine, the shopkeeper arrived and opened his doors. A lady with a small dog stopped and chatted with him while he swept the front sidewalk. The woman lowered her eyes at something the man said, laughed and walked on.
Within the next hour, seven customers came and went. Nicholas ordered another coffee. A small car had pulled up in front of the store, the trunk open. A woman in a straw hat was talking to the shopkeeper who smiled and nodded.
Nicholas glanced back at the car, moving to one side of the café for a better look at the trunk. He spotted the colorful rim of a painted pot.
He set his cup down too fast, the saucer clattering against the tabletop, a couple of nearby patrons raising curious gazes. Nicholas ignored them, weaving through chairs and hitting the sidewalk at a run without taking his eyes off her.
He crossed the street, a taxi barely missing him, its horn squawking in outrage. At the edge of the sidewalk he forced himself to walk. His hands were shaking, and he could barely get her name out. “Audrey.”
She swung around, her smiling face instantly closing.
Not Audrey.
This woman was older with auburn hair visible beneath the front of her hat. A very attractive woman, as the shopkeeper had said. But not Audrey.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said. “I thought you were…someone else.”
The woman put a hand to her heart, started to say som
ething, appeared to struggle for words, then said, “That’s all right.”
“She is the beautiful lady who brings me the pots,” the shopkeeper said, looking puzzled by the interchange. “This gentleman bought the last two,” he explained to the woman. “He would like to buy more.”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. “For gifts.”
“Oh,” she said, clearing her throat. “How nice. I appreciate it very much.”
Disappointment hit Nicholas like a wrecking ball. He had been so sure they were hers. Had it been nothing more than his own wishful thinking? Maybe he had gone too far with this. Maybe he was too far gone with it.
The woman walked to the car and lifted out one of the pots. He went around and said, “Let me help you.”
As he took the pot from her, he looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He raised his gaze to hers. Her eyes held the same muted turmoil he remembered from before.
She wasn’t Audrey.
But she knew where Audrey was.
AUDREY’S DAYS had taken on a routine that gave her life a reassuring sense of structure. She worked each morning from eight until noon in the small shed she had converted into a workshop. Celine had helped her place her pots in three different stores so far, one located in Certaldo Alto and one in San Gimignano. This last shop in Florence had been the most successful yet, and she was hopeful now that she would be able to support Sammy and herself once the rest of her money ran out.
Laughter echoed from the front yard followed by a playful bark. Audrey smiled. She fully believed that the always-ready-to-play George had done more for Sammy in these past weeks than any therapist ever could.
She had no idea how she would ever repay Celine. The other woman had understood Audrey’s lingering fear of venturing too far out and had offered to deliver the pots for her until she grew confident enough to do it herself.
Audrey glanced at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Celine was due back any time. They had begun taking long walks each day, and Audrey wasn’t sure who enjoyed them more, she and Celine or Sammy and George.
A Year and a Day (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 14