"Kept safe. She was afraid for you."
"She could've taken me with her."
"She didn't want you to be hurt."
"I could've helped."
"You were a child."
"Not always a child." He rose and clutched the curtain. I stood, too, squeezed his tense arm.
"She left that letter, Noel. Wasn't that her way of inviting you into her life, when you were ready to search?"
"I don't know. She could be anywhere. In an asylum, bloody well off her rocker. Dead. Or still hiding, scared." His expression bled desperation and regret.
What would a man capable of beating his wife do to learn she'd hidden a child from him, changed his name? What would he do, him, the worst kind of monster? Like Ian, a part of me cried, while another said, No, no, not like him. Noel's father was far more dangerous, far more conscious of his decisions.
"What are you going to do?"
"The only thing I can. Find her."
Find her! You have to find her!
Maybe I was living vicariously through Noel, but I ached for him to succeed and find peace. Because it was still possible.
"I faxed everything to Jakes, including the letters in the second package. They weren't from her," he said, answering the question before I asked. "A next-of-kin notice that she'd checked out of a hospital in Lucerne, another note from a safe house in Purbeck, that sort of thing. Now that he has it all, things could move quickly."
"Should you leave for Paris today?" I asked, as a cold wind leaked through the window seams.
"He said I should wait until he knows which side of the continent she's on, if she's here at all. So I need to stay. More than that, I want to. Effing weird, eh?"
"Not weird. She's your mother." I smiled as reassuringly as I could and stifled what I knew to be true: Life made no guarantees when it came to closure.
THE WEATHER, loyal to the forecast, stayed wretched all day. Noel and I didn't do much. Played cards. Watched TV. Waited for the phone to ring. I lay on the bed at one point with my legs straight up against the headboard and wall.
"What're you doing?" Noel asked.
"Imagining life as a ceiling creature. See that lamp there?" I pointed at the scoop-bowl light above me. "A ceiling creature could sit in that."
"A ceiling creature would burn its ass on the bulb."
"It's why all ceiling creatures have hot asses," I said, gratified by his snort of laughter. No better time to tell him what was on my mind. "I want to go to Sri Putra's again."
His upside-down grin flatlined. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Because you sense I'm a diehard adventuress." Truth was, my need to understand the keris had been resuscitated over the last twenty-four hours. What had happened when I'd seen those white lights and had that vivid memory of blood and promise? My mind, playing tricks, maybe. Walking me over the ceiling.
Something new had occurred to me, too. Ermanno, who clearly had no qualms about reading the notes Sri Putra left for me, might never have given my contact information to his brother. Somehow, I had to find a way to leave a private note for the empu--tell him where I was and that I still had the blade. At least then I'd have tried everything, dug as hard as possible for answers before packing my questions and leaving Rome. My poppy would've done no less.
Noel remained silent.
"Maybe he's back," I said, "or maybe he's left another note." I righted myself and leaned closer to the meager glow coming in through the window. There was a spot in my vision from the lamp. "You don't have to come."
"Funny," he said. "Let's get it over with."
NOEL CARRIED a big umbrella borrowed from the hotel, but I veered out from under it and let the sky drizzle on my hat. Once, when I slipped on the slick stones, he grabbed me up, and I took the opportunity to lock his hand with mine and keep it there. He smiled when I did this and shifted our hands to interlace a finger with my pinkie.
We walked with squeaky-sole sounds down the deserted hall of Putra's apartment, prepared for anything: Putra away, Putra at home, Ermanno stalking about. No one could've predicted what we found.
The keris with bold ovals that the empu had purchased from Time After Time protruded from his door--a door now covered in the same red X marks I'd seen in my dream. The note I'd written for the empu slipped from my hand, onto the floor.
Noel rocked the blade free. Dropped it. The corridor still echoed with sound when he held my likeness before me--the photograph stolen from his wallet. I hadn't even registered that it was there, impaled by the blade. Ermanno had cleaved my face in two.
Shuffling sounds registered. Putra's neighbor, Mrs. Fiori, plodded down the other side of the hall as if up to her thighs in water. She wore black. Her words raised my skin.
"Death lives here. There is death."
The illness she'd mentioned ... had Sri Putra died?
"Never again, Maeve," Noel said, his voice vibrating with anger. "Never again. Say it."
"Never again."
He kicked the ruined blade, and I saw it from the corner of my eye--my fallen note fluttered and flapped, then sailed right under the empu's door. I crouched, pressed my cheek against the linoleum and peered through the sizeable gap between the floor and the wood. And there was my note--just out of my reach.
* * *
FURY POURED OFF Noel as we walked to the hotel. I felt something else: vulnerability. I didn't like it.
"Go back to Betheny," he said at one point.
I stopped. He did, too.
"Why?"
"A psychopath just stabbed your picture."
"You want me to go?"
"Yes," he said. "I want you to go."
"What if I'm not willing to leave town because of some guy with anger-management issues? What about your mother?"
"I don't know what's going on with this investigation, Maeve. It could be days or months before I hear anything. You can't hold my hand the whole time."
"And what if I could? Would you want me to?"
He surprised me with a rich laugh, then took my hand and squeezed. "I'd never turn down this hand. Not ever."
A different kind of defenselessness rose up in me. It hurt, felt good, like the piecing together of broken glass. I smiled and hoped nothing would shatter. He stared at my face and mouth, and I wished he'd kiss me. And he did. A gentle kiss. Safe. Too safe. Maybe now that he knew everything about my past, he'd decided it was best not to love me. Maybe no one, not even Noel, would look for comfort in glass arms.
The rain came harder. He opened the umbrella.
"Tomorrow's New Year's Eve," he said. "Let's have that. Then we'll see what happens."
"All right," I said. "We'll see what happens."
I DRESSED FOR New Year's Eve in wool gabardine trousers and a top I'd been suckered into buying at Mariella's. The blouse skimmed my body and dipped low in a V, framing my garnet necklace in a perfect color match.
"You're beautiful," Noel said when I opened the door to him later.
"Oh, no," I said. "You're much finer." He sported a rich brown suit and green dress shirt. Italian, all the way.
"We can stand here and argue about it all night or ..."
"Or?"
He pulled a rose out from behind his back, kissed the bloom, handed it to me.
Well. I have to admit that the romantic in me--and yes there was one, even if it was slight--swooned a bit. I inhaled the flower's berry essence and felt my insides turn warm as a keris. I bit my lip, unbit it, struggling with the foreign role of woman-on-a-date.
"It's up to you, but Giovanni said we could borrow his bike. The restaurant's a little far for walking, and finding a cab might be difficult. I think it's safe. Giovanni said the old Roman tradition of throwing things out of windows on New Year's Eve is a thing of the past, though his uncle apparently tossed a refrigerator from a second-story apartment in 2006."
"That'd make for an interesting hangover," I said, but that's not why I smiled. "So you'll drive us?"
He ti
pped his head. "Do you trust me?"
My insides quivered as I nodded.
"Do you want a ride, pretty lady?"
Noel. Flying. How could I resist? "You bet I do."
ONE EXHILARATING RIDE later, we stepped inside a dungeonesque space illuminated with flickering torches and lit hearths. Romance oozed from every quarter, yet I took my seat. I glanced at Noel, away, back again, fluttered my lashes. Realized I was a pathetic flirter. Hopefully, my blush was lost to the fireglow.
Dinner came: thick cuts of lamb and pumpkin risotto dotted with globs of mozzarella. The rice filled my mouth, sweet, tangy, and buttery. A strolling violinist smiled between us as if sharing lovers' secrets, as his bow keened and strings cried. How I wanted to be that lover, then.
"You never replaced your sax?" Noel asked, when the musician left to greet other guests.
"I couldn't."
"It's your paper and paint, you know."
"Maybe it is."
"You never hunger for it?"
"Hunger?" I dragged my hand under the table and played a harmonic melody to accompany the violinist right there on my lap. "Yes," I said. "I do."
Reach up. Kick the dirt off.
"You must be hungry then. A lot."
Hungry. Tired. Ready to move on.
"I want to get past it, Noel. I'm ready to be free."
"So decide it," he said. "Make it happen."
"I want ..."
Reach. Just do it.
"What do you want?" Noel asked, as whispers of risk and possibility played over me like the kiss of a bow over taut strings.
"I want ..."
Reach.
And I did. I stood and reached across the table, touched the strong bones of Noel's cheek and jaw, knowing the skull beneath shone full of light. Then I put my butter-tang mouth on his and hoped he tasted my solidity.
Someone's voice cleared behind me. Our waiter, with a message from Giovanni, who'd made the reservation for us. We were needed back at the hotel. Emergenza, he'd said.
Noel's mother had been found.
THE BIKE'S SLICK power and the way the wind whipped at me as we turned down another street reminded me of a ride on the Penobscot. Even the sound of fireworks seemed swallowed whole by the engine's throaty growl. People bundled in mufflers and heavy coats lined the streets as we sped past. Even more gathered in the piazzas, dancing to the buskers' music and drinking. Families sat on folding chairs and ate from kettle pots. Teenagers lit earsplitting bottle rockets. Children played with sparklers and spray cans of string. Old women sang. The smell of roasting chestnuts permeated the air.
I tucked my hands under Noel's jacket and nestled my face against his back. I let my fingers wander a little--easy enough to blame on the bump of a tire against cobblestones or the need for a better grip. But the moment rained magic, the sky aflame. I found a place between his shirt buttons and grazed his skin. He hunched his shoulders and pressed against my cheek. I kissed him through his jacket.
"I wish you didn't have to go," I said, knowing my words would be flung safely away.
Car horns blared as we neared our hotel, and firecrackers split the air as we rushed through the door.
"Dio mio! I have looked for travel for you to leave right away," Giovanni told Noel. "Your hunt man--"
"Jakes?"
"--he said you should go tonight to London."
"So it's England," Noel said.
"You say you do not like to fly in planes," Giovanni said. "There is a train leaving Termini station in a few hours. It is a slow train to Milano in the night, but you will be there by morning. From there, you can go on to Paris and London."
Noel turned to me as the sulfurous scent of explosives filled my nostrils. "Come with me," he said. "You thought you might like to before."
I smiled, so happy he'd asked; and though part of me tingled at the whisper of avventura, I shook my head. "That was when it was about packing up an apartment, seeing Ellen's shorts, and thanking a mannequin. This is your mother. Your journey."
He nodded, and I knew he understood. "Giovanni, can you look into flights for tomorrow? Put me on a red-eye to London?"
"You're sure?" I asked.
"I can't leave you now." He took both of my hands, raised them to his chest. "Let's have midnight."
I smiled, and for the first time in my life, felt a little like Cinderella. In a piratey kind of way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ON PASSION AND PURGATORY
How do you know when the time's right, when you feel safe enough, when you're willing to take the chance? These are questions I'd asked myself over the years, when I'd said no to a date or turned my head to avoid a love scene in a film. When I'd clung to just, just. Now I knew the answer: You know because the time's right, and you feel safe enough, and you're willing to take the chance. Because you're with the right person.
Noel and I stepped into my room, and I locked the door behind us, leaned against the wood. He said my name, and I turned but couldn't look at him.
"I hope you don't think--" he started. "What's in your head?"
"I don't know. I don't--" I met his eyes. "You said once that you loved me. Do you still? Do you want me at all?"
"Of course I still love you." His eyes went dark. "Of course I want you."
Tension unraveled in me--thank you, thank you.
"But I'd never want to be one of your regrets," he said.
The words hurt for a second, but then I realized that he didn't know what I'd come to understand. Time to remedy that. I put my hands on his face.
"I love you, Noel. I love you and want you, and I'm not made of glass, damn it." I couldn't read the complex play of emotions over his face, but then his hands settled on my waist.
"Christ," he said. "The woman of my dreams is throwing herself at me--"
"Well, I wouldn't say throwing--"
"--and I can't believe I'm saying this--"
"So don't."
"--but maybe you need more time. You've been through hell." He stared beyond me, at the door.
"Noel Ryan, you look at me now." I tried for a witchy glare when his eyes met mine. "Are you telling me what I need?"
"No, just--"
"Let me rephrase." I arched against him. "Don't tell me what I need. I need you. And I demand your compliance,"--I couldn't help myself--"pirate."
He raised a brow. "Let me get this straight. I'm at your command? I have to listen to you?"
"Absolutely."
His hands spread over my back. "Then who am I to resist, lowly wretch that I am?"
"I'm glad you finally know your place." I stood tall and kissed his mouth, felt his hesitation and was almost grateful for it. Yes, I thought, let me do everything, let me be able to.
I wanted to prove it to myself, and somehow I did that night. I possessed a flame, a passion that grew and twisted into a knotting ache of desire. The need my actions impelled frightened me a little, but not enough to stop.
"I love you," he murmured, and kissed my neck, our bodies pressed together. "I adore you."
How could I have gone without this? Why did I?
It's how it should've been.
Slow. Kisses to face and lips, ears and neck, that melted away the chill inside of me. Fingers on eyelids, feathering lashes, playing over cheeks, making music there. My mind swelled with a rich inventive melody as I reached for Noel's buttons, peeled off his jacket and shirt, touched flesh I'd seen a few times in person, more often in my dreams.
"You're so beautiful." He held my chin when I tried to turn away. "I'm almost afraid to touch you."
"Don't be." I pulled my blouse over my head, let it fall to the floor. "I'm not afraid," I said, though I felt a hint of nerves when I recognized the depth of his desire. But Noel was not Ian. Then was not now. There was no storm here, and I would not shut down. I wanted this moment. I moved into his arms. "I trust you."
We lay together and spoke love words, creating incandescent moments I'd remember all my life: when
he traced over my skin as if I were a piece of precious marble and called me beautiful--until I believed him; when he kissed me until every thought toppled from my head and my body bowed to sensation; when he linked his fingers with mine and kept his gaze on mine as we joined together, finally, so different from what I'd known; when he whispered words--pianissimo, incomprehensible--in a language that was foreign to me but that I learned bit by bit as the minutes passed; when we twined close, after, and both trembled.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"I don't think I'll ever be cold again."
Yet, despite the warmth within me, the light I knew had grown so much, and the exhilaration of newfound freedom and triumph and love, something was wrong. The music in my mind had turned dissonant--a crash of sounds that didn't belong together, like the splinter and hiss of burning ice. I pushed the noises back and kissed his chest.
"Buon Anno, Noel Ryan."
"Happy New Year, Maeve Leahy."
"Auguri." I settled against him and tried to sleep. Still, I couldn't shake the disconcerting emotion that lurked close, like a faceless presence just outside a darkened windowpane.
NOEL WAS GONE when I woke, already on a red-eye flight to London. He'd left something on the pillow beside me: a miniature replica of that unfinished work I'd stumbled upon in his studio weeks ago. Finished now. Full of color and depth. Ardor shone on my face as my lips pressed against a saxophone, and a crimson wash covered it all. The red woman, he'd said. Not made of glass at all, but warm, passionate, alive.
He'd written a chant on the page.
I love you, Maeve Leahy.
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
NOEL'S WASN'T THE only note I received that morning. Another had been tucked under my door.
Visit Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio
Proprio in tempo! My mind filled with a new composition, a Rocky-esque song of achievement. Sri Putra was not only alive, he'd found my note and, through it, me--not to mention a way around his brother's prying eyes. But why did he want me to visit a museum of purgatory? I headed down to the lobby; Giovanni was more informative than any guidebook.
The Last Will of Moira Leahy: A Novel Page 22