Those Blue Tuscan Skies

by Marion Ueckermann

  Agreeing, the trio exited the church and entered the museum, their attention immediately drawn by the relics and artifacts. As they examined the displays, they called each other over to come and look at various items of interest they’d discovered.

  Inside the third section—the Capuchins—Alessa drew her gaze from a painting she studied to glance around. Sienna stood behind her, nose almost glued to the glass cabinet in the center of the room, staring at the clothing of the Capuchin monks.

  She stepped over to her sister.

  “Did you know…?” she said, knowing full well she was about to slip into tour guide mode, but knowing equally well Sienna would love the history. “For hundreds of years, these monks inhabited this seventeenth-century church. Even today, the church, museum, and crypt are managed by the Capuchin Order. The Order originally rose in the 1500s when an observant Franciscan friar was inspired by God to live in the manner of their founder, St. Francis of Assisi.”

  “What exactly was required of them?” Sienna asked.

  “To live in solitude and penance—as hermits—as they preached to the poor. Not a decade later, though, the eremitical idea was abandoned. The life of extreme austerity, simplicity, and poverty remained, however.”

  Alessa pointed to the aged outfit on display. “I’ve always found the practice of wearing a beard and a hood, or cappuccio, by these monks most fascinating. The cappuccio—the mark of a hermit in the region of Italy these monks had lived—was where they’d derived their name from.”

  Sienna smiled at her. “Thanks, sorellina. That was so interesting.”

  The short “tour” over, Alessa returned to her thoughts. Did Michael, as a servant of God, live such a simplistic life? She tried to imagine him clothed in one of these dark robes, his head and face hidden by the cowl. What would he look like with a beard masking that strong jaw of his?

  Alessa shook her head. No. He looked just fine the way he was—clean-shaven and dressed in those slim-fitting jeans and T-shirt. Even beneath the cotton shirt covering his upper arms, his sculptured biceps could not remain concealed.

  Speaking of…

  Her eyes roamed the crowded room. She couldn’t see Michael anywhere. He seemed to have disappeared.

  Good. Her resolve to remain unaffected and distance herself from him returned.

  Maybe. And just as quickly retreated with the ebb and flow of emotions this man seemed to evoke—not all pleasant, but becoming increasingly so.

  With a decided nonchalance, she strolled farther down the exhibition, trying not to make it obvious she was searching for a certain head of blond—one that would stand head and shoulders above most in the room. Not finding him, she moved into the next section of the museum—Culture and Spirituality. She’d likely find him somewhere here.

  Surprisingly, she didn’t.

  What if he’d heard her griping to Sienna about having to translate again? Regret twinged. Had it really been necessary for her to be catty? Seemed she’d been wrong. Much as she’d thought she wanted to avoid him, it came as a surprise to find that she didn’t really want that at all. So what was it that compelled her to hold him at arms-length? Fear?

  She moved into the next room, dodging tourists as she walked. A painting of St. Francis by Caravaggio quickly caught her eye, and she paused to study one of the pieces of art, her quest to find Michael momentarily forgotten.

  Michael felt bad about walking away from the girls, but he couldn’t shake the feeling in his spirit that he needed to put a little space between him and Alessa, and also offer her and Sienna more sister time.

  It hadn’t been that long, really, and already he missed her. His pulse quickened as he spotted that beautiful, unmistakable head of long, auburn locks up ahead. He strolled closer and stopped just behind Alessa, engrossed in the artwork depicting a Capuchin monk kneeling, holding in his hands a human skull, a wooden cross at his feet. She didn’t move, so Michael leaned forward and whispered over her shoulder.

  “What do you suppose he’s saying to that skull?”

  Alessa whirled around, a bright smile on her gorgeous face. It gave him hope.

  As if realizing, she folded her arms, the curve of her mouth straightening. “Caravaggio’s St. Francis?” With a finger to her lips, she feigned thought as she gazed back at the painting. “Um, let’s see…what would a thirteenth-century monk say to a skull? How about: O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven. Unto the white, upturned, wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.”

  “Shakespeare—Romeo and Juliet, Act two, Scene two.”

  Alessa’s brow quirked upward.

  “You know Shakespeare? You know Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Who doesn’t know Shakespeare, or one of the most famed of all romantic couples? Far as I know, these works are studied in high school worldwide.” He chuckled softly. “However, much as I’d love to continue quoting lines of love with you from this great writer like ‘Hear my soul speak: the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service—”

  Alessa snapped her fingers toward Michael and pointed. “The Tempest!”

  Michael tilted his head to the side, impressed. Who would’ve guessed they’d get to the point of actually having an intellectual conversation—of sorts. “The lady doth knoweth her Shakespeare, me thinks.”

  “Some.” She glanced at him. “What do you think the monk is saying to the skull?”

  “What did the monk say to the skull?” He burst out laughing, quickly quieting as heads swiveled toward him. Sounded like a line from a bad joke. “First of all, much as I love Shakespeare, I doubt the monk would be quoting lines from Romeo and Juliet. And seeing as this is St. Francis we’re talking about here, Shakespeare is more than three hundred years after his time. Rather, I think he’d be saying something like…” Michael turned his attention from the painting to Alessa.

  “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand…” His gaze held hers for longer than it ever had. He sucked in a shaky breath. “To be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”

  “The prayer of St. Francis of Assisi…” Alessa shook her head, breaking their eye-lock. “Nope, I doubt he would’ve been praying that.”

  “Why not?” Michael asked playfully.

  “Because, even though that painting might be of St. Francis, the prayer… Well, it isn’t really known whether that is St. Francis’s prayer or not. The French source is unknown and it was first recorded in the early 1900s, centuries after Assisi walked the earth.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Sienna flicked her hair over her shoulder as she neared.

  “Just wondering what the monk said to the skull,” Alessa replied, trying, unsuccessfully, to hold back her smile.

  “Oh, that’s easy.” Sienna beamed, taking on the same pose as the monk in the portrait as she cradled an invisible skull. She pouted her bottom lip. “Poor baby, you got nobody to dance with?”

  Alessa and Michael groaned, before joining Sienna’s giggles.

  “Speaking of skulls and no bodies, should we skip the next two sections—according to the map it’s more modern-day Capuchins’ stuff—and head on downstairs to the ossuary?”

  “Lead the way, my lady.” Michael smiled, and Alessa returned the gesture before walking on ahead of him and Sienna. Despite the fact that they were heading toward something possibly creepy, his step was light. Something had changed between him and Alessa during that short interlude. Something
positive. Something he couldn’t wait to take to the next level, whatever that was.

  Chapter Six

  NEVER BEFORE HAD MICHAEL SEEN so many human skulls together in one place. Or pelvises or leg bones or thigh bones. Come to think of it, had he ever even seen an actual human skull? Not that he could recall. Possibly on some school museum trip way back when. What a display of human remains this was—close on four thousand Capuchin monks who’d died over the course of more than three hundred years, their bones used in elaborate decoration. On the walls, the roofs, even as chandeliers.

  Standing beside the metal railing that prevented visitors from entering the individual crypts, the musty air assailing his nostrils, Michael shook his head. “Fascinating.”

  “Now that is art,” Sienna said from his left. She leaned her head back a little and gazed up at the skeleton affixed to the arched roof, holding in his right hand a scythe made of bones—like the grim reaper. In his left phalanges hung the scales of justice. If it weren’t for the fact that these were the bones of monks, not nuns, Michael might have thought that could be what remained of Lady Liberty up there. Certainly, the scales were out of balance in the world today. Exactly why he’d become a missionary—to bring the good news to the lost that there was freedom to be found in Jesus.

  “Macabre art, is what it is,” came Alessa’s voice from his other side. Seemed she didn’t share her sister’s view that this was true art. He tended to agree with her.

  “Alessa inherited Nonna’s love of paintings. As you can tell, I didn’t.” The corners of Sienna’s mouth drooped.

  The last thing Michael wanted was to get caught having to pick sides in this debate. Sienna was a good ally.

  Without thinking, he quickly said, “That’s what you call, resting in pieces.” He knew he shouldn’t laugh in such a somber place, but that line was too good not to afford it a low chuckle. The girls didn’t seem to care as they burst into laughter.

  “Michael Young, you crack me up.” Sienna patted his shoulder as she caught her breath.

  Michael began to softly sing “Dem Bones.”

  Alessa groaned and stuck her fingers in her ears. “Stop it, Michael. You’re going to give us all an earworm.”

  He immediately ceased his singing and apologized, although the tune still continued in his mind. Great, he’d managed to give himself an earworm. He turned his attention back to the strange, bony patterns.

  “Quello che voi siete noi eravamo, quello che noi siamo voi sarete.”

  Michael flashed a look at Alessa, hoping she wasn’t swearing at him. “I’ve no clue what you just said.” And he didn’t care. He loved listening to her speak in a foreign language.

  Alessa offered him one of her rare smiles, although they’d become more frequent as the day progressed. “It’s a memento mori.”

  Michael crinkled his nose. “A memo-what?”

  “Memento mori—a reflection on mortality.”

  “So what does that reflection say…in English?” He didn’t want to appear stupid, but she did know he couldn’t speak Latin.

  Alessa’s lids seemed to close as she lowered her gaze to the floor. “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”

  “Ugh, what a morbid reminder,” Sienna muttered from behind Michael.

  He twisted his upper body to include Sienna in the conversation, lest she feel left out. “True nonetheless.”

  She nodded. “It’s a good thing you studied all of this, sorellina, otherwise Michael and I might never have known what that reflection meant.”

  “It is right there on the plaque, in English.” She pointed to the rectangular item on the ground near their feet. “I thought you’d all seen it.”

  Michael shook his head. “Not a bad thing to be reminded every now and then about the brevity of life.” His mind turned like a well-oiled cog. Should he veer off into a deep discussion with her about salvation, or should he lead with his other option. He pointed to the bones in the crypt. “You do know there’s a way to escape all that?”

  “I know, I know…come to Jesus, get eternal life, and all that stuff. Sienna keeps reminding me.”

  A smile curved Michael’s mouth. “And she’s totally right. But there is another way, Alessa. Marry me and you’ll be forever Young.”

  By the time they left the bone chapel, Alessa’s stomach was growling. It had been way too long between meals, and lunch was fast heading toward supper.

  “Let’s first go for a bite to eat,” she suggested, hoping Michael hadn’t heard that last growl coming from her midriff. “Afterward, I’ll take you to Fontana di Trevi.”

  “Sounds like a great idea. I love the Trevi Fountain.”

  Of course her sister did. Sienna had fond memories of Papà taking them there. Alessa didn’t. Papà had only ever allowed Sienna to throw a coin into the fountain while she, Rafaele, and Ric had to look on. No, her memories weren’t pleasant. Still, she loved Trevi, purely because of its beauty—the statues, the water, the history.

  “So where are we going for lunch? Is it too early for pizza?” Michael’s blue gaze bored into Alessa’s.

  “Yes. Far too early.” And far too inappropriate. Pizza was for sweethearts and friends—hadn’t he been listening on Friday night? He didn’t fall into any of those categories.

  Yet.

  She pushed away the thought.

  “There’s a great little pub I love to eat at if I’m in this side of town, and it’s halfway to the fountains.”

  “How far is halfway?” Sienna asked.

  “A couple hundred meters. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Although the chairs and umbrellas on the sidewalk were quaint, according to Sienna, they decided to rather sit inside where they could enjoy the comforts of air-conditioning.

  Alessa pointed to the vacant brown leather sofas deep inside the pub. “There, that’ll be a great place to relax for the afternoon.”

  Michael rushed to claim the single seater, and disappointment seeped through Alessa. Huh, she’d thought he’d offer the single place to Sienna, and vie for a spot on the couch with her. Unless he wanted to be able to watch her from the other side of the coffee table separating the two parts of the lounge suite. Unless—

  “Not more art,” Sienna groaned. “Look at it—and there’s more than one painting on every wall. No wonder you like this place, sorellina.”

  Ignoring her sister, Alessa’s gaze fixed on the two nude sketches on the wall behind Michael, tastefully displaying the female anatomy like so many artworks in the city, from paintings to sculptures.

  Now she got why he’d made a beeline for that seat. He did not wish to be led into temptation. How different he was from the men she dated. For sure, any one of them would have loved to rather face the artworks than choose to sit with their backs toward them. With them, the nudes would probably be the topic of discussion for half the evening, despite her best efforts to discuss any one of the myriad of other interesting works on display.

  Not this guy, though, it seemed. Refreshing.

  Alessa lifted a menu from the table and sank into the leather beside Sienna. “I’m starving,” she announced. “I’ll have the California burger.”

  Sienna leaned closer and whispered, “Another American meal, sorellina?”

  “I happen to like guacamole,” Alessa shot back, perhaps a little too loudly. She grinned at Michael. “What are you having?”

  “Although I like guacamole, too, I think I’ll have a caprese burger. Don’t think I’ve tasted buffalo mozzarella before.”

  “Trust me, if you’ve eaten in Roma, you’ve eaten buffalo mozzarella before.” She turned to Sienna. “And you, sorella?”

  “I—” Sienna scanned the menu again. “I’ll just have a baby burger.” She turned to the waitress. “Do you perhaps have a salad on its own?”

  The waitress shook her head.

  “Okay, then I’ll stick with the baby burger, per favore.” No surprises there that Sienna had chosen
the smallest meal on the menu. She ate like a bird most times—probably wouldn’t even finish that tiny burger.

  “Hope they’re not made from babies.” Michael’s face was serious.

  “Of course not,” Alessa retorted. “They’re just small burgers.”

  When Michael began to laugh, Alessa glanced around for something to throw at him. Nothing but the menu. If he’d been seated beside her, she could’ve punched him, or something.

  The food was delicious, and the company surprisingly delightful. And even though Alessa and Sienna would’ve had a great time on their own, she was glad her sister had invited Michael along. He’d made the day so much more fun, she couldn’t deny the fact…even though her thoughts were constantly distracted by his second proposal earlier and why she hadn’t come up with an appropriate retort, like she had the first time. She feared that third time might just be lucky for Michael Young.

  She allowed her gaze to drift from those blue eyes down to the hem of his skinny jeans. What girl in her right mind would say no to all of that? Plus, Alessa was fast coming to the realization that Michael was a beautiful person, inside and out. She was beginning to see what her sister saw that first night they’d all met unexpectedly at the piazza—and that wasn’t good. Because while Michael was offering her a future as his wife, Alessa had no future to offer him in return. Only heartache.

  The sun was just setting when they finally made their way across to the Trevi Fountain. Alessa couldn’t believe they’d spent over four hours chatting in the pub. Just as well—Trevi was best at dusk. When darkness set in, the water came to life in a magical, twinkling blue.

  Just like Michael’s eyes, except they were better seen in the light of day.

  How glad she was that he didn’t have an evening service to hurry away to.

  Stop it, Alessa! Stop thinking that way.

  “Have you been to Trevi yet, Michael?” Sienna asked as they walked.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. We’ve been so busy at Hope Center, plus working with the students, there hasn’t been much time for sightseeing yet, so I’m really enjoying getting to see all these, uh, interesting places with you ladies. Thanks for inviting me to tag along.”