Our Italian Summer Page 10

  The sweet scent of smoke hit me before the voice did.

  “Did you at least have the pasta?”

  I whirled my head around. Our tour guide stood a few inches away. Had he followed me? Legs crossed at the ankles, back resting against the building, he gave me a lazy smile while he inhaled from the cigarette clasped in his elegant hand. Odd, but I always checked out a man’s hands first. There was something about the firm strength, the tapered fingers, the sinewy wrists, that fascinated me. Maybe it was all the things a man could do with good hands—from fixing a car or leaky pipe to cradling and protecting a baby to stroking a woman straight into orgasm.

  Maybe I was just crazy.

  “Yep. My willpower didn’t extend that far tonight.”

  “Italy is about pleasure. Not willpower.”

  I lifted a brow at the intimate comment. His tongue practically sang the word pleasure. I ignored the slight dip of my stomach as he said it. Now I knew what the game was. Maybe he wasn’t married and he enjoyed delving into affairs with the tourists. My back straightened; I was angry he figured I’d be such an easy target. “Too many pleasurable things are bad for you.”

  He grinned, flicking an ash on the sidewalk. “Americans,” he murmured. “So very focused on what is good and bad.”

  “Italians. So quick to dismiss heart attacks and cancer for the lure of a meal or a smoke.”

  He laughed then, loud and long. Again, he caught me off guard with the ability not to take himself seriously. “Mi dispiace, perhaps you are right. Though now I only indulge in one cigarette per day, after dinner.”

  I frowned. “Statistics show even one cigarette raises your odds of getting lung cancer just as much as a regular smoker. You need to give your body space and time to clean itself out.”

  He smiled at me, and I could tell he didn’t really care. “I believe you. But to cut out all the things I enjoy in this world for a future statistic? I’d rather take a gamble. Sweets, wine, carbs, cigarettes—they all make me happy. Is that wrong?”

  I studied him to make sure he wasn’t mocking me, but he looked serious. I considered the question. “No. But if we indulged in everything we wanted, the world would be a chaotic, greedy, lawless pit of debauchery.”

  He gave a long sigh, pulled on the cigarette one last time, and threw the butt on the ground. He crushed it with the heel of his shoe and turned to face me. “But it could be fun for a while.”

  He teased out a laugh from me. Oh, he was a charmer. I’d just need to make sure he respected the boundaries and knew I wasn’t here for a fling during my tour. “I’m more goal oriented. If you think long-term, it becomes easier to stifle those temporary urges for the greater good.”

  “How delightful.” His dark gaze met mine, shredded past my usual barriers, and he looked intently at me. “You believe in the greater good?”

  I blinked. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I don’t think so. Most would prefer to disregard consequences.”

  “Like you smoking one cigarette even though it may give you cancer?”

  “Or other things.”

  His voice reminded me of soft, rich velvet. I shivered in the warm air. It’d been a while since a man seemed interested, but I hadn’t expected to feel so off-kilter because of his innuendos. Were all Italian men flirty? Or was he trying to come on to me? And if not, how embarrassing if I said something. But the conversation already seemed intimate, so I did anyway. “My daughter and mother are on this trip.”

  He quirked a brow, probably at the sudden change of subject. “I know. I think it’s wonderful to experience a trip like this with family.”

  “I’m just saying it’s not like I’m alone and free to engage in all sorts of pleasures that have consequences.”

  His eyes widened, and then he grinned, shaking his head. “I think I gave you the wrong impression. I’d never make any of my tourists feel uncomfortable. I saw you rush out a little upset and wanted to make sure you were okay. Plus, I enjoyed your wit and I like to tease. Please accept my apology.”

  His words seemed sincere, and I was grateful for the darkness that hid my hot cheeks. The compliment meant more than the insult of rejecting me, or at least, his rejection of my rejection. “No worries,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine. I think I’m overly sensitive and read too many things about Italian men being forward. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  He gave a slight bow of his head. “Understood. And you are right. Italian men are forward, but I have been a guide for over ten years and would never break the rules. You are safe with me, signora. I promise.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t worried and that I enjoyed talking to him too, but he was already stepping back from the shadows and into the light.

  “Buona sera. I will see you in the morning.”

  He disappeared.

  I groaned. Well done, Frannie. I managed to scare off our tour guide by insinuating that he wanted to seduce me, and all he was talking about was some damn pastries and cigarettes. Not dating was becoming a serious disadvantage. I didn’t know how to talk to men anymore. I was so focused on not getting involved with any men at work, I ended up cutting myself off from all of them. And now I didn’t even know how to be comfortable around a man who wasn’t an employee or a client.

  Depressed, I trudged back inside and went up to my room. It was a good thing I had an entire month ahead of me to figure things out. To heal my relationship with Allegra and get closer to my mother. To stop feeling so much anxiety about what I couldn’t control. To live a happier, more stress-free life.

  I wasn’t asking for much, right?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Allegra

  The Vatican wasn’t what I expected.

  I followed the crowd and partially listened to the tour guide trying to educate me on every aspect of St. Peter’s Basilica. I appreciated a good teacher just like any student, but I almost wished she’d remain silent so I could soak it all in. Everything felt . . . overwhelming. Like there was so much beauty and opulence and space and color, my senses went into overload. All of this seemed to contradict the hushed silence of the church, where people knelt praying at marble statues and held rosary beads with heads tilted up toward the sky, as if they knew someone was listening.

  I tuned out the words droning in my ear and slowly pivoted to take it all in. Sure, I’ve seen pictures of Italy and its treasures, but experiencing the power in such a holy place made me feel strange things. I wasn’t religious; Mom had me baptized but, to my grandmother’s distress, had pulled me out of Sunday school before communion because of the church scandals that blew up about rampant sexual abuse. I remember watching Nonni fight in furious whispers with my mom, begging her to give me something to fall back on in a crazy world. Mom still refused, but I’d grown up with Nonni sneaking in Bible stories and teaching me how to say the Our Father and the Hail Mary. But I didn’t know much more than that.

  My gaze took in the richly painted walls depicting religious scenes, the massive altar with its bronze canopy rising toward the dome, the numerous columns of marble framing the aisles, and I breathed in the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. The guide finally gave us time to explore on our own, so I motioned to my mom that I was heading back toward the Pietà. The sculpture seemed to pull me, and I wanted more than the few seconds that we’d been previously given. I’d always been into art and loved to pore over thick coffee-table books that featured famous paintings from around the world. There was something about gazing at another person’s view of the world through a painting and having the freedom as the onlooker to interpret that view. Italy held many masterpieces, and even though I was pissed about being dragged on this trip, I was secretly looking forward to indulging in my hobby.

  My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I hesitated but slipped it out just to peek.

  Da
vid.

  How’s Italy?

  He’d been texting me casually since I left. At first, I didn’t know if it was because he felt sorry I got busted and had to deal with my mom, or if he was actually interested in me. I was mixed-up. Part of me was still fascinated by his quiet, broody nature, but the other part would never forget his expression of loathing when he got picked up by that cop. He didn’t seem scared or worried at all. Then again, his dad didn’t seem to really care. David said he’d been told it was good to experiment as a creative artist but not get caught, so that had been the only thing that bothered his dad.

  Would I ever fit in somewhere? My school friends seemed too uptight and fake. But Freda, David, and Connor were wild, and that bust had freaked me out. I wished I could just turn off my thoughts and do stuff that felt good at the time, but then look where that had gotten me.

  I tucked my phone back in my pocket and planned to call him later.

  I headed to the Pietà and eased my way right to the front. The tour guide had said it wasn’t crowded today, so I took my time and studied the sculpture. I loved the way the marble sheen seemed so cold and perfect, yet I could see the actual folds in Mary’s gown and Jesus’s cloth. His legs seemed alive and gently muscled, with veins coursing under his skin. A warm sensation curled up from the base of my spine and tingled through my body. The expression on Mary’s face, carved of grief and a simple purity of acceptance, haunted me.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” a low voice murmured.

  I turned my head. One of our group members stood next to me, staring at the sculpture with his own expression of awe and humbleness. I raked my gaze quickly over his figure. He was older than me by a few years. A ginger, but not cute like Prince Harry. His hair was short, with a cowlick rather than royal red curls. Pale skin with freckles. His eyes were a pretty, deep blue, but his face was a bit too round, his lips a bit too red, as if all the colors of his face were overly bright and contrasted with one another. He was tall and lean and wore jeans, a simple T-shirt, and sneakers. A silver type of medal hung from a chain around his neck. Definitely Irish—he spoke with a slight brogue, which was cool.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t think it would be this impressive in person. To be honest, the statue always seemed boring in the books they gave us in art class. I always preferred the paintings.”

  He grinned. His teeth were white and perfectly straight, like he’d worn braces for years. “Same here. Can you imagine being able to make a slab of marble feel human?” He sighed. “There’s no great artists anymore. None like da Vinci or Michelangelo.”

  I frowned. “That’s not fair. It was a different time. We treat creativity and art like a commodity nowadays. Our society doesn’t value artists like they once did. There are fewer opportunities for apprenticeship and learning an art. Everyone needs to pay their bills.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d burst out with something so nerdy with a stranger, but his face lit up. “Agreed. But even in the Renaissance, they needed to find wealthy patrons to finance them. Sometimes that meant giving up what they wanted to work on and pleasing the patron. Don’t you think the same thing happens today? Rich people pocketing artists to finance what their vision is?”

  I’d never really thought about it. “I guess. Kind of like the record companies who tell musicians they have to be a certain way in order to sell the music.”

  “Yes!”

  “Like Lady Gaga in that movie A Star Is Born.”

  He frowned. “Like what?”

  I laughed. “Never mind.”

  “I’m Ian.”

  He stuck out his hand and I almost snorted at the formal gesture. But I shook it anyway. “Allegra.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m still learning everyone’s names and stuff. Who are you with?”

  “My mom and grandmother.”

  “Women’s trip, huh? You guys celebrating?”

  I thought of my mother’s rage when she picked me up at the police station. “No, just a summer trip. How about you?”

  “I’m with my parents. I graduated from college, so it’s their gift to me.”

  I winced. “Congrats on graduation, but sorry you didn’t get to hang with your friends. Probably would’ve been better, right?”

  Confusion clouded his eyes. “No, I actually like my parents. They’re cool.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  He laughed and touched my upper arm. “No, it’s fine. I know a lot of people would agree with you. I don’t know, maybe ’cause I’m an only child? I kind of grew up comfortable in their company. You have any brothers or sisters?”

  I shook my head. “I wish.”

  “Yeah, me too. They say onlies are spoiled, but I think it’s a crock. They were tougher on me ’cause I was the only one to practice parenting on.”

  I smiled at that, liking the way he said crock in his Irish accent. He might not be sexy or cool, but he was nice to talk to. God knows, I needed someone to hang with other than my mom and grandmother. “Truth. What did you study in school?”

  “Psychology. You know, the degree similar to English literature? The one where every person you speak to gives you a look and says you’ll never get a real job?”

  “I think psych would be really interesting. And, yeah, I know what you mean. Why does everyone feel like they need to give an opinion on someone else’s life?”

  “Because they think age equals wisdom.” He made a face. “Unfortunately, it usually does.”

  “Then you’ll have to prove them wrong.”

  Surprise flickered over his features, and warmth infused his blue eyes. “Thanks, Allegra. Can I say how damn happy I am that there’s someone else on this tour I can talk to? I love my parents, but even I can’t do three weeks in their constant company.”

  Pleasure shimmered through me. “We’ll rescue each other.” I caught my mom waving at me from the corner of my eye and stifled a groan. “My mom needs me. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time. I’m going to pray for a while near the altar.”

  I nodded. He was probably Catholic. It was nice he had beliefs and took the time to worship without anyone telling him to. I’d heard from my friends how they were guilted or pushed to go to church and how much they hated it. I watched him head down the massive aisle, his head bowed, his movements graceful and humble as he dropped to a knee before sliding into the pew and clasping his hands together.

  A weird type of longing rose inside me, but I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just walked over to my mother. Her brow creased in a frown that immediately prickled my annoyance. “I couldn’t find you—I got nervous.”

  “Mom, we’re in St. Peter’s. I’m not going to get kidnapped. And I can’t be expected to stay by your side this whole time. I’ll go nuts.”

  She gave a tiny sigh. “Okay, you’re right. There’s just a massive amount of people here. I saw you talking to that boy. What’s his name?”

  “Ian. He’s celebrating his college graduation with his parents.”

  A smile brightened her face. “How wonderful. It’d be nice for you to have a friend on the tour.”

  She was right, but hearing her suggest it only made me want to seek out an Italian bad boy on a bike. What was wrong with me? I thought of David’s text and knew Mom would freak. I’d promised to stay away from him, Connor, and Freda, but a few texts back and forth wouldn’t be a big deal. “Where’s Nonni?”

  “Lighting a candle for your grandfather.”

  “How come you never raised me Catholic or took me to church?”

  The question popped out of my mouth and surprised us both. Guilt shone in my mother’s eyes, then got buried. “Because I never got anything out of it. Nonni dragged me to church every Sunday, rain or shine, not caring about vacations or sleepovers. And I don’t like the issues they push�
�the guilt, and not having women in the church—plus the sexual abuse scandals. I wanted you to grow up to make your own choices.”

  It made logical sense, but if you weren’t given anything to start with, wasn’t it harder to decide what worked and what didn’t? “Nonni gets upset when we talk about it. She thinks I should receive communion and confirmation.”

  “I don’t believe your soul should be dependent on rituals. But I do think church can be a safe haven to figure things out and be silent.”

  I pushed on. “But you still never took me, even once. Even to try it.”

  “I thought I was doing you a favor.” Her tone hardened a bit. “You could’ve gone with Nonni anytime. You preferred sleeping in on Sundays.”

  “And you prefer work,” I shot back. “Money over religion, huh?”

  She jerked back, glaring, and once again that wall shot up between us. The wall of misunderstanding and unspoken resentments that kept growing higher. Mom seemed to realize it too, but before she could say something else, the tour guide interrupted.

  “Do I have my group?” she chirped merrily. She was a chic young brunette dressed in slim black pants and a white silk top. “We will move on to visit the famous Sistine Chapel. We’ll be passing through multiple corridors of exquisite paintings.” She held a stuffed pink daisy mounted on top of a long pole, and she waved it back and forth. “Remember to follow the flower. There are no flash photos or talking once we enter the chapel, so I will tell you all about it as we walk. Andiamo!”

  I glanced back and saw Ian flanked by his parents. My mother made a move to take my hand, but I pretended not to notice and linked my arm with my grandmother’s. Nonni smiled and squeezed me with affection, her lined face lit up with pleasure. It was so easy to be around her. If only it could be like that with Mom.