He finished his breakfast, threw some Euros on the table and stood up to go. He held his hand out to me and, a little awkwardly, I took it.
His hand was warm and dry, the skin across the top, soft, while the palms were slightly rough, as if he’d done some manual labor recently. I hadn’t noticed that before. I wondered why I did now.
When we got to the bike, he fiddled with the zipper on his jacket.
“I really want to kiss you,” he said, gazing at me, a mixture of anxiety and need etched on his face.
I hesitated, and it was just long enough to see his expression change to hurt.
“Okay,” I said, quietly.
He rested his hands lightly on my waist and I raised my face to his. He touched his lips to mine and I felt the familiar tug of desire. I pulled back quickly.
“Caro…”
“Just hold me, Sebastian. Just hold me.”
I laid both my hands on his chest and leaned my cheek against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me, hugging me tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry,” and I felt him kiss my hair several times.
Eventually, he let me go and I gave him a brief smile.
“We’ll get there,” I said, quietly.
Whether I was reassuring Sebastian or myself, I didn’t know.
CHAPTER 7
If I hadn’t known that Pisa was a university town before, I knew it as soon as we drove along the main thoroughfare. The streets were packed with twenty-somethings, all casual-chic in that way foreign students do so well. By comparison, I felt scruffy, dusty and well-traveled. Being dog-tired didn’t help either. I was looking forward to finding accommodation where I could have a long, hot shower and sleep in a quiet, comfortable bed—alone.
It was clear that we’d arrived during some sort of festival, because music blared from every café and ristorante, competing with the street entertainers and musicians who seemed to be performing on every street corner.
Sebastian carefully steered his bike into the corner of an overwhelmed municipal parking lot, surrounded by battered Fiats and old Renaults. I was a little nervous about leaving my laptop, but at least I had all my notes stored on a flash drive in my wallet, if worst came to worst.
“Are you taking your camera?” Sebastian asked me.
“Might as well. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to sell a travelogue of biking through Italy.”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “It’s got to beat reporting from shitty military camps in fucked up countries.”
I shrugged, not feeling in the mood to explain my obsession. Sebastian caught the hint and wisely let the subject drop.
The famous leaning tower was only one of a number of architectural marvels. The central plaza, the Piazza del Duomo, was also home to the beautiful Romanesque cathedral and the 900 year old Battistero or Baptistry.
It was a strange feeling, wandering among such antiquity while surrounded by irreverent youth, one of whom kept trying to hold my hand. I was glad that I had my camera as a chaperone. I didn’t feel ready for the level of intimacy Sebastian clearly felt was needed. It was hard to explain to myself: I’d said I’d try, but I felt on edge being near him, as if I was waiting for him to explode again. Our earlier, relaxed mood was going to take some effort to achieve. Instead, I felt tense and ill at ease.
After an hour of wandering, I could tell he was beginning to get bored just ogling old buildings, although he did his best to hide it, which I appreciated. I recognized that he preferred action to introspection, but right now I needed to let my mind rest on the centuries’ old mysteries I saw all around me. I found it soothing and I couldn’t help wondering if my father had ever visited Pisa. There was no particular reason why he should have, but still, he might. I liked to imagine that he wandered around here as a young man before deciding to try his luck in the New World. After all, in the sixties, he’d have heard the siren call of Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan and Woodstock. By comparison, Italy would have seemed dull and dreary, dragged down by postwar depression.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Sebastian, quietly interrupting my musings.
“I was just thinking about Papa—wondering if he ever came here.”
Sebastian’s eyes lit up and he smiled.
“I really loved your dad, Caro. I was kinda jealous of you when I was a kid—I wanted so badly to have a dad like him, not the sack of shit I was saddled with.”
He scowled at the memory.
“Do you … keep up with your parents at all?”
He shook his head.
“Last time I saw the old bastard was at my graduation from boot camp.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised, “that was … nice of him.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? He only did it because he knew it would piss me off to have to salute him.”
“Oh, right. What about Estelle?”
He shrugged. “She’s still in San Diego. Ches sees her around now and again. He banned her from the country club—drinking.”
He raised his eyebrows as he looked at me. I didn’t say anything, but I hoped he was aware of the parallels in their behavior. Of course, being in the military didn’t make for many teetotalers.
“They got divorced a few years back. Dad shacked up with some stripper. I don’t really know. What about your mom? Do you see her?”
I shook my head. “No, we’re not in touch. I know she’s living in a retirement home in Florida, but that’s all.”
“Why aren’t you in touch? She couldn’t have been as bad as my mom.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
He hesitated, but I could tell he was curious. “What did she do?”
“She didn’t do anything, Sebastian. That’s the point. When I … when I left David, she told me I’d ‘made my bed so now I could lie in it’. She didn’t want anything to do with me. Wouldn’t lend me a red cent to help out when I went to New York. She wouldn’t even send me any photographs of Papa. I only have a couple of old pictures of him.”
Sebastian tried to pull me in for a hug, but I resisted him without even being aware of it. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Do you see anything of him … David?”
“No. We had to correspond over the divorce papers, but that’s all. I believe he stayed in the Navy. You said you tried to see him … when was that?”
Sebastian frowned and stared off into the distance.
“About four months after you’d left. It was killing me not knowing how you were, or where you were, or how to get in touch with you. Dad had already trashed my computer and deleted all my email accounts before I went to live with Mitch and Shirley. I didn’t even think the bastard knew how to do that stuff. Took my cell off me and smashed that, too. Anyway, I was getting pretty desperate, so I went to your old house—but it was a waste of time. The asshole yelled at me that I’d ruined his marriage; I told him he didn’t deserve you and was a bastard for the way he’d treated you. He threatened to call the police. That was it.”
I sighed.
“You don’t feel sorry for him do you, Caro?” said Sebastian, angrily.
“A little. He just married the wrong woman, but he wasn’t a bad man.”
I could tell from Sebastian’s expression that he disagreed strongly.
“But you didn’t ruin my marriage: David and I managed to do that all by ourselves. You … freed me.”
His angry expression dissolved, and his eyes gazed at me with wonder.
“Please let me hold you, Caro. It’s driving me crazy that you won’t let me touch you.”
He reached out, but I stepped away from him.
“Just … just give me some time, Sebastian. I don’t deal with rejection well.”
“Is that how you see it? That I rejected you.”
I stared at him. “Of course. There’s no other way to see it.”
He ran his hands over his hair in frustration.
“Fuck, Caro! Last night was about my
shit, not about you. Don’t you see that?”
“No, I don’t. Not really. But I don’t want to go over that again. I’m trying to put it behind us … I just need time.”
He sighed and his shoulders sagged slightly. “Okay.”
There was an awkward silence, but I’d learned that there were two ways to guarantee Sebastian’s good humor—and sex was off the menu.
“Do you want to go find somewhere to eat?”
He gave a small smile.
“Yeah, I was hoping you’d say that. Do you feel like Italian?”
“Oh, very funny. You should be on ‘Saturday Night Live’.”
We wandered through the crowded streets, trying to enjoy the party atmosphere. I began to relax—a little.
“What about that place over there because…?”
Suddenly, I was shoved from behind and I lost my balance. Sebastian caught my elbow but my camera strap had been tugged off my shoulder.
“My camera!”
I pointed at the fleeing figure but Sebastian was already off the blocks and running. The would-be thief got perhaps a hundred yards down the road before Sebastian tackled him, knocking him to the ground.
By the time I got there, the man had blood pouring down his face from where Sebastian had punched him—more than once, by the look of him.
“Sebastian, no!” I gasped, as I ran up behind him.
At the sound of my voice, he uncurled his fist and stood up, handing my camera back to me. An angry crowd had started to gather, and without knowing what had happened, their sympathies were with the bleeding man.
“We’d better get out of here,” Sebastian muttered.
“What about the police?” I gasped, my eyes mesmerized by the blood fountaining from the man’s nose.
“Fuck them!” he snorted, and grabbed my hand, towing me through the ring of people who were watching the show with grim fascination. There were a few angry voices aimed at our backs, but no one tried to stop us.
Sebastian darted down a side-alley, pulling me after him and a moment later, we emerged into a wide piazza. I began to breathe normally again, but I was feeling shaky. I knew it was a combination of an adrenaline rush on top of an empty stomach.
“Are you okay, Caro?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, weakly.
He didn’t look convinced.
“Come on,” said Sebastian. “You should eat something.”
I nodded, and didn’t argue when he led us into a small café that looked like a fifties diner, with high stools ranged along a Formica bar.
“Thank you for saving my camera,” I said, quietly.
Sebastian looked surprised, then pleased. “I was waiting for you to chew me out for hitting that guy.”
“Well, I’m glad you stopped punching him when you did, obviously, but I’m very fond of my camera. I worked hard to afford to buy it. Thanks, Chief.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Caro,” he said, shaking his head.
I didn’t know what he meant, but right there and then, I didn’t really care either. I reached over and took his hand. “How are your knuckles?”
He chuckled quietly. “Much better now,” he said, running his thumb over the back of my hand.
The waitress sauntered over to take our order and I could see her taking a keen interest in Sebastian. He saw the direction of my gaze and smirked at me.
“Not my type,” he whispered.
“I’m glad to hear it. She’s not mine, either.”
For just a moment, Sebastian was caught off balance, then he smiled wickedly at me.
“Not interested in three-ways?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, casually. “Do you have friends in the Marines who are as cute as you?”
He frowned. “No. I don’t.”
I laughed. I’d finally won a round of verbal teasing. Things were looking up.
Over dinner, we began to talk naturally with each other again. Sebastian told me more about his life in the Marines and the work that he did—although I sensed there were things he couldn’t tell me, as well.
He asked me about my assignments, and more about Liz and Marc; when and how I’d met them. And I told him about my little bungalow in Long Beach, and about Jenna, Alice and Nicole, and how they’d been among the first people I’d met when I’d arrived in New York.
I was relieved to see that he stuck to just the one bottle of beer, which also helped me to relax. I was putting off the moment when I’d have to tell him how much he scared me when he’d been drinking. But not now.
I stifled a yawn.
“Are you tired, Caro?”
“Yes, definitely ready to head for bed, Sebastian. To sleep.”
He smiled, but didn’t comment.
“Okay, let’s see what we can find. There were a couple of streets I saw online that are mostly pensiones. Should we try one of those?”
I liked the idea of staying in one of those small hotels: they were usually family run and, although modest, friendly and fun, too.
“Sounds good.”
Sebastian paid for the meal, waving away my suggestions that we take turns to pay, or split the bill. I was too tired to argue, but added it to my mental list of ‘things to talk about’. It was quite a long list.
There was, however, a tricky subject that I wanted to bring up, and I didn’t know how he was going to react.
“Sebastian, don’t get mad at me, and don’t read too much into this…”
His expression was already worried as I plowed on.
“…but I’d really like to have separate rooms tonight. Just…”
My voice trailed off as a kaleidoscope of emotions flitted across his face. The predominant emotion seemed to be hurt, but there was anger and frustration mixed in there, too.
My body tensed, a primal fight or flight reaction, but he nodded his head slowly.
“Whatever you need, Caro.”
I let out a long, relieved sigh.
“Thank you.”
But our relaxed banter had, predictably, vanished, and we walked in silence.
“This is the street,” he muttered, pointing toward a long line of narrow townhouses.
The first two pensiones were fully booked and the third could only offer a single room. It wasn’t looking too good.
“We could try going more upscale,” said Sebastian, obviously irritated, although whether that was with me or the accommodation, I couldn’t tell.
“Well, we have to walk along this street to get back to the main hotel area, so we may as well try a few more on the way,” I suggested.
“Yeah, okay.”
At the fifth pensione, we struck gold. Sort of.
“I’m sorry, signora,” said the owner, a stout lady of about sixty. “I have one room with two single beds, but that’s all. It’s the Festival, you see,” she said, gesturing helplessly. “You’re lucky—I had a cancellation.”
I could see out of the corner of my eye that Sebastian was willing me to take it. I turned to look at him.
“Pajama party,” he mouthed.
I couldn’t help smiling. “Si, we’ll take the room. Grazie.”
The pensione was narrow and old-fashioned, but clean and welcoming, too. Our hostess went by the name of Signora Battelli, and when Sebastian informed her that my surname was ‘Venzi’, she went off into paroxysms of joy that ‘Mr. and Mrs. Venzi have come home’, meaning we’d returned from America to the mother country. She had delightfully misunderstood him.
Our room looked like it was last refurbished in the 1970s, decorated with an astonishing clash of vivid patterns, and garish pictures of saints. But I was so tired I didn’t care. There was a small sink in the room, and the shower was down the hall, shared, she assured us, by just one other couple.
She bustled off, calling over her shoulder that breakfast was at 8 am.
Sebastian threw himself down on the bed and it groaned slightly.
“Not as noisy as last night,” he said, smiling up at
me.
“I don’t think that’s even possible,” I agreed.
He unpacked our overnight bag and tossed my toiletry bag onto the second, narrow bed.
“Thanks for packing up my stuff,” he said, looking over at me. “I thought I’d probably seen the last of these shirts.”
“What a tragedy,” I said, cattily. “You might have had to do something shocking, like buy t-shirts in different colors.”
He smirked at me, but didn’t reply.
The bedroom window had old-fashioned slatted shutters instead of curtains. Sebastian leaned over to open the window, and the sounds of revelry drifted up on the night air.
“Listen to that,” he said, dreamily. “Sounds like being in Italy.”
I stood and listened for a moment, a smile on my face. “Yes, it sounds, I don’t know … happy.”
He turned and looked at me. “Are you happy, Caro?”
I nodded slowly. “Getting there.”
“Good,” he said, quietly.
I collected my toiletry bag and headed for the shower. As I glanced over my shoulder, he was still staring out of the window.
When I returned, he was leaning out as far as he could, soaking up the mild, night air. He looked relaxed and had a serene expression on his face. I didn’t often see him like that: it reminded me of how he’d been when I’d known him in San Diego.
“Back in a minute, baby,” he said, smiling at me.
While he was gone, I pulled on a baggy t-shirt that I used for sleeping in, and pulled out my laptop to catch up with emails.
My editor was fuming, still unable to expedite my travel documents. With a frisson of guilt, I realized that I hadn’t even told him I was on the move. I tapped out a hasty email of explanation, and offered him a light travel article as a bonus.
Jenna and Alice had sent long and chatty emails about a new gallery they’d been to see in Manhattan, with a particular mention of how the cheap wine had been undrinkable. I wrote to tell them I was traveling through Italy with an old friend, and that I’d finally seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa for myself. It made me feel comfortable to be connected and to have news from home.
True to his word, Sebastian returned quickly from the shower. He seemed relieved when he walked back through the door. Perhaps he thought I’d run away while he was gone.