Читать книгу Burning The Map - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 10

I’m surprised to hear Lindsey and Kat clomping into the room only an hour or so after I crash, but I’m too tired to find out what brought them home so soon. The next morning I wake them at eight o’clock, determined to show them all of Rome within the next two days, since we’re planning on leaving tomorrow night for the Greek islands.

“It’s too early,” Kat moans, looking as stunning as the night before.

While my appearance always does a nosedive by the time I get up in the morning, Kat is blessed with long, black lashes and smooth skin that never blotches. Her perpetual good looks come in handy, especially on Sunday mornings at 7:00 a.m. when she starts a twelve-hour shift as an ICU nurse. She still goes out every Saturday night without fail, and she almost always picks someone up, but it never seems to affect her nursing. In fact, she’s won awards. She even gets flowers and cards from her patients and their families.

“Too bad,” I say to her now. “We’ve got lots to see.”

Lindsey groans and props herself up on her elbows. “You are not going to believe the shit those guys pulled last night.”

I immediately sit on the edge of her bed, ready for some of the good girl talk that’s been missing from my life. I’ve certainly had no interesting stories of my own. “What happened?”

“Apparently—” she shoots a mean look at Kat “—the boys’ idea of a Vatican tour was to drive by Saint Peter’s from a mile away and point at it.”

I cover my mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t even,” she says, before she continues. “Then they just sped away, and when I asked Massimo where we’re going he tells me Monte something.”

“Monte Mario,” I tell her. It’s a nice neighborhood just outside the city limits. “And then what happened?”

“Well, it was obvious they were looking for an evening of Love American Style,” Lindsey says, again glaring at Kat, “which I guess I should have expected the way those two were making out at the table—but I really did think we were going to the Vatican. One minute we’re cruising along real slow, and Massimo’s being nice, telling me things about Rome. Then we pull up to a light, the two guys talk in Italian, and the next minute they floor the scooters and start flying down the street away from the Vatican.”

We both look at Kat, waiting for an explanation. The way she was tonguing Poster Boy at the table, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was groping him on the scooter.

Kat gives a guilty shrug. “Alesandro asked me if we wanted to have a beer at their apartment, and I said ‘sure,’ assuming he meant after the tour. But before we got anywhere Sin started arguing with Massimo at a stoplight.”

Lindsey snorts. “He made a comment about bringing me home the next day before work, and I didn’t appreciate the assumption.” She throws off her covers and starts going through her purse. “I thought those guys would be different, but they’re the same as the ones back home. I don’t have time to mother some post-college idiot into adulthood.”

“Oh my.” Kat rolls her eyes and waves off Lindsey’s speech. “That’s fine, but you jumped off the scooter and stalked away in the dark. I was worried about you.”

Sin turns around with a serious look, but after a second she gives a bashful kind of half laugh. “I guess the seven beers I had helped a bit.”

“We chased her,” Kat explains, laughing now, too, “and we had to talk her back onto Massimo’s scooter.”

“Yeah. By that time they wanted nothing but to get the hell away from us.” Sin slumps on Kat’s bed.

“And I was none too happy about it,” Kat says. “Alesandro was a hottie, and I came on this trip to have a good time, damn it.”

They’re giggling now, leaning against each other and looking like the best friends they are. I used to fit in that picture. “The Three Musketeers,” we used to call ourselves unoriginally.

“What happened with you?” Kat says. “Did Francesco make a move?”

“No, no. Perfect gentleman.” I tell them about his promise that the guys will pick us up that evening and take us somewhere off the beaten path. “So,” I tell Kat, “if they still want to do it, you’ll have another shot at Alesandro.”

“I hope they don’t,” Lindsey says. “I want absolutely nothing to do with Massimo.”

“Maybe they’ll have more friends,” I say, “or maybe they’ll take us someplace where there’s lots of people. It could be fun.”

Sin narrows her eyes a little. “You’re really selling tonight with these guys. You’re sure nothing happened with you and Francesco?”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t hold out on us,” Kat says.

“There’s nothing to hold.” I look at the two of them slumped on the bed, and I think, there’s nothing to tell about Francesco, not really, but there’s John, there’s my parents, there’s—

“All right. Well, I call the bathroom first.” Lindsey heads for the shower.

Kat groans and rolls off the bed. She moves to her suitcase and starts sorting through her clothes.

I sit there for a second, thinking that at least they didn’t refuse to go tonight. Because I want to see Francesco again more than I can admit.

All day we hike around Rome, making the requisite stops—Castel Sant’Angelo, Trevi Fountain, Piazza del Popolo, Sistine Chapel, and at least a dozen other churches. The majority of Rome’s treasures are religious, whether the cathedrals themselves or the baubles and sculptures collected inside. Although I consider myself a lapsed Catholic, I still find the interior of a church soothing. It’s like walking back into childhood, a world of orderly rules and schedules. I love the cool marble and the impossible, enormous quiet, despite the teeming city outside.

“Pete always wanted me to pretend I was a virgin,” Lindsey says, as we stand in front of a portrait of the Virgin Mary just inside the entrance to one church.

Kat and I burst out in giggles at the thought of cute, little Pete making such a request. We get shushed by a passing couple who might as well have the word tourist plastered on their heads what with the rain slickers tied around their waists and the five guidebooks they’re juggling.

“So why didn’t you?” Kat says in a whisper.

“What was I supposed to do? Get drunk and pretend I was in a dorm room?” Sin shakes her head. “I told him he was an asshole, but I think he was just trying to mix it up a bit, have some fun.” She shrugs and walks to a white marble sculpture of an angel.

They haven’t dated for two years, but it doesn’t stop Lindsey from bringing up Pete every so often. An open, vivacious guy, he was the one man Lindsey had seemed to care about. Everyone loved to have him around, until Lindsey decided he wasn’t going anywhere in life. He was happy running the family business, a large fruit and vegetable market in Buck-town. Lindsey, on the other hand, wanted to run with the moneyed set, the kind of people who worked out at East Bank Club and owned second houses in Aspen. So it was so-long-Pete, although Lindsey doesn’t seem able to say goodbye.

I follow Sin to the statue of the angel, whose placid face and soulful eyes make it look like it needs a break from centuries of standing in the same position. “You ever talk to Pete?”

She looks surprised at the thought, then turns away and walks down the marble aisle toward the altar. “Of course not,” I hear her say.

The heat is unrelenting, but it gives us an excuse for frequent stops at neighborhood bars for tè fredda—sweet Italian iced tea—and snacks. About three in the afternoon, we’re thirsty again, but because of the siesta, we trudge around forever looking for an open restaurant.

A few women pass us, walking arm in arm, then a few young girls holding hands.

“Lot of lesbians around here,” Kat says.

“They’re not lesbians,” I say, laughing. “That’s just what women do in Rome.”

Kat stops and watches the girls enter a store. “I like that.” “Let’s adopt that custom.” She links her arms through Sin’s and mine, pulling us forward until we all fall into step with each other, our hair flying behind us, and I feel like we’re Charlie’s Angels. Three good friends on the town.

It reminds me of a day we’d spent a few years ago, right after we’d graduated from college and moved to Chicago. A doctor Kat worked with had invited her to a party during Old Town Art Fair. The three of us hit a few other bashes first, making the rounds in khaki shorts and halter tops, drinking keg beer. When we stopped at Dr. Adler’s, though, we knew we were out of our element. For one thing, the house was a stunning brownstone with a manicured front lawn and an interior so full of antiques that I held my breath as we made our way through the living room. For another thing, the women wore linen skirts and wide-brimmed straw hats, the men tailored pants and nice shirts. Conversation seemed to lull as we came in. Everyone was at least fifteen years older than we, and in comparison we looked like hoochy mamas with our tight little shirts, holding our plastic cups of beer.

“Stick with me,” Kat said after Dr. Adler’s wife gave us the once-over, her mouth curling in distaste as she pointed us toward the backyard.

“Like we’re going to mingle,” Sin said under her breath.

We made our way out back and stood, joined at the hip, while Kat made pleasantries with the doctors and we sipped wine that Dr. Adler described as “good, but not as superior as the ’92.” Finally, Kat was able to make an excuse for us to leave, and when we got outside the front door, we all burst out laughing.

We keep walking arm in arm now until we finally find an open bar called Mel’s on a winding cobbled street off Piazza Cavour. It’s small and quaint, with old posters of Italian movie stars plastered to the walls. We order our food and slide into a table under the front awning. When our teas and food arrive, we dig in as if we hadn’t just eaten a few hours ago.

“Oh my God,” Kat says. “Did you see the biscuit?”

I glimpse a guy walking through the door and get a glimpse of sandy-blond hair.

“Wish me luck,” Kat says, pushing back her chair.

Neither Sin nor I say anything. We both know she doesn’t need it.

Kat trots into the bar. Within seconds we hear the rumble of a man’s voice, the peal of Kat’s laughter.

“Great,” Lindsey says. “We’re going to be here forever.”

“Yep,” I say with a certain degree of resignation. Since Kat is widely known for her ability to meet men under any circumstances, Sin and I usually spend a lot of time standing around until Kat decides whether she wants to do something about it. Usually, we talk and make jabs about Kat’s libido, but Sin says nothing this time, she just keeps eating her pizza, pulling off the whole slices of tomato, which seem to offend her.

Kat comes out of the bar in record time and introduces us to Guiseppe, who looks like he could be an underwear model. He’s got a stunning body, a jaw so square you could use it as a ruler, and jade-green eyes under eyelashes that are longer than Kat’s.

“Buona sera,” Guiseppe says to us with a slight bow.

“He designs leather!” Kat gushes, with such wide-eyed enthusiasm you’d have thought he was next in line to be the pope.

Sin and I shake his hand and drag our chairs around the table to make room. When Guiseppe and Kat take their seats, there’s a pregnant pause, as if we all know that someone should talk, but none of us can figure out whose turn it is. I keep expecting a look from Lindsey that says, take over, please, and get us the hell out of here, but she doesn’t even glance at me.

Finally, Kat says, “Guiseppe wants to come sightseeing with us.”

Sin and I are quiet, but our silence is probably for different reasons. For Sin, it’s just another round of dealing with Kat’s string of men. For me, though, it means an end to my role as the one who knows Rome, the keeper of the Italian knowledge. I’d enjoyed being teacher all day. It meant Kat and Sin needed me in some fashion. But now that there’s a Roman onboard, it’s over.

Guiseppe, it turns out, is a very pleasant, mild kind of guy who happens to know all sorts of Rome trivia. I find myself warming to him as he gives us informative tidbits at each stop.

“Did you know,” he asks us in carefully pronounced English as we stand in front of the Vittorio Emmanuel Monument, a white marble monstrosity that looks like a wedding cake, “that this was built by the monarchy of Italy, whom the people hated?”

Actually, I did know this, but Guiseppe looks at each of us as if he’s really trying to help, so I keep quiet.

“We do not like this,” he continues. “It was built from marble stolen from the Colosseum and the Forum, and it is ugly.”

“That’s terrible,” Kat says.

Guiseppe looks down at Kat, pulling her close to him. “But you are not like this monument,” he says. “You are beautiful.”

“All righty,” I say in a loud voice. “It’s time we got back to the hotel.”

Sin turns to me. “Which way is home, Case?”

I point to the street behind us, happy to be needed again, and Lindsey and I set off toward the pensione, Guiseppe and Kat trailing behind us. By the time we make it back to Pensione Fortuna, my feet are killing me, and I’m dying for a nap.

“I’ll join you,” Lindsey says, yawning as we stand outside the pensione door.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand to Guiseppe.

He shakes it, but a perplexed look crosses his face.

“We’re going to take a nap, too,” Kat says, putting her arm around Guiseppe’s back.

His face rights itself, as if everything’s been cleared up.

I stifle the desire to roll my eyes, less than thrilled that I won’t be able to walk around our room in my underwear and grungy but comfortable Chicago Bears T-shirt. Still, I’m too tired to take Kat aside and protest, and since Lindsey only lets out a small groan and heads in the door, I assume she is, too.

Once in the room, I change into a clingy white T-shirt and some cute running shorts. Guiseppe may be Kat’s guy, but he’s still a guy. I get more time with him than I ever wanted, though, when Kat and Sin huddle in the bathroom. I figure Kat is probably primping while they analyze Guiseppe’s potential.

“Kat is very beautiful,” Guiseppe says. He sits on her bed, across from me.

“Yes, she is.”

“Very beautiful,” he says again, nodding.

“Yep.” I pray they’ll get out of the bathroom soon so I can take out my contacts.

Kat bursts into the bedroom then, her hair piled up casually on her head. I dive into the bathroom before Lindsey can shut the door.

“What are the odds that they’ll actually nap?” I ask Sin as I peel off my contacts.

“Slim,” she says through a mouthful of toothpaste, “but I could sleep through a train wreck right now. This jet lag is killing me.” She spits, rinses and leaves the bathroom.

After she’s gone, I close the door and stare at myself in the mirror. Without my contacts, I look hazy and ill defined, but it feels familiar.

When my head hits the pillow, I fall asleep immediately, only to be awakened a half hour later by muffled smooching sounds coming from Kat and Guiseppe. I glance to my left at Lindsey, who’s snoring, blissfully unaware. I turn back to my right and my worst fears are realized. The sounds aren’t coming from lips on lips, but rather Guiseppe’s lips on Kat’s perky breasts. Kat’s head is thrown back, her mouth open, her face holding a look of pure rapture. Guiseppe is bent over her, working with all the fervor of a newborn infant.

I close my eyes again, not entirely surprised. I’d expected some activity, and it’s certainly not the first time Kat has fooled around within spitting distance of me. It’s just that she usually confined the contact to kissing, and it usually occurred after bar-hopping during our undergrad days, when I was too loaded to give a rat’s ass. But this? This seems too nuts even for Kat.

I steal another glance in their direction, hoping that it was just a momentary lapse of discretion. Instead, I find Guiseppe’s form hidden entirely by the blanket and way below Kat’s gravity-defying boobs.

“Kat,” I say in an exasperated whisper. “For Christ’s sake!”

“What? What’s wrong?” As if a complete stranger wasn’t performing oral sex on her in the company of her two friends.

“Give it a rest, will you? I’ve got to get some sleep.”

Kat lugs Guiseppe up by his shoulders. When he emerges from the sheets, his golden hair is tousled, his pouty lips decidedly glistening.

“Sorry,” Kat says to me, but when she looks at Guiseppe, she starts giggling.

I feel like a second-grade teacher, yet I can’t help barking, “Quiet. Please.”

Kat and Guiseppe try to feign seriousness, but it’s hard to quell their delight.

I pull the covers over my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

Francesco has not called.

I began watching the clock at approximately 7:30, when Guiseppe exited, amid a flurry of kisses from Kat. Since that time, Lindsey and I have listened to Kat’s play-by-play of every word or action spoken or performed by Guiseppe since their chance meeting at the coffee bar.

Kat has already forgotten about Poster Boy Alesandro, and has plans to meet Guiseppe tonight at a disco in Trastevere. Wanting nothing to do with Massimo, Sin has also opted for the Trastevere plan.

“Come with us,” Sin says as she lounges on her bed. Naturally, she’s already dressed for the night, looking cute in trim black pants and a fitted blue halter top. Outside the open French windows, I can hear the low roll of conversation, an occasional burst of laughter, a few lines from a song—Piazza Navona heating up for a Friday night.

“But I promised Francesco.” I realize how pathetic it sounds. I came on this trip for some girl time, which at least one of my friends is trying to give me. Why am I making such an effort to see some guy I just met, especially when I have a nice enough boyfriend at home?

No answer comes to mind. To keep myself busy, I refold the clothes in my backpack while I try to decide what to wear. It’s easier than looking at Sin, who is way too good at reading faces, mine in particular.

“So what if you promised him?” Kat says, coming out of the bathroom in a lacy bra and thong. “Nothing happened last night, right?”

“No, of course not, but you guys should come with me. What if Alesandro and Massimo are there and expecting you?” Meanwhile, I keep looking at the phone, wondering if Francesco will even want to hang with me after his friends got the cold shoulder last night.

“I really don’t think they’re dying to see us, and if they do…” Lindsey shrugs “…they won’t find us.”

I have nothing to say in return. I can’t explain this desire of mine, not even to myself.

“Go with Francesco if you really want to,” Kat says.

Sudden panic at the thought. I make my fingers continue folding socks into little balls, but what I’m thinking is that I can’t be alone with Francesco, not without chaperones. For the last two years, the only man I’ve been alone with, other than John, is my dentist.

I turn and face them. “Come on, you guys. Just come with me for an hour or two. I really want to do this.”

“Why?” Sin says.

Great question.

“Let’s stick together,” Kat says. “This is supposed to be a girls’ vacation, after all.”

“No shit, Kat. I’m surprised you remembered that.” It flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.

She freezes, looking like I slapped her.

Lindsey doesn’t say anything, but she’s watching me.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you guys had no problems leaving me last night,” I say.

“You were going to sleep,” Lindsey says.

“It’s not like you thought twice about me.” I try to keep my voice light, wondering why I’m arguing, since I may never hear from Francesco again. I’m ready to retreat when I see Lindsey’s face harden.

“Well,” she says, “you haven’t been setting much of an example lately.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But I know. Some sick part of me wants to hear her say it, though, because in some fucked-up way it’ll mean she missed me as much as I’ve missed them.

“Hey,” Kat says, walking toward us. “Let’s not get into this. Not now. Casey, if you want to go with Francesco, do it. Let’s just make it an early one so we can get up tomorrow and do some more sightseeing before we leave for Greece tomorrow night.”

Neither Sin nor I answer for some time.

“Yeah,” Sin says, finally breaking the silence. “Just go.” She gives me a lopsided smile with one corner of her mouth, which means she’s trying to be nice.

“Okay,” I say. “What time should we meet back here?”

“Midnight,” Kat says. “Will that work?”

“Sure,” I say, and I give Lindsey a small smile in return.

Just then the phone rings. I lunge at it.

“Pronto,” I say.

“Casey.” Francesco’s voice is so soft that he breathes my name more than he speaks it. “How are you?”