Chapter Seventeen Cammie #2
“He was studying at the same university in Naples as Dr. Alex at the same time she was, but he appears to have transferred to some school in the UK around—you guessed it—twenty years ago. Finished his doctorate, has had a globetrotting career taking him from digs in Turkey and Greece to a university professorship in Thailand, until just this year, when he returned to his roots as an archaeologist by working on an excavation project”—West’s eyes lock on mine, his brows lifting for emphasis—“at the Pompeii Archaeological Park.”
I don’t think I’ve taken a breath since “professor of archaeology.” Don’t know if there’s still air in my lungs, actually. All of this information coming together, and so quickly, it’s painting a picture that feels entirely too obvious, too in our faces, to be real. This must be him.
Though I don’t need any more convincing, and I doubt he does, either, West goes on.
“A few other bits of supporting evidence, if we need it—he’s connected to my dad on LinkedIn, and not to be a broken record, but who knew my dad used LinkedIn?
Dr. Goedhart’s dad is Dutch, thus the name, but his mom is Italian, thus the family flat, where, yes, according to doorbell labels, he is once again in residence.
And finally, this is my own conjecture, but Goedhart, Lovett, my heart, your heart, wordplay that is both romantic and cheesy as hell.
Now, then”—he pauses to exhale a heavy breath, then reaches over to lace his fingers with mine—“thoughts?”
It’s all I can do to give him a dazed, awestruck smile. “You really are a wizard.”
He scoffs. “Okay, this is truly not that difficult, and if you had been the one to search ‘L Goedhart archaeologist,’ you’d have laid out these same findings for me, your thoroughly dazzled audience.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But you wouldn’t be dazzled, because you’d be all ‘oh neat, I could’ve found all that, too.’ ”
“Is that really what I sound like to you?”
“Regardless of how much or little effort it took,” I go on, “my mind is pretty blown. So, should we, like…send him a message on LinkedIn or something?”
West’s lip curls with distaste. “What are we going to do, make a catfish account for a fictional Gen Xer? Give him a name like ‘Chuck Chapman,’ a vague job title like ‘consultant’?”
“You came up with all of that way too easily for a guy who isn’t dying to catfish someone on a professional networking site.”
The compromise we land on, in the end, is West using his real identity to email Luca Goedhart.
I write the message, using the connection of Dr. Danny to fabricate a story about a project for school and looking to reach some of his dad’s contacts and blah, blah, blah.
I/West request that they/we meet up sometime, promise to cause minimal inconvenience, and even offer to come to him at Pompeii.
West gets to edit the message to his satisfaction, then sends it off.
It’s a delicate balance of lies, truths, and things in between, but I can tell it still makes West uneasy, being the one to go out on a limb like this. Especially for the meetup that feels like the most promising yet.
Or the one with the most potential for disaster, but I don’t say that part out loud.
“You know I really appreciate you, right?” I say softly as we lie there on the library couch, all electronics pushed aside.
Just my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me, one hand rubbing gentle circles on my back.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for me already, helping me get this far in my search.
I can’t imagine doing any of this without you. ”
His chest shakes with a soft laugh, and in a wry tone, he answers, “The same can definitely be said for me.”
It’s been five days since our discovery of Luca Goedhart and subsequent attempt to contact him, and still no response.
I’ve tried to remain calm, even cautiously optimistic.
West and I have each spent time with our parents while we wait—and heard the passing remarks about what a “refreshing change” it is, and the “long time, no sees” loud and clear.
So far, we’ve refused to give them the satisfaction of confirming or denying whatever they think is going on between the two of us.
Things seem to be winding down for the documentary filming, while they ramp up for twentieth anniversary party preparations.
Each day, new tables or chairs or random pieces of décor appear in new spots around the villa grounds, like little pop-up reminders of the looming surprise-sorta-reunion I’ve begun to regret ever planning.
If only Mom could’ve dropped the Via Camilla tidbit on day one. The trouble that would’ve saved me…but I suppose it also could have kept me from growing closer to West. The hint might not have even led me anywhere, without all I’ve learned since and without his help.
So I can’t dwell on what could’ve been. Nor does it do me any good to obsess over a response from Luca Goedhart that might never come, no matter how many times I make West check his spam folder.
In an effort to distract us both, and surprise West with something nice, I decide to arrange a chill date night at Villa Russo.
It’s one way of saying, “Hey, sorry I’m an agent of chaos most of the time and haven’t let you have the relaxing summer you were hoping for, but I can sit still sometimes too! ”
Unfortunately, I am who I am, and who I am is the girl who’s burning her second attempt at stovetop popcorn.
If I was getting any wild ideas about my culinary prowess after making one (1) decent pizza at Tony’s workshop, all I had to do was spend a few minutes in a kitchen unsupervised to bring myself back down to earth.
“This wouldn’t be an issue if this country had Orville Redenbacher Movie Theater Butter,” I grumble to myself as I remove the skillet from the cooktop.
The ladies who make most of the meals here looked skeptical when I came in with a bag of popcorn kernels and some good old-fashioned American overconfidence just as they were packing up to head home for the day.
But I tried to give them my best I promise not to burn the place down smile.
I might have been lying.