Chapter Fourteen #2
Lucia asks a question. Marco gives her an answer she doesn’t like. She pushes. He resists. She keeps pushing until he finally admits she has a point.
I’ve never seen anyone enjoy arguing with my brother as much as she does.
I’ve also never seen Marco let anyone do it for so long.
One afternoon, I lean against the study doorway while they examine a photograph through a magnifying glass.
“Should I be jealous?”
Neither looks up.
“Yes,” Marco says.
“No,” Lucia says at the same time.
They glance at each other.
I press a hand to my chest.
“I’m getting mixed signals.”
Lucia returns her attention to the photograph.
“We’re trying to identify a ring.”
“I have rings.”
“Not one like this.”
She passes me the magnifying glass.
The photograph shows part of a man standing beside Maria Rossi. His face is outside the frame, but one hand rests near her back. A crest is engraved into the ring on his smallest finger.
“Any luck?” I ask.
“Three families used similar designs,” Marco says. “None of the surviving images are clear enough for a match.”
Lucia takes the magnifying glass back.
“There’s a scratch through one of the keys.”
Marco looks at her.
“It could be damage to the photograph.”
“It appears in both copies.”
He reaches for the second image.
Their shoulders nearly touch as they bend over it. A strand of Lucia’s hair has escaped its knot and lies against Marco’s sleeve.
Neither notices.
I regret coming in.
Not because they’re doing anything wrong.
Because they look comfortable.
I know what Lucia looks like when she’s comfortable now.
She leaves her shoes beneath the desk. She tucks one foot under herself in the chair. She forgets to check the doorway whenever someone moves in the hall.
She does all three with Marco.
I push away from the frame.
“I’m going to find someone who appreciates me.”
Lucia looks up.
“Try Angela.”
“She hit me with a spoon this morning.”
“That was affection.”
“Then I’m deeply loved.”
Her smile follows me into the hall.
#
Infatuated is a ridiculous word.
It sounds adolescent and temporary, like something that happens to men who write bad poetry and forget to eat.
I am not infatuated.
I simply know Lucia prefers the corner chair in the conservatory because it catches the afternoon light.
I know she breaks the crust from her sandwiches but eats it later if she thinks no one is looking.
I know she loves old mysteries, hates sad endings, and reads the last page first if a book makes her nervous.
I know she hums while arranging flowers with Angela.
I know exactly how many times she has laughed at something I said.
That isn’t infatuation.
It’s careful observation.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Then I find her standing in the library one afternoon with a list in her hand.
She looks from the page to the shelves, frowning. Sunlight from the western edge of the terrace has reached the windows, warming the dark waves of her hair.
“Lose something?”
She glances over.
“I’m looking for a book.”
“You’ve come to the right place.”
“It isn’t here.”
I take the list.
She has written a title and author at the top, followed by the names of several bookstores.
“What is this?”
“A book my mother used to read.”
“Is it any good?”
“I don’t remember. She used to take it off the shelf when she thought I was asleep.”
I inspect the title.
It’s an Italian novel I’ve never heard of.
“Why the bookstores?”
“I asked Grace to look it up. None of the large shops have it, but there’s a used bookstore in the city that might.”
“And you want to go.”
Her eyes move toward the pool terrace.
“I’d like to.”
The hesitation bothers me.
Not because she’s afraid of leaving.
Because some part of her still believes she needs permission.
“Then let’s go.”
Her gaze returns to me.
“What?”
“I’ll take you.”
“Marco might not like it.”
“Marco doesn’t like most things.”
“This is different.”
“We’ve taken you out before.”
Only twice.
Both times were carefully controlled, with Armando driving and enough security behind us to invade a small country. Lucia spent the first outing checking every vehicle in the mirrors.
The second time, she checked only half of them.
“I don’t want everyone rearranging their day for me.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because I’m not asking everyone.”
Her eyebrow rises.
“You’re asking Marco.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Gio.”
“Fine. I’ll inform Marco.”
“That sounds suspiciously different.”
“It is.”
She looks down at the list.
“There’s a restaurant near the bookstore,” I add. “We can have lunch.”
“A restaurant?”
“That’s generally where lunch is found.”
“I know what a restaurant is.”
“I wasn’t certain. You looked confused.”
“I’m reconsidering the entire outing.”
“You haven’t agreed yet, so there’s nothing to reconsider.”
I grin.
She tries not to smile.
Fails.
“When?” she asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“That soon?”
“If we wait, someone else might buy the book.”
“That isn’t how bookstores work.”
“That is exactly how bookstores work.”
She takes the list from me.
“All right.”
“All right?”
“You can take me to the bookstore.”
“And lunch.”
“We’ll see.”
“It’s a package deal.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Fine. Lunch.”
I hold out my hand.
“What?”
“We should shake on it.”
“Why?”
“So you can’t change your mind.”
“I can change my mind whenever I want.”
The reminder is gentle but firm.
I lower my hand.
“Of course you can.”
Something in her expression softens.
“But I won’t.”
She folds the list and slips it into the pocket of her sweater.
“I’m going to tell Marco.”
“He’s in his office.”
“I know where he is.”
“You want me to come?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate.
She starts toward the door, then looks back.
“I don’t need his permission.”
“No.”
“But he needs to know where I’ll be.”
“Yes.”
Lucia nods to herself.
The distinction matters to her.
It matters to me too.
I watch her walk out of the library.
A moment later, Marco’s office door closes across the hall.
I consider listening.
I make it three steps before deciding I value my life.
Instead, I return to the library and pick up the book she left on the chair.
She has marked her place with one of Angela’s grocery lists. On the back, Lucia has written three names beneath the outline of a family crest.
Research connected to her father.
Even when she isn’t in the study, she’s searching.
I set the list back exactly where I found it.
Ten minutes later, Lucia appears in the doorway.
“Well?” I ask.
“He wants Armando to arrange security.”
“That was inevitable.”
“He also wants us back before dark.”
“Does he think we’ll turn into pumpkins?”
“He thinks you’ll get distracted.”
“That’s insulting.”
“He isn’t wrong.”
She smiles.
“He said we can go.”
I straighten.
“So,” I say, “tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
She returns to her chair and opens her book.
I should leave.
I have calls to return, documents to sign, and at least three people waiting for decisions only I can make.
Instead, I take the chair across from her.
She glances over the top of the page.
“Don’t you have work?”
“Probably.”
“You’re going to sit there and watch me read?”
“I might read, too.”
“Do you know how?”
“I’m full of surprises.”
I choose the first book within reach and open it.
It’s about nineteenth-century agricultural policy.
I pretend to read for eleven minutes before Lucia takes pity on me.
“You can go.”
“I’m enjoying it.”
“You’ve been on the same page the entire time.”
“It’s a complicated subject.”
“You’re holding it upside down.”
I look at the book.
She laughs.
I close it and toss it onto the table.
Infatuated is a ridiculous word.
Unfortunately, it may also be the correct one.