A Veil of Glass and Rain (10 page)

appreciate everything I do, still I want to

create something nice and appealing.

Tonight, though, my head is empty.

It's been a long day. Perhaps my creativity is

already asleep.

Professor Tessitori called me this morning. She

is truly devoted to her students. I could tell

she was at home from the background noises;

water running, cabinets being closed, a cat

meowing.

“You are an excellent student, Miss Féau.

You're fast. You're focused. You deserve the

scholarship,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I want to help you a little, because I can

see you're not in a good place at the moment,”

she continued.

“Alright.”

“There's a very good professor who teaches

Italian cinema at the University of Berlin. He

happens to be a good friend of mine. I'm going

to ask him to help you with your paper, but

you'll have to come up with a good idea.”

I nodded, but of course she could not see

the gesture of assent.

“Miss Féau?”

“Yes. I'll come up with something good. I

promise.”

“Excellent. You have one week to send me a

working title and a brief synopsis. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

After we hung up, I sat on my bed and

thought about the entire situation for a long

while.

A professor in Berlin. She really wants to

facilitate the situation for me, because Ivan

and Alessio are planning to go to their beloved

Berlin for their researches. If I follow them, I

will not have to face the change and the

challenge by myself. My friends will be by my

side. Professor Tessitori understands me well.

Afterward, I went to my appointment with

the gynecologist. Clém accompanied me.

While we were waiting, I asked her about

the new show she's directing and about Marco.

“Everything's fine,” she answered.

“Are you sure?” I insisted.

“Yes, of course. Don't worry about

anything,” she assured me.

The gynecologist was very disappointed,

because of the pill I've stopped taking, and

because I'm neglecting my body.

After the visit, Clém gave me the exact

same speech.

Such a perfect day.

Clémentine always assumes the role of the

strong and caring friend, while I'm the needy

one. I realize that I'm responsible for these

circumstances, for I'm often preoccupied and

distracted. So how can I expect my friends to

believe that I can take care of them?

It's been seven days since I've seen Eagan. I

haven't called him, and he hasn't called me. I

don't know how to be his friend anymore.

I turn on the stereo that we keep near the

register. I let my favorite compilation fill the

space and be my accompaniment, as I shelve

the new books.

The speakers play blues and jazz tunes.

These are Eagan's grandparents favorite songs.

Lucrezia and Vittorio love them as well.

Then, as if I were in an old romantic movie,

the door of the store opens to let in my very

last costumer, Eagan.

Once again, I want to ask him if he's real,

but I don't, for there's no smile on his

handsome face.

“You're mad at me.”

“Yes, I am. You've disappeared. Again,” he

says, his voice hard.

“Well, it's been only a week. Besides, you

haven't...” I begin to protest, then I shake my

head and hide my face in my hands. “You're

right. I'm sorry. I'm an awful friend.”

“Yes, you are. I know where you work,

because Clém told me. What do you know

about my work and my new life here? Nothing.

Because you don't want to know!”

I perceive the smell of cinnamon, of new

pages, and a whiff of spring air from outside;

the scents seem more intense with my eyes

closed. Even Eagan's simple words bear a

stronger story and a deeper truth. I take in all

of it. I accept it all.

“I'm sorry,” I repeat.

“Look at me.”

I do. He's wearing black slacks, a dark green

button-down shirt, and he's carrying a

messenger bag. His face is shadowed by a light

beard, and his bright blue eyes look tired. He's

still my good giant, but right now he seems

fragile; my heart breaks a little.

I go to him and link my arms around his

waist, not caring about the bag getting in the

way. Without hesitation he hugs me back and

nuzzles the top of my head.

“Do you forgive me?” I mumble against his

shirt.

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

I kiss his chest, right where his heart pulses.

“Forgive me?” I demand anew.

“Yes,” he says.

I pull back a little to gaze up at him. His

easy smile stretches his lips.

“Will you help me with something?”

“Absolutely,” he answers.

He drops his bag to the floor and he follows

me.

I show him the window dressing: A light blue

background; a small wooden table; travel-

themed books and flowers scattered

everywhere. Plenty of them.

Eagan looks doubtful.

“You hate it.”

“Well, it's...” he hesitates.

“Say it. You won't hurt my feelings.”

He gestures toward the display. “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

He gathers up most of the flowers, until

only the purple and yellow ones remain Then

he hands me the discarded flowers. I place

them inside a box, while Eagan collects half of

the books and put them into another empty

box.

I glance at the new dressing. The

composition is simple and effective; a garden

of purple and yellow flowers encircles the

small table, on top of which Eagan's piled

books with yellow and purple covers.

“Nice.”

Eagan shrugs. “Less is more.”

As I situate the subtracted books back in

their section, Eagan stands beside me, to help

when I need to reach the higher shelves.

Then, as I sit onto the floor to open another

box, he positions his taut body behind mine.

His arms and his long legs on either side of me

form a warm and protective cradle. While his

chest pressed against my back makes my skin

hum. It's a very distracting feeling.

“So, tell me about your work.”

His stubbly cheek rubs against mine as he

speaks. “I design expensive houses for very

rich people.”

I grin. “Cool. Do you like it?”

“I like my new life here, because you're

here.” He breathes his words along the slight

curve of my jaw.

I realize that I'm staring at the books inside

the open box without really seeing them, and

that my hands are clutching the edges of the

box.

Eagan covers my hands with his and strokes

my cold fingers. The effect is immediate; my

limbs melt into his body. Eagan links our

fingers and brings our joined hands to my

chest.

“Does it upset you? You know, the fact that

I moved here because of you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good.” His lips brush the side of my neck,

my cheekbone, my temple. As my skin absorbs

his heat, Eagan hums the blue melodies against

the soft shell of my ear.

“You have a beautiful voice, Eagan.”

“When will I get to hear
you
sing?”

“Soon.”

“Promise?”

I nod. This is a day full of promises.

His mouth lingers over my ear and I burrow

deeply into his strength and bask in his heat,

even as a shiver slithers throughout my frame.

“Will you do something for me?” He

demands.

“Anything,” I gush.

He chuckles and squeezes me. “There's a

party-”

“Another one?”

“Yeah. Well, this one is more formal. We're

going to present a new project to some very

rich people. I need you with me, because I'll be

giving the presentation.”

“And if it goes well, they'll give you a lot of

money,” I add.

“Yes.”

“I'll be there. But I want to drive. No cabs

this time. It's too expensive.”

He doesn't comment, but there's no need for

words, for I can feel the muscles in his body

tense. His mouth abandons my ear, and his

hands slide away from my fingers.

I turn to look back at him. His face is pale.

“What?” I ask him.

“I don't want you to drive.”

I sigh. “Seriously? I'll drive very carefully.”

He shakes his head.

I cradle his face in my hands and stroke his

rough skin with my thumbs. “Trust me,

Eagan.”

His extreme protectiveness both pleases and

confuses me. I believe there is a deeper story

behind his uneasiness, but I'm afraid to dig.

Eagan closes his eyes and his jaw unclenches

a little. I keep caressing his face and I giggle,

as his stubble tickles my palms.

“I need a shave,” he mutters

“I don't mind.”

He opens his bright blue eyes and gazes

intently at me. ”I'll have to remember that,”

he utters huskily.

I want to believe that a deeper truth hides

behind his words.

I want to shut my eyes, so that I can sense it

and keep it.

This is a story I'm not afraid to discover.

11.

“Are you sure you don't want our help?” Ivan

asks.

“I want to do this on my own, but thank you

though,” I tell him.

“Fine. But no black, and no jeans. We

absolutely forbid it!”

I'm walking down
Via del Corso
, one of the

most famous shopping streets in Rome. The

wind bears the scent of trees and flowers,

along with the smell of car exhaust and sweat;

it's a never-ending battle of contrasting odors.

The winner is uncertain, as the traffic is thick

and the sidewalk is so crowded, it is almost

impossible to walk.

As I clutch my phone and scan the windows

of the shops, I keep colliding with people.

“Your first date! Are you excited?” Alessio is

on the phone now.

“Ouch!
Scusi
,” I apologize to a lady, then I

give Alessio my answer. “It's not a date. He

just needs me for moral support.”

“Whatever. Call us if you need us, sweetie!”

“Will do.”

I put my cellphone inside my purse. Then, as

I raise my head, I see it. It's peach pink, it's

made of lace and silk, it's not something I

would ever wear or buy, therefore it's ideal.

I stop right in front of the window, then I

position my body so that my reflection

superimposes over the mannequin. The dress

has short sleeves, a low neckline and a high

waistline. In the reflection the hem grazes the

top of my knees. I imagine wearing the dress

with a short black jacket, black stockings and

black pumps. The mannequin is carrying a

small pink purse, made of soft velvet, but at

it's feet lies the black version of the same

purse.

I stare at my reflection and picture Eagan's

reaction.

“You look beautiful,” Eagan says.

For once, imagination and reality coincide.

I'm standing inside Eagan's small apartment.

The door behind me, I push my palms against

its cold, wooden surface for support. Eagan

looks magnificent in black slacks, a wine-red

button-down shirt and dark Italian shoes.

The house smells like him. Delicious.

I quickly notice that the entry space where

we're standing opens directly into the kitchen.

On my left I see two open doors, that allow me

a partial view of the bathroom and of Eagan's

bedroom.

Eagan, hands shoved in the pockets of his

slacks, approaches me slowly but purposefully.

Then he stands before me, close but not close

enough. I can feel his warmth and sense the

familiar and teasing scent of cinnamon. I want

to touch him, but I'm frozen. And I'm holding

my breath. Finally, when Eagan reaches out

and brushes my cheek with his knuckles, I

exhale. I take a few steps backward, and I let

the door bare my weight.

Eagan grins. His bright blue eyes follow the

path of his fingers as they trace my jaw, the

column of my neck and my exposed

collarbone.

My nipples harden and poke against the soft

silk of my dress. I'm not wearing a bra,

because I don't need to. Eagan doesn't notice

the response of my body, I hope, for his eyes

are roaming my face.

“Eagan.” My voice is a pleading whisper.

His hand interrupts its teasing caress for a