The Eternal Ones (21 page)

After ten minutes of studying Michelangelo’s artwork with her head tilted at an unnatural angle, Haven was finally forced to bring her gaze back to Earth. A painting along the chapel’s north wall captured her attention. In the background of the picture, the artist had painted three separate scenes. The work, by Botticelli, was called
The Temptation of Christ.

“Do you know the story?” Iain took off his sunglasses.

“Of course.” Haven was happy for the chance to show off a little. “When Jesus went into the wilderness, Satan appeared to him in the disguise of an old hermit and tried to tempt him three times. He tempted Christ with food, and he took him to a pinnacle and told him that if he jumped, angels would catch him. Finally he offered Christ all the riches of the world. But Jesus never gave in to temptation.”

Haven felt Iain watching her. “Do you think you could resist?” he asked. “If someone offered you everything you ever wanted, do you think you’d be able to turn it down?”

She thought for a moment. “I wonder,” Haven mused. “I
hope
I’d be able to resist. Especially if the price were my soul. But I’ve lived a pretty sheltered life. Snope City wasn’t exactly packed with temptations. I can hardly remember getting
anything
I wanted. So God knows what I’d do if someone offered me
everything
.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman wearing a fanny pack and Birkenstocks poke her companion and point in Iain’s direction. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” she whispered.

 

IAIN SAID LITTLE as they left the chapel and strolled toward the river. He kept his head lowered as though his thoughts were too heavy to support, and he seemed entranced by the shuffling of his feet. When they were halfway across the Ponte Sant’Angelo, Iain grabbed Haven’s arm, and they slowed to a stop. Beneath them, the waters of the Tiber offered a murky mirror image of the world above. Taking her face in his hands, he bent and kissed her. It was the sort of sad, yearning kiss perfected long ago by sailors and soldiers and men who led dangerous lives.

“Haven, will you stay here with me?” he asked while Haven’s eyes were still closed. It almost sounded as if he were pleading. “We could be happy in Rome. Let’s not go back to New York, all right?”

Haven laughed uneasily. “But won’t they kick us out at some point? I don’t even speak Italian.”

“That’s easy to fix,” Iain argued. “And it’s not as if we’ll need to work.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Iain’s intensity was beginning to worry her.

“Whenever you’re ready, we could get married again. Please. I don’t want to go back.”

“I don’t understand. Why not?”

As she waited for his response, Haven heard the distinct mechanical click of a camera. Two girls in UNC T-shirts were standing several yards away, giggling with their mouths hidden behind their hands. Iain, who’d turned horribly pale, didn’t move. Haven walked over to the girls, whose eyes grew wider the closer she came.

“You guys want a picture with him?” The two girls were too shocked to speak. “It’s all right,” Haven assured them. “I’m Mr. Morrow’s personal assistant. Go stand next to him, and I’ll take your pictures.”

“You will?” whispered one of the awestruck girls, handing Haven her cell phone.

“Of course,” Haven said. As the two girls inched shyly toward Iain, Haven carefully erased the photos they’d taken of her and Iain together. “Now smile!” she ordered.

“Sorry about that,” she told Iain once the girls had disappeared. “I promised not to make you pose for any photos. Where should we go now?”

Iain ignored the question. “So will you?”

“Will I what?” Haven tried to buy some time.

“Stay in Rome. With me.”

“I don’t know.
Maybe
,” she said with a sigh. She thought of Beau and her mother and wondered if she could bear to leave them both behind. “You’ll have to let me think about it.”

“Maybe is good enough for now.” Iain’s mood instantly brightened. He put his hat and glasses back on and offered Haven his arm. “I’ll give you till tomorrow to decide. Now it’s my turn to lead the expedition.”

 

HE LED HAVEN through the streets, steering her out of the path of killer Vespas and transporting her over more than one mammoth mud puddle. At last they arrived at a clearing, a square so small it was little more than a bulge in the road. Yet it was packed with antique vendors, their stands overflowing and mingling at the edges. Brass clocks and doorknobs and delicate glass ornaments sat side by side, each item a treasure just waiting for the right person to notice it.

Iain stopped in front of a wooden cart covered in dozens of centuries-old prints that flapped in the wind and immediately set to work sorting through a stack of illustrations torn from ancient books.

“What are you looking for?” Haven asked.

“I promised to buy you something pretty,” he replied. “I came across an illustration the last time I was here. I didn’t have any cash on me then, and I’ve been meaning to come back for it. Ah ha!” He pulled a picture from the pile and handed it to Haven.

The image showed a young man and woman lying together in a springtime meadow. Tall grass rose all around them, nearly hiding the couple from view. The trees that bordered the field were in full bloom. Birds soared overhead, and brightly colored flowers dotted the landscape. The white columns of a temple could be seen in the distance. Haven’s finger traced the rough right edge of the page. Part of the picture had been torn away. A dark blur—a smudge or the tip of a storm cloud—was creeping into the image from the missing half.

“I noticed her before.” Iain pointed to the girl. A long ribbon wrapped multiple times around her head couldn’t contain the mound of black curls that broke free in every direction. “She has your hair.”

“Poor girl,” Haven muttered. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been cursed with this mop and had no access to modern styling products.”

“What’s wrong with your hair?” Iain pulled one of her curls straight and let it bounce back to shape. “I think it’s fantastic. It makes you look wild.” He was either completely sincere or an excellent liar.

“
Really
?” Haven tried to imagine herself through Iain’s eyes, but all she could see was the same girl she’d known for the past seventeen years. “But Constance was so beautiful.”

“She was. But I’ve known you with dozens of faces and hairstyles. They were all different, and as long as you were there underneath them, I liked them all.” Iain counted out the price of the print and gave the cash to the vendor. When the carefully wrapped package was handed over to him, he passed it directly to Haven. “This is to remind you.”

“Remind me?”

“Of what’s waiting for you here,” he said.

 

BACK AT THE APARTMENT, Haven unwrapped the print and propped it up against a stack of books on the side table. Then she finally unpacked the clothes she’d brought from New York and shoved the suitcase under the bed. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

“Looks like you could use a few things.” Iain had been watching as she put her four dresses and two pairs of jeans on hangers. “We can go shopping tomorrow if you like.”

“I just wish I had my sewing machine. I could have a dozen new outfits by the end of the week.”

“Good idea.” Iain flopped down on the bed. “We’ll buy the apartment next door and turn it into a workshop for you. And then, if you like, we’ll find a little shop where you can sell your designs. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

It was, Haven thought as she lay down beside Iain and let him wrap her in his arms. It was
exactly
what she always wanted.

Haven woke up alone for the second morning in a row. By the time she’d showered and dressed, Iain still hadn’t returned. She ate her breakfast on the balcony and watched the cafés below begin to open. With a strong, hot coffee in her hands and the sun inching its way up her legs, she looked across the rooftops at the city she might soon call home. This was her reward for a whole decade of difficulty. She’d lived through the cruel jokes, the sneers, and the loneliness. But now that was all in the past, and Snope City was an ocean away. She had found her way back to the fountain in the piazza—and to the person she had loved for two thousand years. This, Haven thought, was where the visions had been leading her. This was what Constance had wanted all along.

Haven left Iain a note, grabbed her handbag, and set out to wander aimlessly through the narrow, twisting streets of Rome. Without Iain at her side, they didn’t seem quite as welcoming. The ancient buildings crowded too closely together, and at times they seemed to lean toward her as if to smother her in their embrace. Twice, Haven heard footsteps approaching too quickly. When she spun around, she found no one, but the feeling of being watched never went away.

She paused on the Via Giustiniani in front of a shop that seemed to specialize in plastic gladiators in bulging loincloths and considered buying one as a gag gift for Beau. Looking past the display in the window, Haven spied the elderly shopkeeper cleaning the floors. Every few seconds his sweeping slowed as his attention shifted to a tiny television set fastened to the wall. A buxom blonde anchor was delivering the morning news. The face of a young man appeared above the anchor’s right shoulder, only to be quickly replaced by a picture of the Italian prime minister in an electric-blue Speedo. Haven gasped and took a step back from the window. The face had belonged to Jeremy Johns.

Haven turned away from the shop and hurried back in the direction of the apartment. Had she imagined the photo or was she losing her mind? Why would Jeremy Johns be on Italian TV? Her heart was pounding so loudly that it almost drowned out the sound of a familiar voice coming from a sidewalk café. She stopped in the street and listened. His words were inaudible, but Iain’s tone was businesslike. Thinking she’d surprise him, Haven inched closer and slid behind the restaurant’s outdoor service stand.

“You saw the news, I suppose?” she heard Iain say. “I’m coming back to the city. The DA says I need to be available to answer more questions. . . . I
would
have stayed, but now they know where I am. So that means the show’s back on. Marta said she’d be ready for the fifteenth. I asked her to set aside any work that I haven’t seen. . . . Yes, she’s all right. It wasn’t exactly unexpected. She’s known for a while. . . . So have you talked to the
Times
? The
Observer?
Excellent. Keep working. I’ll be back in touch when the plane lands this afternoon. . . . What’s that? . . . The girl in the picture? The one with all the hair? She’s nobody. Just someone I picked up here. I’ll see you back in New York.”

Haven peeked around the service station and saw Iain sitting at a table, sipping a cappuccino and tapping away at his phone. This wasn’t the same person she’d slept with—the one who had asked her to stay with him in Rome. She had caught a glimpse of the real Iain Morrow—a person who thought nothing of insulting her or lying about leaving his phone in New York. Haven had always thought of herself as the kind of girl who could counter any ill treatment with a cutting remark or a hearty slap in the face. But the fury she expected never arrived. Instead, she just felt like a fool. Now the past three days would have to be reexamined—their meaning recalculated.

Haven craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the phone’s screen, just as Iain dropped it into his shirt pocket and began to gather his things. If he was heading back to the apartment, Haven had to beat him there. It was the only way to catch him without exposing herself as a snoop. She took off in the opposite direction and skidded around the corner into a street that ran parallel to the Via Giustiniani. Once she reached the Piazza Navona, Haven bolted up the stairs, crumpled up the note she had left behind, and was lounging on the balcony by the time Iain arrived.

“We made the papers,” he said when he saw her. He looked hounded—even the mischievous glimmer in his eye was gone. Without it, Iain really did seem like a different person.

“What are you talking about?”

Iain dropped a copy of an Italian newspaper on her lap. It was folded to showcase a black-and-white picture. Though she couldn’t read the caption, Haven had no trouble identifying the back of her own head. And Iain’s profile couldn’t have been clearer. The girls on the bridge outside the Sistine Chapel had snapped a picture of the two of them as they’d walked away.

“They sent it to an American blog yesterday afternoon. It’s in all the papers this morning. Everyone wants to know who you are.”

Haven tossed the paper to the floor. “What’s the big deal? You can’t even see my face in the picture.”

“No, but now the whole world knows we’re in Rome. I spoke to an associate of mine, and even
he
asked me about my mystery girl.”

It was the opportunity Haven had been waiting for. “You spoke with an associate? I thought you left your phone in New York.”

Iain sighed and pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket. “I guess I twisted the truth. I wanted you all to myself for a few days.”

“But you could have at least let me check my e-mail. I’m sure my mother’s frantic by now. She hasn’t heard from me since Tuesday.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Here, would you like to call her?” He held out the phone, but Haven ignored it.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“We all tell little lies,” Iain said flatly. “I just wanted everything to be perfect. I should have realized—”

“What?”

“I have to go back to New York for a while.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“Stay here,” Iain said. “Enjoy yourself.”

“I’m
not
staying in Italy all alone. Besides, you told me you never wanted to go back.” The whole thing had been a fantasy—sweet little lies told to a stupid girl who was too eager to believe them.