To Tuscany with Love (7 page)

8

Siena, Italy

A
n Italian man in his late twenties sauntered up to the group. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips. He wore skin-tight jeans, leather loafers without socks, and a white T-shirt two sizes too small. He moved next to Karen—so close his T-shirt touched her breasts—and kissed her on both cheeks.

Stillman imagined fondling Bella’s breasts.

Meghan got the double kiss next. Her cheeks flushed crimson when the Italian’s hand lingered; his hand squeezed her butt.

Stillman’s arm, still draped over Bella’s shoulders, drew her into his side. The wholesome powdery smell of her punched him midline, jerking the breath from him. No way this Italian asshole was getting close to his girl.

Karen introduced everybody to the asshole. Massimo, a.k.a. the Italian with the playboy attitude, had met the girls in a leather store. Stillman would bet his dinner money Massimo had followed them into the shop for the sole purpose of meeting the beautiful, luscious American girls.

Massimo’s finger pointed at each of them, and he counted in Italian. He nodded. “It is possible. We do not have too many to go together.”

Wide-eyed, Karen turned to the puzzled group. “Massimo told us about an abandoned estate. He’ll take us there and we can explore. I guess the place has Etruscan relics practically everywhere—”

“And Massimo said nobody really cares if you pick one up.” Meghan’s voice sounded convincing.

“That would be a radical souvenir.” Rune nodded. He looked at his gelato cone. “I guess dinner could wait.”

“Artifact raiding?” Lee frowned.

“Are you a coward?” Bella said.

Stillman studied his friends’ faces—only Lee seemed to object. He couldn’t read Bella’s face at all. He thought of her words. Stillman knew that he would never steal. The preacher had drilled that into him. But let someone call him a coward? Not him. “I’m game,” he said. “How do we get there?”

Massimo puffed up his small-framed chest. “I drive you.” He swung one hairy arm around each of the twins’ necks. “You beautiful ladies ride in front with me.”

Phillip grimaced and looked at the others. “I believe in closeness, but how will we fit in one car?”

Meghan looked back at them as the threesome moved away. “Massimo’s got a truck that’ll hold you in the back. Let’s get a move on.”

At the parking lot, Massimo puffed out his chest and gestured to a pickup that had seen better days. Stillman vaulted into the back of the dusty truck and extended a hand down to help Hope and Bella. Before Lee and Phillip had a chance to climb into the truck, Stillman tugged Bella to the front of the truck bed. He sat down and patted the spot next to him, grinning at her. “You can lean on my shoulder so your head doesn’t bang against the truck.”

She slid in next to him and snuggled close, in spite of the blazing sun. Phillip’s frown egged Stillman to rub it in. He nibbled Bella’s ear. Phillip pouted and stared at the countryside.

The truck bounced over the cobblestones. It jostled them against one another and the truck’s hard surfaces. Shock absorbers? What shock absorbers? Stillman clamped his teeth together so he wouldn’t bite his tongue.

The cobblestones, thank God, finally ended when they reached the outskirts of the city. Massimo accelerated. The smoother streets soon gave way to the dust of the country. The afternoon sun and a swirl of dust smothered them. Everyone in the back—even the two girls—had stripes of sweat that made rivulets in the grit on their faces.

Stillman could hear the twins chatting and laughing with their Italian friend. The truck screeched to a stop at the crest of a rutted lane. Lee and Phillip, who had commandeered the rear sides of the truck, tumbled out first. Bella scrambled to the back and, aided by Phillip’s eager arms, hopped out and skipped away from the truck before Stillman could jump out.

A rundown, abandoned house topped the hill. Around it, dead grasses and weeds evidenced past disruption. Newly turned earth showed signs of recent digging.

“The ground has zigzags.” Meghan giggled after giving her apt description.

Rune put his hands on his hips and surveyed the land. “Gosh, it’s great that we’re the first to discover this site. With all the upturned earth, it seems like we’re the last to the relic-hunting party. We’ll be lucky to find anything.”

Amen. Stillman’s lips tightened, but he refused to complain.

Massimo kicked at a clod of dirt. “Perhaps one or two persons have also dug here for Etruscan relics.” His flat palms rose up as if to ask, “How could one know?” He cast a beguiling look in Karen’s direction.

Gag me, Stillman thought, turning away from the flirt. He trudged off toward the dilapidated structure, hurrying to catch up with Bella. “We may not want to go inside, Bella. It’s probably rotten and home to a thousand rats.”

She turned her head so he could hear. “Are you afraid?”

He had no choice. “Hell, no.”

She grinned at him, all challenge. “Phillip’s already inside.”

The entry door hung on rusty hinges. Half of the door had broken off, which left jagged splinters along the edge. Stillman followed Bella inside. Rodent scat littered the floor and cobwebs masked the ceiling. Only the light that streamed through the window openings made the abandoned house seem less creepy.

“Phillip, where are you?” Bella stood four paces inside; her arms dangled limp at her sides.

“The next room.” Phillip’s voice sounded loud in the empty structure, as if he were right beside them. “Be careful. There’s junk and broken wine bottles everywhere.”

Stillman followed Bella through the arched opening to the large room that occupied most of the structure’s first floor. Phillip squatted next to a heap of clutter: large rocks, segments of rotten square timber, twisted rusty metal, broken and unbroken wine bottles.

“Lovely.” Bella bent down beside him. “What do you think?”

“This place is a dump. It’s probably been unoccupied, except for the occasional party, for a hundred years or more.” He stood and kicked a wine bottle, sending it skittering across the room. “It’s a wonder it’s still standing.” He beckoned with his hand. “Let’s see what’s upstairs.”

“Not a good idea.” Stillman’s words shot out before he could stop them.

“Scared of ghosts?” Phillip leered at him.

“With all the water that’s poured into here, don’t you think the stairs might be rotten?” How many times had Stillman sat through the preacher’s lecture on the dangers of abandoned shacks and how those dangers would punish sinners who entered?

Bella circled the room. “I think I’ll take my chances.” She pointed at the staircase. “Stone steps.”

Stillman cursed to himself. He tramped past them to the stairs. A few window slits lit the narrow corridor by the stairs; he could hardly see. His toe jammed against the riser and pain shot through his foot. Hopefully, his shoe had saved him from a broken toe.

Stillman rounded the corner to the second floor. He pressed his back to the wall and sidestepped into the room. An enormous hole in the ceiling opened the room up to the sky—plenty of light here. The floorboards—where present—were warped upward in a crazy jumble of splintered lumber dotted with animal droppings. He heard Bella and Phillip step into the room behind him but didn’t turn or speak.

“Ooh, look.” Bella picked her way along the right wall until she reached an indented section. She untied the long, fringed, cotton sash around her waist, which released her peasant blouse. With it, she wiped the accumulated grime and dust off a relief imbedded in the niche. Her blouse, set free from the belt, swayed with her body as she scrubbed at the dirt.

Stillman edged along the perimeter of the room. He had a perfect view of her breasts jiggling braless under the gauzy fabric. He felt Phillip move beside him. He knew Phillip didn’t give a crap about the relief. No, he and Phillip only had eyes for Bella’s dancing breasts.

“It’s Mary.” Bella’s fingers traced the face of the Madonna.

“It’s a really old Mary,” Phillip chimed in from behind Stillman. “The Italians really live their religion.”

“With contradictions everywhere,” Stillman said.

Bella turned to him.

“I don’t get how Catholics can profess to adhere to the first and greatest commandment, yet practice idolatry.” Stillman remembered many lectures from the preacher on this very topic.

Bella’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m Catholic. I do not practice idolatry. This,” she said, her hand sweeping in front of the relief, “is a figure of Mary. I pray to her, not a statue.” A glare painted her face. “Take it back.”

Bad choice on his part. A really bad choice. “Sorry. It’s my interpretation, that’s all. No offense intended.” He studied Bella’s face. He hadn’t dampened her desire by mouthing off about religion, had he? Shit. Bella turned to the wall, kissed the relief, and then stomped past him and down the stairs.

“Smooth move, Casanova.” With a chuckle, Phillip left him alone on the second floor.

Stillman’s fist slammed against the wall adjacent to the relief. Dust flew everywhere from the impact and brought tears to his eyes. Moron. Then shouts of anger sent him running down the stairs.

In front of the house, Lee and Rune were wrestling; they tumbled over each other on the hard-baked earth, throwing out fists and curses with equal fervor. Rune had the edge on both fronts. What Rune lacked in fighting skill he made up for with innovative swearing that would have made a sailor proud. Stillman stopped behind Bella to watch the show.

A screeching whistle cut the air. Stillman turned to the noise and saw Hope’s hand lower from her mouth. It was no surprise that a ranch girl from the West could whistle louder than he could. Rune’s arm fell to his side. Time to be a hero. Stillman grabbed Rune and yanked him off Lee.

Lee scrambled to his feet, rubbing his puffy left eye. “Put it back.” He craned his skinny neck, canvassing the others’ faces. “He’s got a relic—maybe Etruscan. Not to donate to a museum. To sell.”

“This,” Rune said, holding up a dirt-encrusted relic that might have once been a vase, “is sure as hell not doing any good out here. It’s a souvenir. It’s probably not salable, anyway.” He walked away from them and examined the relic in his hands. He muttered to himself, loud enough for all to hear. “Piece of junk ... not worth the trouble ... ” Rune bobbed it up and down in his hand, as if contemplating chucking it as far as he could throw it.

“Stealing, Rune?” Stillman remembered his lesson about stealing like it was yesterday, even though he had been in the seventh grade.

It had been exceptionally hot that year and his school didn’t have air conditioning. His lunch had spoiled before he could eat it more than once. One morning, he had stolen a quarter from the change jar in the kitchen and bought himself an ice cream cone after school. Unfortunately, the heat had melted the ice cream faster than he could eat it, and telltale drips marked his shirt when he got home.

The preacher, after quizzing Stillman about the stains, had quoted Matthew, chapter 5, verse 30: “And if thy right hand causeth thee to stumble, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not thy whole body go into hell.”

The preacher had grabbed a butcher knife and pinned his arm against the kitchen table. He had raised that knife in the air as if to sever Stillman’s hand. Stillman begged for mercy, tears streaming down his face. The preacher hadn’t cut his hand off, but as punishment, had taken Stillman’s most prized possession—the
Anatomy and Physiology
book the doctor had given him after his mother died.

Ever since that day, Stillman had known two things with absolute certainty. He would never steal and he would never forgive the preacher, the mean, abusive man who had married his mother.

“I don’t think taking that relic is a wise idea, Rune.” Stillman’s firm voice gave no indication of the pain stirred inside him by his memory.

Rune had stripped to his undershirt. He looked up from his rucksack; his hands were finishing the job of stuffing in the shirt he had stripped off. He cradled his pack under his arm. “You’re right, guys. Only losers steal.”

Stillman followed Rune to the pickup. Rune’s pack, slung over one shoulder, bumped against his back. The bottom of the backpack curved out in the shape of its contents. The shape of the Etruscan pottery. Rune, asshole that he was, had the balls to steal the relic. Stillman knew, better than anyone, that thieves always get punished, one way or another.

9

Florence, Italy

M
eghan, in a variegated coral blouse and white pleated skirt, followed the group into yet another room of the
Istituto e Museo di Storia della Scienza
. Why couldn’t they tour a fashion exhibit, like the costume gallery in the Pitti Palace? No, she was stuck today in this science museum. Meghan had taken in way too many boring rooms filled with scientific instruments from the years of Medici influence.

She trudged along, and her mind wandered to imagining the fabrics used by the fashionable aristocrats of that era. She stood in front of exhibit after exhibit, but she refused to look at the one that held the middle finger of Galileo’s right hand. Creepy. Why would anyone choose to display the finger of a dead guy—no matter how famous?