Roman Holiday Page 6

  About twelve hours after landing in Rome and being shown to her bunk in the female section of the convent, she’d phoned and begged and begged her parents to let her come home.

  “I hate it!” she’d wailed. “I can’t understand a bloody word anyone is saying! And it’s just like Irish College. I’ll be sent home if I speak English and I know I will, so please just let me come home now. Please. Please!”

  But to no avail. Caro smiled as she turned down Via Berlino and darted between honking cars to reach the shady side where the school was located.

  She’d been a brat, expecting her mum and dad to cough up the cash to ensure she’d feel at ease in the language, and then expecting them to extricate her the second she arrived and felt homesick. Thank goodness they’d said no – firmly but gently – and told her to give it a go or she’d regret it later. Who knew the “regrets” would turn out to be quite so real or quite so lasting?

  She pushed open the old, heavy wooden door and stepped into a cool vestibule that hadn’t changed one iota in the interim years. Lovely intricate tile work on the floor, heavy oak furniture, large tapestries hanging on the huge, high walls, and everything gleaming and scented with beeswax. Serious time warp, Caro thought as her heeled shoes clipped across the textured surface. The door to the left, off the hallway, held the same sign as all those years ago, “Informazioni”, and she stepped up and rapped her knuckles on the shiny wood.

  “Avanti.”

  The handle stuck a bit – that, too, hadn’t changed – but Caro knew the trick of pulling and turning simultaneously, and she pushed open the door with no problem.

  Time warp two.

  The small, tidy, efficiently arranged room looked and smelled exactly the same. As did the imposing figure garbed in black sitting behind the wide desk, head slightly bent as she wrote diligently upon a sheet of paper. A proper fountain pen, of course – no biro or, God forbid, a laptop would ever be used by those hands. Just like then, the nun continued her task while the visitor waited patiently to be acknowledged.

  That was the rule.

  You mustn’t speak first, or at least not until she gave you permission, whether it be verbally or with an incline of the head. Caro had stood silently, trembling even, many a time in this very spot, fourteen years ago. She wasn’t eighteen now and her nerves were of a different kind, but she still applied the courtesy wait that was implied by the continued flow of deep blue ink on a snowy-white sheet.

  Sister Bernadette eventually lifted her head and met the waiting gaze.

  Time warp three.

  My goodness. The parchment skin, the pale blue-grey eyes and faded lips could have been a Dorian Gray portrait tucked in the convent’s attic. Her brows, the strongest feature on her face, were as heavy and as unplucked as always – so no unnecessary vanity here, then, Caro thought as she reached her hand across the desk to greet this formidable nun.

  “Sister,” she began. “My name’s Caroline Fitzgerald and I’m here in Rome on a teaching exchange. I was a student here fourteen summers ago and thought I’d pop in to say hello. Thank you for your email response earlier. How are you?”

  The nun had risen from her seat and taken Caro’s hand – she didn’t shake it, just held it firmly in the softest hands, one over the other, the grip solid.

  “I remember you, Miss Fitzgerald,” she said. “What a turn-up for the books – you, actually teaching something.” But she smiled as she spoke, her voice still soft with Kerry overtones.

  Caro had forgotten that, how odd it had been to be greeted back then by a nun from Dingle in County Kerry, there in the heart of Rome.

  “Please, my child, won’t you take a seat and tell me how you have been?” She indicated the upright leather chair near to where Caro had stood waiting and proceeded to sit back down herself. “I’ll just ask Sister Maria to bring some tea.”

  While Caro settled herself in the chair, Sister Bernadette made a quick call from a very snazzy intercom system and asked for some refreshments to be brought.

  “Now,” she said, all business again, “tell me why you are here.”

  Where to begin? How to ask the most important question without giving things away?

  Caro started to talk, telling Sister a bit about her career to date and her love of all things Italian, especially when it came to art. The ageless nun in front of her listened, added a few remarks and questions, and sat back contentedly in her chair, contemplating the young woman before her.

  Caroline Fitzgerald, she recalled, had always been full of mischief and fun. A bright, eager student who struggled in her first few days with homesickness – a not uncommon occurrence with young people but at odds with this young lady, who’d appeared, on first meeting, quite self-contained. Fortunately, Caroline had befriended another young woman, from London, if memory served, and before the first week was out, the two were thick as thieves.

  And here she was now, smart, sophisticated and obviously well educated. Sister Bernadette smiled, satisfied with what she saw. Despite being considered a bit of a dragon by the young ladies in her care during the summer-school sessions, she did care about them, collectively and as individuals. Most came from homes where extra tuition for their offspring was the norm and that, sooner rather than later, usually reflected on the students.

  The lessons of intense Italian grammar and conversation that took place every weekday morning from 8 a.m. to noon were followed by a four-hour break. Lessons in all things Italian – culture, cuisine and history – followed from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m., when their thirty-three students were dismissed for the evening. Because the majority of girls in her care were eighteen or older, she gave them a midnight curfew and woe betide any who broke it. Those same rules still applied, and Sister Bernadette smiled again as she remembered this young woman in front of her being chastised and punished for several curfew breaks.

  “And so . . . ” Caroline Fitzgerald came to a pause in her brief career history update.

  “And so,” Sister agreed, “what can I do for you?”

  The young woman raised her eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “You have another reason for being here, I think. Not just a pleasant visit to an old haunt, hmm?”

  A brisk knock heralded the tea tray and when the niceties were completed, they each had a cup of steaming liquid before them. The nun folded her hands compactly on the desk as she leaned forwards towards her visitor.

  “How may I help?”

  This was it. No going back. Just ask, damn it. Caro gave herself a brief talking to. There’s no harm in asking and nothing to be gained if I don’t. She took a deep breath.

  “I don’t know if you remember that summer specifically when I was here.” She paused again and Sister Bernadette made some kind of encouraging sound. “Well, I became friendly with a local boy named Toni Luca, who worked as a porter at a hotel here in Rome, the Paradiso, I believe. Do you know it? Do you remember meeting Toni?” She held her breath as the nun tilted her head to one side in reflection.

  “Of course I know the hotel, it is very famous here. A di Luca flagship, in fact. But the boy? I remember you getting punished for way too many curfew breaks and I do remember catching the odd glimpse of you on the back of the young man’s scooter, but I don’t believe I ever met him. He worked as a porter in the hotel, you said?”

  “Yes, Sister. He was a first-year university student, but of course was off for the summer and was paying his way through college by working at the hotel. Seemingly he did it every year, even throughout his secondary school, so he was able to ask for a lenient schedule and we had many free hours together.

  “Because I knew I was going home in a few weeks and he was staying, we both agreed it would just be a summer romance and didn’t give each other too many personal details. But now I’m here I thought it might be fun to look him up. I wondered if you would remember him at all, as I don’t know his family address – he slept in the hotel, but until I got here and did some research I didn’t even know if the
hotel name I had in mind was correct.”

  “Have you checked with the hotel?” Sister asked.

  “No, not yet, as I assumed since it was just a summer job the staff there now wouldn’t know him. But I do know that you know so many people here in Rome, a bit like people knowing everyone in Dublin, and thought you may just remember him, too – and you’d have seen us together. It doesn’t matter, though.”

  Caro felt a wave of disappointment, which she knew was unfounded. What had she expected, really? That this one nun would remember a charming, handsome young man from fourteen years ago and one she’d never been introduced to? Daft thinking – stupid, really.

  “But you must check the Paradiso hotel. It is family run and they keep staff on from one generation to the next. They will surely have records going back decades and the head concierge – Marco, I think his name is – knows everyone in Rome. He is a member of the family and has only their best interests at heart. They say he can get anything a guest requires and remembers every minute detail about each guest, too. I imagine a porter with several years’ work experience would be no problem to him.” She stood up from the desk, stretching out her hand to take Caro’s. “Tell him I sent you. I know the family and have taught many of them over the years.”

  “Thank you so much, Sister – I’ll do that. It was strangely lovely seeing you here today.” She stopped suddenly, blushed a little. “I hope you don’t take that the wrong way.”

  Sister Bernadette moved around her desk and in a universal nunlike way, gently ushered Caro towards the door, a hand on her arm.

  “Not at all, my child. It was a strangely lovely trip down memory lane for me, too.”

  Chapter 5

  Nick pushed back from his desk, spun his chair around and, after pulling himself out of it, strode across the room. The long window on the far wall looked out on a side street and he gazed down at the ground below, not actually seeing the group of tourists passing by, the boy on the bicycle or the grandma pushing a small child in a stroller.

  He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, rocking back on his heels, letting his thoughts drift. At least he wanted them to drift, but they wanted to go directly to the danger zone, so he had to change the drifting plan and go with the numbers instead. He’d done some number-crunching on the Dublin project and things were looking tight but possible. He’d have to go over there soon and that prospect didn’t bother him at all.

  He liked Dublin, knew it reasonably well having had several business trips over the years, and since the beginning of the year he’d been there three times on this particular hotel-premises acquisition. It was a small, walkable city as capital cities went but was buzzing with energy, culture and all manner of people. The music scene was vibrant and the pubs were never empty. He might take Byrney with him this time, as he knew she hadn’t been to her land of birth in over a decade – whether by accident or design, he wasn’t sure, but he’d run it by her anyway and see if that suited.

  He moved back to his desk and flipped though his calendar looking for dates but quickly realised that the best person for that job was Byrney herself. She knew every planned meeting this side of the new year and she’d be able to juggle priorities to get a few days away.

  Nick glanced at his watch and with a muttered curse grabbed his phone, leather briefcase and keys from his desk then yanked open the door. Striding from the office, he paused to discuss the Dublin plans with Byrney, noticing absently that she looked a little tired. He was going to query her on it but catching a glimpse of the clock on her desk, he decided against it.

  Before long he was in a taxi hopping across town and pulled up outside the Accademia. The first lecture had started ten minutes ago and he thought to slip in quietly at the back to listen to Caroline Fitzgerald introduce modern Irish art to Rome. Or at least to the citizens who could afford the time to come to these lectures – probably ones who already owned art pieces and just liked to been seen at these cultural events. The lectures were from 4.30 p.m. on a Tuesday and Thursday and would continue for six weeks. He understood from their brief conversation the previous weekend that her teaching classes were each morning for the same time period and that she may be done by Christmas.

  He didn’t know what the hell he was doing here – he just knew he wanted to see her again, even from the back of a lecture hall, and see if that tingle, that pull he’d felt was real or imagined. The fact they’d had great sex and she’d disappeared at first light bothered him. Did she want to avoid speaking with him? Was she embarrassed? He could tell she was inexperienced in the sex department, but what she lacked in skill she’d certainly made up for in enthusiasm, in delight, in giving simple pleasure and in the joy at receiving.

  She’d been generous and playful, something that had been sorely missing from his life lately. Granted, once they’d hit the sheets there hadn’t been much talking, more pleading, a bit of begging from her, and some grunts and moans – definitely more him than her. But her gasps and sighs more than compensated for any chit-chat or pillow talk, and he’d felt more satisfied than he could remember being in years. Okay, he hadn’t had actual sex in months, by choice, but he wasn’t senile – he could remember what good sex felt like, and this had been damn good. The thing was, was he going to get it again – and specifically, with her?

  The lecture hall was dimmed and hushed other than the sound of her voice speaking clearly though a microphone attached to her collar. She wore a dark suit, skirt to the knee, jacket nipped in at the waist and some kind of pale shirt – professional and unobtrusive. She was obviously letting the colours on the screen take centre stage. She moved gracefully about the stage, pointing with a laser to various hues, tones and shaded areas of the huge image behind her.

  Grabbing an information sheet from the stand inside the door, Nick eased himself into a seat a few rows from the back. It was more than three quarters full and the audience was rapt. She was speaking in English, but as he listened she dipped in and out of Italian, often translating the odd descriptive word into Italian to ensure her students were “getting it”.

  Glancing at his sheet, Nick tried to follow where she was in her order and tuning in again, he her heard her say the name Leech, and realised the painting in question was of what looked to be A Convent Garden by William Leech. It was beautiful – radiant, even – with the strong sunlight dappling through the fresh green stalks of the lilies, and the brilliant blinding white of the robes and headdresses. It was evocative and peaceful, arresting yet filled with prayer – oh! wait, that was her voice explaining. And she was doing it so well he found himself nodding at her descriptions, and the way she explained the colour themes and unusual design of the image. She went on to explain the reasons why it was unusual – strong, diagonal figure – a portrait of the artist’s wife, in fact – walking out of the picture, keyhole visual à la Degas – and its importance in Irish impressionism.

  The next painting she showed was by Roderic O’Conor and had, funnily enough, another strong diagonal to the painting – La Jeune Bretonne. Caroline went on to explain all about the influence of the Brittany School on Irish painting styles before she discussed the Italian inspiration and impact on the artists. Without realising, Nick found he was leaning forwards, attentive and eager to hear how she described, explained and interpreted the images that flowed – one after another across the screen, each one a burst for the senses, or that’s how she referred to it. Her use of colourful and imaginative language was captivating and the genuine enthusiasm for her subject was patently obvious.

  Caroline Fitzgerald was holding her listeners enthralled.

  As the applause wound down Nick stood up and made his way slowly to the front of the auditorium, where several enthusiastic admirers gathered around the lecturer. She was answering questions deftly but politely while continuing to gather papers and stuff them in her bag. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and, looking up, caught him watching her. She stopped for a split second, and then turned
briefly to smile at the gentleman earnestly and dramatically extoling the virtues of the lecture, and his commitment to return and tell all his colleagues. Caroline just smiled and thanked him then made to move towards the side entrance of the hall.

  Nick pushed himself away from the back of the chair where he’d been leaning nonchalantly and reached her side in a few strides.

  “Miss Fitzgerald has answered all your questions for today. She has a prior engagement and will expect to see you all again on Thursday. Good evening.”

  He spoke in Italian and with his free arm reached forwards to pluck her tote bag from her hand, threw it over his shoulder and took her arm above the elbow in a firm grip, moving forwards at the same time. The onlookers got the message loud and clear, and the flare of anger in her eyes as she opened her mouth to protest died just as quickly when she noted his intense gaze.

  “Do you really want to be here for another half an hour with these groupies?” he asked quietly.

  The evening sun was warm and golden as he walked her towards a corner café. Not speaking, he indicated a table and chairs on the pavement, and pulling out one of the wicker seats, indicated that she sit.

  She sat.

  He signalled the waiter and took the seat opposite her, resting his own briefcase on the floor next to his feet. He pinned her with a hard stare.

  “Why?”

  Seriously? His Divine Hunkiness shows up at her lecture, intrudes on her after-talk repartee (okay, she was mildly happy about that) and manhandles her down the street as if she were an actual package to be transported somewhere, and he asks her why? The why she was asking herself was why did she let him do it? The answer was of course in the divine hunkiness part and her lack of experience in dealing with that amount of male . . . well, everything.

  “Why what?” she returned, accepting the coffee from a waiter with a nod of thanks and turning to look directly into the deep brown eyes.