Gabriel muttered a surprised expletive as he gave himself over to the sensations, before weaving his fingers into her hair.
He froze.
A sick feeling bubbled up in his stomach as he remembered what happened the last time he’d done this. He withdrew his hand immediately, worried that he’d frightened her.
“I’m sorry.” He extended a single finger to trace her cheek. “I forgot.”
A cold hand caught him by the wrist before forcing him to grasp her head roughly.
“What did you forget?” she taunted. “How to enjoy a blow job?”
Gabriel’s eyes flew open. In absolute horror he looked down into a pair of laughing blue eyes.
Paulina was naked and crouched over him, smiling triumphantly as she held him close to her mouth. Gabriel recoiled, cursing and crowding backward against the headboard while she sat on her heels, watching him.
She laughed and pointed to his nose, indicating that he should wipe the traces of cocaine from his nostrils.
What have I done?
He scrubbed his face roughly with both hands. As the enormity of his depravity sunk in, he retched, dry heaving over the side of the bed. When he came to himself, he held out his left hand to show her his ring—but there was none.
The wedding ring was gone.
Paulina laughed again and began crawling toward him, eyes feral, her naked body brushing against his own.
Chapter 35
Gabriel struggled and flailed before jolting awake. He tore at the bedclothes, earnestly looking for any sign of her. But there was none.
He was alone in a dark hotel room. He’d extinguished the lights before retiring, which was his first mistake. Neglecting to place the framed photograph on his nightstand was his second, for it served as a talisman against the darkness.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his face in his hands. Enduring rehab all those years ago had been excruciating but nothing compared with losing Julianne. He would have suffered the nightmares and haunting memories of old sins gladly if he could hold her in his arms every night.
As he gazed with contempt at the half-empty bottle of Scotch, he felt the darkness closing in. His desperate pursuit had placed a great deal of pressure on him. When that pressure was coupled with a striking sense of loss, it made it almost impossible for him to function at a high level without some kind of crutch.
Every day the drinks grew larger. Every day he realized that he needed to do something before he became trapped by his old coping mechanisms and ruined his future. He knew that if he didn’t do something, quickly, he’d relapse.
Impulsively, he made two telephone calls before gathering his belongings and shoving them into his suitcase. Then he directed the concierge to secure him a cab that would take him to the airport. He didn’t bother to ensure that his appearance was neat and professional. In fact, he didn’t bother looking into the mirror at all, for he knew that what he saw would disgust him.
Many hours later, he arrived in Florence and checked into the Gallery Hotel Art. It had been short notice, but he’d persuaded the manager to give him the same suite in which he and Julia had consummated their relationship. It was either that or a rehabilitation program, and he was convinced his connection to her would prove far more redemptive.
As he walked into the room, he half-expected to see her, or at least, signs of her. A pair of tangerine stilettos carelessly kicked off under a coffee table. A taffeta dress pooled on the floor next to a blank wall. A pair of seamed black stockings strewn across an unmade bed.
But of course, he saw none of those things.
After a relatively restful sleep and a shower, Gabriel contacted his old friend Dottore Vitali at the Uffizi Gallery and met him for dinner. They spoke of Harvard’s new chair of Dante Studies. They spoke of Giuseppe Pacciani and Gabriel was marginally gratified to learn that although Giuseppe had been offered a campus interview while Gabriel had not, Giuseppe’s lecture had been regarded as poor by the Harvard faculty. It was cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
The next day Gabriel sought to distract himself from his troubles by engaging in pleasurable activities—breakfast on a piazza, a walk along the Arno, a lengthy afternoon at his tailor’s in which he ordered a hand-made black wool suit, and an hour or so spent looking for the perfect pair of shoes to match his finery. His tailor joked that the suit was so fine Gabriel could be married in it. The tailor had laughed, until Gabriel held up his left hand and showed him his ring.
“I’m newly married,” he explained, much to the tailor’s surprise.
No matter where Gabriel walked in the city of Florence, he was assaulted with memories of her. He would stand on the Ponte Santa Trinita, hugging the sweet and sour feelings tightly to his chest, knowing that they were preferable to chemical alternatives.
Late one evening, slightly drunk, he wandered by the Duomo, retracing the path he’d taken with Julianne months earlier. Tortured by his memory of her face when she accused him of f**king her, he stumbled across a familiar looking beggar, who sat in the shade of Brunelleschi’s dome.
Gabriel approached him.
“Just a few coins for an old man,” the beggar cried in Italian.
Gabriel grew closer, eying the man suspiciously. The scent of unwashed flesh and alcohol assailed him, but he grew closer still. Recognizing the beggar as the same man who’d inspired Julia’s charity back in December, Gabriel stopped, swaying on his feet.
He felt for his wallet. Without bothering to look at the denominations, he withdrew several bills and held them in front of the man.
“I saw you last December. Yet, you’re still here.” Gabriel’s Italian was only slightly accusatory.
The man eyed the money hungrily. “I’m here every day. Even Christmas.”
Gabriel dangled the Euros closer to the man. “My fidanzata gave you money. You called her an angel. Do you remember?”
The man smiled toothlessly and shook his head, never allowing his eyes to leave the cash.
“There are many angels in Firenze, but more in Assisi. I think God favors the beggars there. But this is my home.” The man hesitantly held out his hand, uncertain that Gabriel would actually give him the money.
In his imagination, Gabriel could see Julia’s face as she compassionately argued the beggar’s case. She wanted to give him money even if there was a strong possibility that he’d waste the money on drink.
As Gabriel regarded the beggar, no better off than he’d been before Julia’s generosity, he was struck by the fact that she wouldn’t have hesitated to donate again and again. She would have given the man coins every day, because she thought the act of charity was never wasted. She would have lived in hope that one day the man would realize that someone cares for him and try to get help. Julia knew her kindness made her vulnerable, but she was kind anyway.
Gabriel placed the bills in the man’s hand and turned sharply on his heel, the echoes of the beggar’s joy and blessings ringing in his ears.
He wasn’t deserving of a blessing. He hadn’t committed an act of charity the way Julianne would have done it, out of compassion and kindness. He was simply doing justice to her memory, or purchasing an indulgence.
As tripped over a cobblestone, he realized what he had to do.
* * *
The next day he tried to secure the house in Umbria that he’d shared with her, but it was already occupied. So he traveled to Assisi where he checked into a small, private hotel that was simple in its furnishings and populated with pilgrims.
Gabriel had never styled himself as a pilgrim. He was far too proud for that. Nevertheless, there was something in the air in Assisi that allowed him to sleep peacefully. In fact, it had been the best sleep he’d had since leaving Julia’s arms.
He rose early the next morning and made his way to the Basilica of St. Francis. It was a place of pilgrimage for persons of all faiths, if only for its medieval frescoes and the peaceful atmosphere that pervaded it. It was no little coincidence that he found himself retracing the steps he’d taken with Julianne prior to Christmas. He’d taken her to Mass in the Basilica superiore or upper part of the church, and had even waited patiently while she went to confession before the Mass began.
As he wandered through the upper Basilica, admiring the images and drinking in the comforting quiet of the sanctuary, he caught a glimpse of a woman with long, brown hair disappear through a doorway. Intrigued, he decided to follow her. Despite the crowd of tourists and pilgrims, it was easy to pick her out, and so he found himself descending to the Basilica inferiore.
Then she vanished.
Distressed, he searched the lower church. Only when his search proved fruitless did it occur to him to descend deeper into the bowels of the Basilica toward the tomb of St. Francis. There she was, kneeling in front of the crypt. He slipped into the last row of pews and out of respect, knelt. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
It wasn’t Julianne. The young woman in front of him was a little fuller in the hips and wider in the shoulders and her hair was darker. But she was beautiful, and her beauty reminded him of how much he’d lost.
The room was small and primitive, a studied contrast to the wide-open and elaborately frescoed upper Basilica. Gabriel was not alone in finding that the simplicity that was St. Francis’s life and mission was more accurately reflected in the unassuming tomb. It was with such thoughts in mind that Gabriel found himself leaning against the pew in front of him and bowing his head. Before he could form the intention to do so, he began praying.