A Little Too Far Page 6

  “Oh! I’m sorry, Father,” I say with a bow of my head when I see the person I’ve stumbled into is wearing a black button-down cleric’s shirt and a white collar. He’s taller than Trent, so something over six feet, and though he’s slender, I can tell he’s no stranger to the gym. He’s cut and solid—which I know because he barely budged when I ran into him, and yet he left me breathless. He’s got a hint of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, where there’s a dimple, and I’d guess he’s older than me, but not by a lot. Maybe midtwenties. His wavy black hair is combed off his face, and, with his high cheekbones and straight, narrow nose, he looks like the half-naked guy in the Abercrombie jeans ads in my Elle magazines. Except he’s not half-naked. He’s in a priest’s collar.

  And I’m staring at him.

  With his dark eyes and olive skin, I’m expecting Italian to pour out of his mouth when he opens it, so when his glance flicks to the open confessional door then back to me, and he lifts an eyebrow, and says, “Greater sins have been perpetrated, I’m quite sure,” in a mild Italian accent, my knees go a little weak.

  “Speaking of which”—I tip my head at the pews behind him—“I have a few Hail Marys, so …”

  He steps aside, and one corner of his mouth curves up. “Then I’ll let you get to work.”

  I brush past him and kneel in the pew, but my eyes have a will of their own. As I pull out my rosary and recite my first round of Hail Marys, they follow him to the altar, where he organizes things on the table for the upcoming Mass.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” I close my eyes and mutter it out loud to bring my focus back to why I’m here.

  When I’ve completed all fifteen Hail Marys and lift my head, the altar is empty, and I’m alone in the church. I stand, then genuflect at the end of the pew before scampering out through the vestibule into the bright, summer day. Across the street is a two-story beige stucco building that looks nothing like Father Green’s rectory at home. There are no markings, so I’m not even sure it’s the right place. I cross the street and hesitate for a second before knocking on the big wooden door, figuring I’ve got nothing to lose. If no one answers, I gave it the old college try, so I’m pretty sure that means I’m still absolved.

  But when the door swings open a minute later, I’m struck speechless. It’s the priest who knocked the wind out of me—and just looking at him does it again.

  “Can I help you?” he asks with the hint of a smile.

  “Um … Father …” I don’t even know his name. “The priest taking confession at the church sent me over here. He said to ask for the Reverend Moretti.”

  “You’ve found him.”

  “You?” I feel my eyes widen.

  He steps aside and gestures that I should come in with a sweep of his slender hand. “This surprises you?”

  I step past him into a small entryway. “It’s just … aren’t you a priest?”

  “I’m not a priest … yet.” He turns and leads me into a sitting room off the entry. It’s small and dimly lit, with a gold, velvet-lined chair and a love seat surrounded by bookcases full of books that look ancient. He picks an open hardcover up off the love seat and sets it on a side table. “Sit.”

  I do. “But you dress like a priest.”

  He lowers himself smoothly into the chair across from me. “I’m a transitional deacon. There is a period of reflection between the time a priest finishes seminary and he can be ordained. I’ll be ordained in eight months, at Easter observance. Then you can call me Father.”

  “So you could still change your mind?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I’ve been called by the bishop and taken my vow of celibacy.” He smiles, and something mischievous flashes in his eyes. “It’s all over but the crying.”

  “Oh. So, Father … what’s-his-name …” I say, waving my hand toward the small window at the church across the street.

  “Reynolds …” he finishes for me, leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees.

  “Reynolds? That sounds American.”

  “It is. This parish is part of the Pontifical North American College. We’re all American or Canadian.”

  Great. I managed to stumble into the only English-speaking church out of about a thousand within walking distance of my apartment. “But you’re not American.” I know this because he’s got that delicious accent that, when he says certain words, sends a little shiver running over my skin. And he’s dark, black hair and charcoal eyes set in flawless olive skin.

  He raises his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, your accent. And you look … well … Italian,” I say with a flip of my hand at the window, in case he forgot where we are.

  “Never judge a book by its cover,” he says, picking up the book that was open on the love seat. He flips it for me to see. On the cover is an artist’s rendering of a black-haired boy in black-rimmed glasses with a giant mouse’s head that he’s wearing like a pointy hat. Curled up on the giant chessboard that the boy’s folded arms rest on is another giant mouse, which still seems to have its head. There is an assortment of chess pieces on the board, and above it all is the title: Harry Potter el la Pietra Filosofale.

  My face scrunches in confusion. “That’s a really screwed-up cover.”

  He quirks a smile. “That it is.”

  “So, I’m getting that your takeaway here is, you’re not Italian.”

  “My father is Italian by heritage, but I grew up in New York, for the most part.”

  “But … your accent …”

  He winces for just a second, as if he’s self-conscious about it. “… Is a jumble. A product of speaking Italian as a child and living with my non-English-speaking grandparents as a teen.”

  “They’re Italian?”

  “French, actually.”

  I just look at him.

  “My mother’s family is from Corsica.” He clears his throat and crosses his legs, setting the book down and folding his hands over his knee. “But I’m quite certain Father Reynolds didn’t send you here to discuss my heritage.”

  “He said I needed to talk to you about a project.” I lift my hand and wiggle my fingers. “You know … idle hands and all.”

  He huffs a short laugh through his nose and leans back in his chair, studying me. It’s super awkward for a minute until he breaks the silence. “How many Hail Marys did you say he had you pray?”

  “I didn’t.” I narrow my eyes at him. “So, do you have a project for me or not?”

  He nods slowly. “I’m sure I can find something. But first, I need to know a little about you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your name?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Lexie Banks.”

  “You’re American, yes?”

  I roll my eyes. “Geez, what gave it away?” Maybe I shouldn’t be so nasty, but I feel myself getting really defensive. This whole thing is just so embarrassing, and if he asks what I did to get sent here …

  “Why are you here?” And there it is, the question I’ve been dreading.

  Instantly, the wall goes up and I can almost feel myself get pricklier. “I don’t really think that’s any of your business. I already confessed everything to Father Reynolds.”

  An amused smile twitches his lips, but he fights it. “I meant in Rome?”

  “Oh,” I say with a cringe, feeling heat creep up my neck. But I also feel pissed. He seems to find my misery amusing—like a cat playing with the mouse before the kill. “I’m at John Cabot University on a year abroad.”

  “Studying … ?” he asks with a curious lift of his brow.

  “Art history.”

  He looks at me strangely for a moment before tenting his fingers under his chin. “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”


  “Excuse me?”

  “Matthew 7:7.”

  I really wish he’d get to the point. “I know that’s scripture. What I don’t know is why you’re suddenly spouting it at me. I already said my Hail Marys, so I think I’m covered with the prayer thing … for now.”

  He just looks at me for a moment longer, then untents his fingers and uncrosses his legs, leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees. “Have you been through the Vatican Museums yet?”

  “No. I just got here yesterday.”

  “We’ll have to remedy that. Are you free tomorrow?”

  I’ve been dying to see the Vatican Museums. It’s on the top of my to-do list, but this feels more than a little weird. “I have orientation at John Cabot until four.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Listen. It’s really nice of you, playing the welcome wagon and all, but this is supposed to be my penance, not social hour, so …”

  He nods. “Fine. Meet me at six tomorrow evening at the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square. We’ll talk about the project then.”

  “The project is in St. Peter’s?” I ask warily.

  He stands and turns toward the entry, opening the front door in a not-so-subtle cue that we’re done here. He levels me in his steady gaze as I stand. “Don’t be late.”

  When I get back to my humble apartment with a bag of groceries, on which I just spent a small fortune, I unpack them into the kitchen. I grab my backpack and take it onto the patio, where I sit on the lounge and pull out my orientation stuff. There’s a badge with my name and Notre Dame student ID picture on it that arrived with my key the week before I left, and an orientation schedule, a map of the lecture buildings, and a staff directory that I printed out from the e-mail they sent.

  And my class schedule. Just thinking about my class schedule makes me tingle all over. I read through the list again:

  AH 223 The Art and Architecture of Imperial Rome

  AH 243 Roman Funerary Art: Honoring the Dead in Ancient Rome (On-site)

  AH 296 Italian High Renaissance Art (On-site; Mandatory trip to Florence)

  AH 339 Venetian Art (On-site; Mandatory trip to Venice)

  And the crowning jewel:

  AH 376 Michelangelo

  At the same instant that my phone vibrates, so does the floor beneath my feet as music starts cranking out of the bar downstairs. I wipe the drool off my chin before I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the text.

  Sam.

  Hey, gurl! Waiting for hot Italian boy pics. You be slacking.

  I set my orientation stuff down and stand, wandering toward the ledge over the street at the edge of the roof. I lean on it and look down at the milling people outside the bar. 18 yo kid wanted to sleep with me last night.

  Ah! Fresh meat. Did u do it?

  I roll my eyes, and just as I do, the same boy steps out of the bar. He grins when he looks up and sees me. “Ti amo,” he calls up to me, holding out an arm.

  Fucked his brains out. I text back, stepping away from the ledge.

  U slut!

  eye roll I text back.

  So, you are my fave person.

  ?

  You left your mother-of-pearl hair clip in Katie’s car and she didn’t find it till she was packing up to drive back to school yesterday.

  So, that’s where that went. I forgot I’d pulled it out when I was moping in Katie’s backseat over Rick. But … Why does that make me your fave person?

  Someone had to return it to your house.

  ?

  And your smokin hot stepbrother answered the door.

  My gut tightens the second I read it, and I feel sick. I can’t answer. I can’t even begin to form a thought that isn’t, “Stay the hell away from him!”

  Don’t you want to know what happened? she asks after a minute.

  No. No I don’t. What happened?

  Went to Lightly Toasted for a drink.

  You’d think Lightly Toasted would be a breakfast joint where you’d get coffee, right? You’d be wrong. It refers to the phase of drunkenness between “I just showed up, so pour me a beer,” and “I’m passed out on the floor, so don’t step on me.” The place is dimly lit and full of sofas and love seats covered with throw pillows in all the dark nooks and crannies. I’ve learned not to look too closely at what goes on in those nooks and crannies.

  And? I type with a shaking hand.

  What? You think I’d jump his bones right there in the bar?

  Yes.

  I’m playing this one low-key. Talking, flirting, and a little touching, but that’s it. Luring him in with the demure act.

  I lean my elbows on the ledge and hang my head, blowing out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Mostly just relief. You? Demure? I type, but then I lift my head and see the boy is still down in the street … peeing into the alcove of my doorway. He shakes himself off and zips, then looks up. When he sees me watching, he smiles and blows me a kiss.

  Great.

  I look back at my phone. Don’t knock the hard-to-get act. It works.

  Good luck with that. Someone just peed in my doorway so gotta go. Keep me posted, I type. And I want her to. But I also don’t.

  I swipe to Trent’s text from this morning. He went out with Sam, but then he was lying in bed thinking about me? I still don’t know how to read that: between the lines or at face value. I haven’t responded, and I’m feeling like I should. I shouldn’t just ignore him. Or maybe that’s exactly what I should do. Finally, I type in, Went to church today. Confessed everything. Hoping not to burn in hell, and hit SEND before I can change my mind.

  Chapter Six

  ORIENTATION STARTS AT nine, so I stumble around Rome—or at least my little corner of Rome—and find an adorable café for espresso and pastries beforehand. I point at the pastry case and direct the balding man behind the counter to something that looks like a chocolate chip croissant. He hands it and the espresso to me, and when I settle into a table in the corner and sip, I find out Italians like their espresso something akin to rocket fuel. The caffeine from this cup alone could power the next space mission. When I bite into the croissant, it’s not chocolate, but it’s sweet, and I moan a little as it melts in my mouth.

  “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I say out loud once I’ve devoured the whole thing.

  “If you really want to suck up, bring one of those for Professor Nance,” a girl’s voice behind me says, and I turn to see a petite girl sitting at the table there, staring full on at me with neon green eyes and sipping her espresso.

  “Excuse me?”

  She twists the pink tip of a strand of her short black hair around her index finger. “You’re heading over to the orientation, right?”

  Just when I’m starting to think this girl must be clairvoyant (maybe those are X-ray contacts that can see through a person’s skull into their thoughts) she nudges my backpack with her foot. I look down and see the John Cabot badge that I clipped on the zipper tab this morning, so I wouldn’t lose it.

  “Do you go there?” I ask.

  “Not yet. I’m a newbie too. But my sister came here last year and said Professor Nance plays favorites. His favorites are apparently the ones who bring him puddings.”

  I was trying to decide if the accent was British or Australian, and the “puddings” gives it away. “You’re British?”

  She bobs a quick nod. “From York. You?”

  “America.”

  “That bit I knew from your accent,” she says. “Where in America?”

  “California. Not too far from San Francisco.”

  “I’ve been to San Francisco. Nice place.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  Her iPhone starts to vibrate, jingling against her spoon, and she untwists her finger from her hair and picks it up. She reads something on the screen, barks out a laugh, then puts down her cup and starts typing with her thumbs. “She also just said to watch out for Claudio, Professor Nance’s TA. Shagged half her class last semester and
gave them all crabs.” She grins up at me and wiggles her eyebrows. “Just in case you were thinking of sampling the local cuisine.”

  I’ve had plenty of “cuisine” lately. I’m not looking for any more. “Good to know.”

  She puts her phone down and sips her espresso. “What are you studying?”

  “Art history.”

  “Ah, then you’ve come to the right place. But it means you’ll miss out on the immense pleasure of Professor Nance and his crabby TA.”

  I’m sipping my espresso as she says it, and when I laugh, it geysers up my nose, burning the whole way. I cough so hard that I swear I dislodge a lung.

  “Sorry for that.” She hands me a napkin, which I take. “Have you been through the National Museum yet?” she asks, as I mop myself up.

  “Not yet. I just got here a few days ago. But I’m going to the Vatican Museums tonight.”

  She grins. “Try not to cream your knickers right out loud.”

  My cheeks flame. “Um … yeah. So what are you studying?”

  “Anthropology, which means I’ve come to the right place too. I’ve already creamed my knickers down in the catacombs and again at the Forum. Glad I packed a few extra pairs.” She shifts her chair closer and holds out her hand. “I’m Abby.”

  “Lexie,” I say, shaking it.

  She picks up her phone and looks at the screen, then stands. “We should be shoving off.”

  I shoot the last of my espresso and scrape my chair back, hiking my backpack onto my shoulder. Despite what I told Dad, I didn’t explore yesterday. I was too busy beating myself up for going to confession—which, I guess, I’ll have to confess next time I go. “Do you know where we’re going? Because I’m clueless.”

  “The main building is just around the corner,” she says, leading the way to the door. She winds us through a narrow alley, and when we come out the other side, there’s an archway over the road. “Here,” she says, crossing the street to a pair of green double doors, which are propped open.