My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (8 page)

Cipriano lifts his chin in acknowledgment, and I smile back, seeing him—seeing the hardships all the young people go through at this time—through new eyes. He turns to Alessandra, continuing their conversation, and I turn back to Lorenzo.

His head is thrown back, watching the clouds drift across the sky. The Romeo persona he usually hides behind is gone, and in its place is an open, younger, more vulnerable-looking Lorenzo. One that instantly feels more dangerous.

“Your uncle trusts his son,” he says, not taking his eyes off the sky. “Believes in him and supports him. You do not know what I would give to experience that for one day from my own father.” He sighs and closes his eyes, the light autumn breeze ruffling his hair. “He would love nothing more than for me to follow in his footsteps and take up our family business as Cipriano is doing. But I am not a banker.” His eyes snap open. “I am an artist.”

We sit quietly, his words echoing between us. I’ve tried to keep the topic of my own past out of this experience, not knowing anything about Patience’s previous life or what will happen when I magically transport back to the future. But right now, I need Lorenzo to know I understand where he’s coming from. We may not have that much in common, but this I get.

I scoot closer and lay my hand on top of his. “I know exactly what you mean.”

He tilts his head in question.

Here goes nothing.

“My father—” I hesitate. I can’t say that my dad wishes I had an interest in our “family business,” too. Women in the sixteenth century weren’t really invited to join the workforce. I shift my feet under me and try again. “I mean, I don’t know exactly how you feel, because I can’t take up our family business, but if I
could
, my father wouldn’t have understood my passions. Uncle Marco, either. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have an artist’s spirit how it completely consumes you.”

His eyes widen eagerly, and he scoots closer toward me on the grass. Our knees touch, and although there are a bazillion layers of fabric between us, ripples of awareness shoot out to my limbs.

“You are an artist?”

I decide to let the shock and awe in his voice slide, and I nod. His face breaks into a breathtaking smile, and I lose myself for a moment in just how gorgeous this boy really is. He scrunches his mouth, which just makes me think about kissing it again, and guides my finger to point to the sky, pressing his chest close behind me.

My eyes flitter closed, and I feel my body start to sink against him.

“What do you see?”

At his wonder-filled whisper in my ear, my eyes open, and my spine straightens. I blink to focus. “Clouds?”

I hear the soft chuckle under his breath and instantly feel stupid. This is a test. An artist’s test. A test I am going to pass with flying colors.

“I meant to say that I see an azure sky with wisps of magnolia-colored clouds,” I clarify, a smug smile creeping up my face.

“Very good,” he says, his voice still a sexy whisper. “My father would look up and see nothing more than commonplace blue and white. He has no imagination.”

Proud that I proved myself imaginative, I sit taller.

Then Lorenzo asks, “What about shapes? What objects do you see in the clouds?”

This
test is harder. I let my eyes relax as I gaze above, hoping and praying I’m not as closed off as his dad. I’ve always loved art. It’s the one place I can make a name for myself—the one area I can just be me, without the mess of who my family is. But I’ve never really stopped to see the beauty in everyday things like cloud formations.

As I watch above, shapes suddenly pop out at me, and a grin creeps up my face. I haven’t stared at clouds since I was a kid, but he’s exactly right. This is art. I clear my throat. “Well, right there—that one? That is a huge clock tower, and to the left below it is an elegant arched bridge.” Despite myself, I snuggle back into his hard chest and sigh. “I love bridges.”

Lorenzo stiffens behind me, and I look up to see him staring intently in Cipriano’s direction. I remember his promise not to touch me and go to move, but he snakes his arm around my waist, securing me against him. And for once, I don’t feel the need to move.

As if nothing happened, he carries on. “They are quite beautiful,” he says, his whisper huskier now. I swallow and close my eyes as he presses his nose between my shoulder and neck, grazing my skin softly as he inhales deeply. “However, you missed the cherub floating down the celestial road.”

I laugh at the smile in his voice, knowing I passed his test after all. “Had to see if you were paying attention,” I say, then crack open an eye to see if I spot a cherub anywhere.

I don’t.

Squinting, I lean forward, totally obsessed with finding this hidden object now. It’s like the world’s biggest, most annoying
Where’s Waldo?
A long tan finger crosses in front of my line of vision, zeroing in on a cluster of clouds in the distance that completely looks like a baby angel.

I shake my head and grin, then take a few moments to see what else I can find in the ever-changing skyline.

When I turn back, Lorenzo’s gaze drills into mine, his usual lighthearted demeanor suddenly gone.

“Patience, I must know.” He pauses and glances down to find my hands. He clasps them in his own, and his pleading eyes swing back to mine, instantly making me nervous. “Do
you
believe I am a dreamer? You are lit inside with a fire and passion unlike anyone I have ever known—I know you will speak the truth. So please, tell me, am I just a fool chasing dreams, wanting to be an artist?”

The softness and vulnerability in his face jolt me. This is the real Lorenzo. Not the player I met at the piazza or at Antonia’s dinner. That guy’s a front, a mask. A way of hiding who he really is from the rest of the world.

Something I know a little about.

Lorenzo squeezes my hands in his, and I take a deep breath. The weight of his question is almost crushing. We’re talking about a man’s future here—banking or art, two very different life paths.

I’ve never even seen Lorenzo’s work—he has supplies back in the carriage to sketch the countryside, but so far I’ve kept him too busy with impromptu plays and cloud watching—so the only thing I can go on is word of mouth from Alessandra and his poetic descriptions of the sky a few moments ago. But still, I know an artist when I see one. And while I’m certainly not the poster child for standing up to your parents, somehow this feels more important than an unwanted birthday party.

Slowly I shake my head. “No, Lorenzo. You are not a fool.”

He relaxes visibly, and a grateful grin graces his mouth. The kind of grin that can only come from sharing your soul and not having it rejected. And it twists my stomach.

What would that be like? To chance opening up to him, letting Lorenzo into my own secret world and inner demons, and trusting him—trusting
anyone
—enough to strip myself of my defenses. The desire is powerful and tempting.

But I can’t. Not just because I’ve never done it before, but because in this case, telling him my truth wouldn’t just be risking rejection. I could be thrown into the loony bin.

But he can at least know my real name.

“Lorenzo, would you do me a favor?”

That confident grin of his comes back full force as he leans in eagerly. “Anything you desire is yours.”

I roll my eyes at this corny line, but this time, I smile while doing it. Squeezing his hands, which are still holding mine, I say, “Back home, my friends called me Cat.” At his perplexed expression, I try to explain. “It’s a nickname, and I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I would really love it if you’d call me that.”

I bite my lip and wait for his reaction, not really understanding
why
I need to hear my real name in his husky baritone voice, only that I do.

Lorenzo releases my hands and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “It would be an honor to do so,
Cat.
”

The sound is just as glorious as I expected.

…

When the sun begins to fall behind the hills, we pack up our belongings and head back toward the carriage. We decide to take the scenic route, following a foot-worn trail through the woods. As the shelter of the trees envelops us, the sound of crashing water makes its way over the incessant clicking and buzzing of insects. Eagerly I pick up the pace until I push aside the last tree limb and stand before a breathtaking waterfall emptying into a small, shaded pond.

My body sags at the sight, and all I can think about is how long it’s been since I’ve immersed myself in water. I took a shower before I got on the plane for Florence, but since then the best I could hope for is a sponge bath.

I kick off my shoes. “Last one in is a rotten egg!”

Alessandra’s arm juts out, slapping me hard across the chest. “You do not honestly mean to go into that filth, do you?”

At the sound of her frantic voice, I tear my eyes away from the refreshing waterfall. “It looks perfectly clean to me, Less. Besides, I haven’t had a bath in ages. It’ll be fine, come on.”

I try to take another step, but this time Cipriano stops me. “Public bathing is believed to contribute to the spread of the plague.”

This gives me pause. I get where he’s coming from. I do. The intellectual, sixteenth-century-acclimating,
Patience
side of me completely understands what he’s saying. But the girly, twenty-first-century-missing
Cat
side of me just sees a makeshift shower.

And that side wins out.

“Listen, I hear you, but it’s perfectly fine. If you don’t want to join me, you don’t have to. I understand. I’ll just meet you back at the carriage. I won’t be long, I promise. But I hate to say it—I’m going in.”

It takes a few more minutes to convince them I’ll be okay, minutes I spend eagerly hopping from foot to foot in anticipation. Finally they walk off, and I dash to the pebbled edge, stripping clothes as I run. I slip into the shallow pond and swim to the center of the rushing frothy foam.

The cool water rushing over me is like a balm to my soul, and while it’s colder than my normal showers back home, the feeling of sweat and grime washing off me is worth the price of admission. My only regret is that I didn’t bring my backpack so I could wash my hair properly, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

I slide my hands through my hair to slick it back, inhaling the scent of rich earth and sweet flowers. A constant stream of movie scenes plays in my mind, and I imagine I’m a young Brooke Shields in
Blue Lagoon
. A shadow falls across my arm, followed by a darkening of the sky in general, and I assume I’ve lost track of time worse than I thought. Then the rumbling of thunder passes overhead.

Quickly I step out from under the deluge, searching the sky for cracks of lightning, and plod through the water to my clothes, scattered among the moss-covered rocks and tree limbs. Another rumble from above, and I scan the swaying tree line for random Peeping Toms before making a mad dash for the linen shirt nearest the edge of the pond. The fabric sticks, and as I struggle to get my arms through, I hear a rustle in the trees.

I freeze, my head and one arm through the shirt. I try to stretch my hearing past the sound of my own pounding pulse for any unexpected sounds. The wind has picked up now, the leaves swishing wildly. Maybe it was nothing. Then I hear the pop of a twig and a muffled curse, and my stomach drops. I yank the top down with trembling hands. “Who’s there?”

I open my eyes wider, looking for any sudden movements. I tiptoe to the rest of my clothes, pulling them on without blinking.

Why did I think this was a good idea again? Surely sickos and perverts exist in the Renaissance. Why did I insist on my ability to handle being alone? With my eyes scrutinizing every dancing leaf and eerie shadow, I don’t see the rock in my path. I trip.

“Crappy, crappy, crap, crap,” I repeat through clenched teeth, grabbing my throbbing toe. It feels as though hundreds of ants are crawling along my skin, and not just from the pain—but also from fear. “Please,” I beg the shadows. “If anyone’s there, just come out.”

About a foot away, I hear more rustling, and a figure steps forward.

It’s Lorenzo.

“I only meant to make sure you were safe…,” he says, taking another step. “But then I heard the storm.” He pauses, and even in the shadows, I can see his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “My apologies for causing you any fear.”

Tugging my rose-colored surcoat farther over my hips—ensuring all my parts are nicely covered—I watch Lorenzo shift his weight and crack his knuckles. Obviously he’s flustered, an emotion I can only assume is new for the lover boy of Florence.

He takes a third step, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. His gaze shifts to the waterfall, then quickly back to me. “Do you forgive me?”

It’s tempting to draw this out, to pretend I’m deeply concerned over how much of an eyeful he got and demand he make it up to me. But honestly, I’m too busy being relieved there wasn’t a band of crazy weirdos waiting in the trees.

I nod. “Yeah, I forgive you. But don’t ever do anything like that to me again. You scared the snot outta me.”

Lightning streaks across the sky, followed by a thunderous boom. Rain starts falling on the canopy of trees acting as our umbrella, the beat of the drops on the leaves and branches a strangely beautiful symphony—but one I want to get out of ASAP.

I throw my hands over my head and step in front, letting him follow as we dash to the carriage. Although I know it was just him watching, I’m still freaked from the whole “possible creeper in the woods” scenario, and this weather situation is doing nothing to quench it. I wring out my sopping hair, despite the torrent that is sure to hit us when we escape the woods, and attempt to peel the now see-through white linen gown away from my damp, sticky body. As I do, I remember my tattoo.

Fear grips me as I pull the surcoat tighter over the transparent undergarment. Surely if Lorenzo saw the telltale sign of my nonconformity during his so-called patrol mission, he would’ve said something. Well-bred girls don’t exactly sport body art during this time.