“Bad choices about men, remember?” she finally said, referring to their last conversation in the reading room. “Trying to make better choices in life, Carwyn. When it comes to…you know.”
He stared at her for a moment before he nodded. “Understood.”
“And don’t say a word to—”
“Count Prissypants tells me nothing. Therefore, I tell him nothing.”
She sighed. “I was actually going to say Caspar. I think he and my grandma are thick as thieves now.”
His eyes lit up. “Oooh, let’s gossip about them, shall we?”
Beatrice smiled, gave up, and shut down her computer.
Chapter Thirteen
Houston, Texas
February 2004
The first thing Giovanni smelled when he walked into the house at three in the morning early Friday was the coq au vin Caspar must have cooked for dinner the night before. The second thing he smelled was Beatrice.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had hoped she would come back to work before he needed to leave for New York. In the back of his mind, he entertained a fanciful notion of taking her with him and showing her the lights of Manhattan, taking her to a play, or walking through the Met.
“You’re back.”
He turned when he heard Caspar at the kitchen door.
“I am. Why are you still awake? And is there anything I need to know?” Giovanni busied himself emptying his pockets on the counter and looking through the mail Caspar had set out.
“I’m awake because I wanted to talk to you. I’m sure you’ve realized B is back at work. She and her grandmother had dinner here earlier in the evening. Also, I am completely smitten with Isadora.”
“I don’t blame you one bit. She’s a charming woman,” he mumbled as he looked through the file of e-mails Caspar had printed out.
“I find myself irritated that I’ve been living in this city for years and had no idea she existed.”
He looked up at Caspar, disarmed by the sincerity in the man’s voice. He cocked his head. “I’m glad for you, Caspar. You deserve to find someone like that. You’ve been alone too long.”
“So have you.”
Considering Caspar’s sentimental nature, he knew where his old friend was going, but it still gave Giovanni pause. “Caspar—”
“I want to talk to you about B.”
Giovanni shrugged. “There’s nothing to talk about. The girl—”
“Don’t be so damn dismissive.” His eyes shot up, surprised by Caspar’s angry tone.
“I’m not dismissing you.” He frowned and set the papers down on the counter.
“Her, Gio, you’re dismissive of her.”
He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets, examining the older man. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Caspar. How am I—”
“You talk about her like she’s a child. Maybe a bright and entertaining child, but a child nonetheless.”
Giovanni rolled his eyes and walked toward the living room, but Caspar only followed him. He stopped to pour himself a drink at the sideboard. When he turned, Caspar was still looking at him with an impatient expression.
“She is a child.”
“She’s not.”
He shook his head. “She’s only twenty-two—”
“She’s not as naive as you think, old man.”
Giovanni’s glass crashed down to the table and he looked up, suddenly angry at his friend.
“I am an old man,” he quietly bit out. “A very old man, Caspar. I was an old man 450 years ago. Do you forget that? Do you forget that I was already an old man when I took you in as a child? Do you forget that I will remain an old man long after you leave this world? Do you have any concept of how many human friends I have seen grow old and die?”
“I know she’s young, and I know you want her to help search for your books, but I also realize—”
“You realize? Do you? She’s twenty-two. Do you remember what that is?” He shook his head. “I confess, I don’t remember being twenty-two. It’s been too long. But I remember you at twenty-two.”
“Do you?”
He swallowed his emotions and tried to smile. “Of course I do. I remember…everything.” He looked at the old man he had watched over for sixty-four years, and the memories flooded over him. “I remember the first time you played a piano when you were six, and how your eyes lit up. The first time you drove a car, which terrified me, but you were so excited. The first time you ran away from home, and how sorry you were when you came back four hours later. The first time you were drunk, and how bloody arrogant you were at eighteen.”
Caspar only frowned and shook his head. “What—”
“I remember you at twenty-two, Caspar. And you were so damn bold. You were fearless. Do you remember? The first time you fell in love was when you were twenty-two.”
Caspar smiled wistfully. “Claire.”
“Beautiful Claire Lipton! The darling of your young heart. Do you remember? The only woman you would ever love. Wasn’t that what you said? She was incandescent in your eyes.”
“Gio—”
“Where is she now? Where is beautiful Claire? When did you stop loving her? When was the last time you even thought of her?”
Caspar paused, finally nodding in understanding before he went to pour himself a drink; then he sat down on the sofa and stared into the cold fireplace. Giovanni picked up his scotch and settled into his chair. He noticed that Beatrice’s scent lingered in it, and he wondered whether she had sat there that evening.
His eyes softened as he looked at the man he had watched grow up, mature, and eventually grow old. He knew he would someday face Caspar’s death, and that day grew closer with every sunset.
“Caspar,” he said. “Beloved son of my friend, David. You have been my child, my friend, my confidante, my ally in this world. And I will be here long after you have left me. What are you asking of me? Do you even realize?”
Caspar glared at him. “Do you think I want you to be alone when I’m gone? Do you think I don’t know? Don’t pretend she is only part of your search. I can tell you have feelings for her. I know you want her.”
Giovanni set down his drink, gripping the arms of the chair as he followed Caspar’s eyes to the cold grate.
“If I had feelings for her…they are inappropriate. I need her—”
“You need—”
“I need her,” he glared at Caspar, “to trust me. I need to keep her safe from my own mistake, and I need her to find her father.”
“To find out what he knows.”
“Yes, and to find out why Lorenzo wants him so badly.”
“So you’ll keep her safe so you can use her to find her father.”
“Yes,” he said, his face carefully blank.
“And that’s the only reason you’re keeping her around?”
Giovanni sat stiffly in his chair. “That’s the main reason, yes.”
Caspar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re such a liar sometimes.”
“And you’re melodramatic.”
He stood and walked to the fireplace to light it. The nights were starting to carry the soft warmth of springtime, but they were still cool enough that he knew a fire wouldn’t be unwelcome to the old man on the sofa. He snapped his fingers to ignite the kindling in the grate and carefully added a few pieces of wood.
“You act like you’re so cold,” Caspar said. “But you’re not, and don’t pretend that her father is the only reason you’re interested in her.”
He crouched down at the grate and willed the small fire to grow. “I will find her father. I will find my collection. I will take care of Lorenzo, and then Beatrice De Novo can go on to live a relatively normal life.”
“Oh? Is that so? Do you plan to wipe her memory, too?”
He paused, the thought of wiping himself from the girl’s memory more painful than he wanted to admit. But, he rationalized, there was no need for it.
“Of course not. She’s
obviously trustworthy, and after the Lorenzo problem is gone, there is no reason she couldn’t have a relationship with her father. She deserves that.”
“She deserves a relationship with her father?”
Giovanni stared into the growing flames. “Of course. I wouldn’t deny her that. Not if I could help it.”
“But you’d deny her yourself.”
He felt a flare of anger, but he tamped it down and stood up to turn back to Caspar, his posture deliberately casual. “I’m not going to discuss this.”
“Why not?” Caspar asked. “Don’t you think she has feelings for you? Do you see the way she looks at you? Carwyn and I both see it. As surprising as it might be to you, the two of you fit together like—”
“Do you think I haven’t thought of it, Caspar?” His temper snapped and he could feel the flames jump in the grate behind him. “Do you think I haven’t thought about keeping her?”
“Then why don’t you—”
“The nights we’ve spent poring over this book or that map? The way she makes everything lighter? The way I find myself having to hold back from telling her everything—everything? Like she would even want to know?”
“How do you know she doesn’t want to know, you stubborn old fool?”
“You think I haven’t fantasized about taking her?” he bit out. “About having her in my life? Do you think I haven’t thought about it?”
Caspar stood stiffly to walk closer to the fire. “So what’s stopping you? She’ll still help you find her father. She wants it as much as you do. Do you think she’s not smart enough to understand the consequences? You won’t even give her a chance, you idiot! Or are you just afraid that she’ll say no?”
A sharp longing rose in his chest, but it was smothered by bitterness. “She’s a child. She doesn’t know what she wants at this age. At twenty-two you wanted to marry Claire Lipton and run away together to join the theater. Three years after that, you wanted to become an airline pilot. And after that—”
“You know, I already know I have a short attention span, you obnoxious git. You don’t have to rub it in.”
Giovanni took a deep breath, and laid a hand on Caspar’s shoulder. “The point is, she’s at an impulsive age, and if she has feelings for me, they are…infatuation. It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of that.”
“But you’ll use her to find her father, won’t you? No problem taking advantage of that.”
He stiffened and pulled away. “You said yourself, she wants to find him, too.”
Tears pricked Caspar’s eyes when he looked at him.
“You’re a good man, Giovanni Vecchio. Don’t forget that in this mad search.”
Caspar turned and walked back to the sofa, sitting and picking up his drink. He stared into the fire and Giovanni watched the calm settle over him.
“You know, I don’t remember much from my life before you. I was so young when you took me in. I remember hiding in that attic in Rotterdam with my father. I remember how hot it was, how stifling. I remember the smell of dust and old paper from the books my father saved.”
“You were such a quiet child.”
“I remember seeing you for the first time,” he continued, “and my father holding me and telling me I could trust you because you were an old friend. That you weren’t one of the bad men, even though you were a stranger. That you would take care of me.”
Giovanni sat down in his chair and took a sip of scotch.
“Were you scared? When I took you to England? When you had to be locked up during the day in the house when you were little? I tried to explain it the best way I could, but you were only four or five, you must have been confused.”
Caspar shrugged. “Children are so adaptable. I don’t remember being afraid. I remember being a little older and realizing that most children didn’t sleep during the day and that most went to school, but by then I understood what you were. And then, there were all our adventures.”
Giovanni had taken Caspar on many trips as the boy had grown older and more useful. He had always been a wonderful companion. At first, he had called him his son, then his nephew, then eventually his brother as their appearances became more similar and Caspar aged.
In his long life, the boy he had rescued remained the human Giovanni had loved the most, and it had broken his heart when Caspar told him in his forties he had decided he didn’t want to be turned. He was the first human the vampire had truly wanted to sire.
He looked at the old man. “Has it been a good life with me, Caspar? Do you regret never marrying or having children? Did I keep you from that?”
Caspar shook his head. “I never felt like, had I wanted a family, they would have been unwelcome to you. And I know how fond you are of children. No, I just never found the right woman, I suppose.”
“Isadora?” Giovanni asked with a smirk.
He shook his head, a smile creeping across his face. “She’s one of a kind, Gio. My lord, she’s so bloody adorable. I want to steal her away and monopolize her every moment.”
“You are smitten, old friend.”
“Completely. You’ve met her, can you blame me?”
Giovanni smiled thinking of Isadora and Beatrice. He thought about the two women, grey hair against black, with their heads together, smiling on Dia de los Muertos. He thought of the way they laughed and teased each other, and the ease and love between them. In his mind, he saw Beatrice as she aged, her dramatic features slowly taking on the handsome dignity of her grandmother and her eyes exhibiting the unique wisdom that was only evident from a life well lived.
“No, I certainly can’t blame you, Caspar. They’re stunning.”
Caspar cocked an eyebrow, but Giovanni continued. “If things get dangerous in the city, take Isadora to the house in Kerrville. You’ll both be out of the way there. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
“What about B?”
“No, she stays here. I’ll need her.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to her.”
“Because you need her?”
He glanced at Casper in the flickering light. The fire had started to die down, and he could feel the dawn beginning to tug at him after his long journey.
“You need her,” Caspar repeated, “so you’ll keep her safe?”
“Of course.”
Caspar nodded and finished his drink, setting it down on the coffee table and standing up from the sofa. “Of course.”
The old man walked upstairs, his step slightly slower than the year before as he climbed to the second floor. The next year would be slower still, until it would be necessary to move his old friend to one of the rooms on the ground floor. Though he knew Caspar was in excellent health, he also knew that the passing of time carried inevitability and with that would come loss.
He spent another hour staring into the fire before he finally banked it and climbed the stairs. He entered his walk-in closet, took off his old watch and put it on the dresser before he stripped out of his clothes and placed them in the laundry basket for Caspar to tend in the morning. He punched in the code to his sleeping chamber and walked through the reinforced door.
As he entered, he looked around at the spartan furniture that decorated the space. There was only a small bed; despite his tall frame, his body would hardly move while in its day rest, a desk where he kept some writing paper, the older fountain pens he still preferred, and a rotary phone. The one piece of decoration was the photograph of the Arno River that flowed through the heart of Florence and the arches of the Ponte Vecchio that spanned it. The picture had been taken in the middle of the day, and the shops along the bridge glowed vividly in the searing Italian sun.
On the wall opposite the framed photograph, there was a large bookcase filled with his collection of journals. In them were the collected memories of five hundred years; no one had ever read them besides himself. As he lay in bed and waited for the pull of day, he tried to imagine B
eatrice in this small, confined room.
He could not.
Giovanni heard her before he scented her, and he scented her when she walked in the house. He forced himself to sit at the table in his library and examine the fifth letter as Beatrice chatted with Caspar in the kitchen. It was a lighthearted letter; with Poliziano teasing about the debates in Rome and warning his friend to not speak publicly about the mystic texts Andros had given him.
“I do hope you keep in mind the rather stringent positions our Holy Father has taken regarding anything of a mystical nature. I know you are enamored of your Eastern texts and your thoughts of philosophical harmony, but I do not wish for you to fall under his scrutiny. I have no doubt the result would be to no one’s liking.”
The debates, he remembered, had not been successful, and the Pope had only been angered. He smiled when he saw the closing paragraph.
“On a more pleasant note, I was pleased to read Jacopo’s letter, and gratified he recalls his time in Benevieni’s household so fondly. Indeed, my friend, along with your philosophical work, I believe what you have accomplished with his education will be one of your finest achievements.”
He paused in his examination when he heard Beatrice climb the stairs. He couldn’t help but notice her step did not have its usual exuberance.
“Hey.”
He looked up to meet her dark eyes, immediately tempted to throw away every stern admonition he had given himself when he saw her form-fitting black shirt and slim burgundy skirt. He glanced at her feet and smiled when he saw she was wearing her combat boots again, but he forced himself to stay seated.
“Hello, Beatrice.”
“So I heard you got it. The Lincoln speech. Was the buyer happy?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Happy parties on both sides, and a good commission for me.”
“Great. That’s great.”
She sauntered into the library, eventually making her way back to the desk where her computer had rested silently during her absence. She turned it on, and Giovanni searched his mind, trying to find a way to bypass the wall that had risen between them.