“No one stays in Rome,” she’d said. “It’s much too expensive. Civitavecchia is the real thing. You practically feel as if you’ll run into Nero around every corner.”
He knew now that her reasons were excuses. She hadn’t come to escape the high prices or the tourists. In February, there weren’t any. She’d come for the same reason that had brought her here three months earlier.
She’d come because she had to see someone. And he had a suspicion that that someone’s name had the initials S.S.
He crunched on a chestnut, dredging up memories of their visit. Eight years was a long time, and he’d been too preoccupied with the last-minute change in posting that had cut short their honeymoon to play the eager tourist. He glanced over his shoulder at the cafés and coffee bars that lined the seafront. All were dark, awnings retracted, chairs stacked next to the door and chained to prevent theft.
And then he saw it. Large, colorful block letters unchanged since that day in February so long ago. He read the words, and it came back to him in a torrent. The quicksilver feelings of confusion, apprehension, and anger.
The sign read, “Hotel Rondo.”
How was it that he had forgotten?
Emma threw her camera onto the table and collapsed on the bed. “So what do you think? Wasn’t I right to suggest we come?”
It was four in the afternoon. Jonathan was drenched from an afternoon squall that had come in from the sea, taking them by surprise. They had made a tour of the ancient port city of Civitavecchia that would have exhausted even the most ardent sightseers.
“I think I’ve seen enough Doric columns to last me until I’m forty.”
Emma punched him on the arm. “Be happy I only insisted on visiting the most important sites. Three hours isn’t so much.”
“Three hours? I thought it was three days.” Jonathan watched as Emma peeled off her wet togs. First the jacket, then her blouse, the pants and socks. She turned, clad only in her underwear, which were sensible women’s Jockeys. But on Emma, even a paper bag looked sexy.
“What are you looking at?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I deserve a reward. You know, for actually paying attention when you read all that stuff from the guidebooks.”
“Do you, now?”
“I do indeed. Something that will make me forget that we could have been admiring the Sistine Chapel instead of all those ancient craphouses.”
“You just like the sight of all those naked women.”
“Michelangelo’s eye for beauty was almost as good as mine.”
“Really?” Emma gave him a look as if to say he was too arrogant by half. “Well, then, I think I can do something about that,” she said, matching his tone and upping him one. “And I can give you your tour of the city at the same time.”
“Interesting. I’m curious.”
“Take a seat on the bed. And not too close. No touching the docent.”
Jonathan jumped onto the bed and arranged the pillows behind his back as Emma disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned three minutes later, she had let her hair down, and the damp tresses fell onto her bare shoulders. A towel covered her chest, and she held one hand hidden behind her back. “Close your eyes,” she said.
Jonathan complied.
“All right. Open them.”
Jonathan opened his eyes. Emma stood at the foot of the bed, naked. One hand cover her pubis. The other held a polished red apple and was extended toward him. She was Eve from the Sistine Chapel.
“Adam never stood a chance,” he said. “Where does the line for original sin begin?”
Emma snapped her fingers. “Close your eyes again.”
Jonathan obeyed. This time when he opened them, she had seated herself on a chair and sat gazing mournfully at Jonathan’s wet patrolman’s jacket arrayed across her legs. The emotion in her eyes caught him by surprise and struck a chord deep inside him. “You’re Mary. I mean, the Pietà,” he said.
“Very good.” Emma sprang from the chair. “One more.”
Jonathan closed his eyes a third time. When she asked him to look, she was standing on the same chair, one leg perched saucily on an armrest, her hands bundling her hair above her head. “Birth of Venus,” he said.
“Wrong. It’s in the Louvre.”
“Caravaggio. Didn’t he paint something in this town?”
“Strike two.”
“I don’t know. I’m a doctor. I spent all my time studying anatomy books, not art history. I give up.”
Emma leaped onto the bed and snuggled next to him. “Emma Rose Ransom. Miss February. Your own private masterpiece.”
Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms. The rain had started up again and rattled their windows with a troubling intensity.
“Why Belgrade?” asked Emma. “Of all places. It’s not fair.”
“We’re just flying into Belgrade. We’re going to Kosovo. That’s a province in Serbia. It’ll just be for a few months.”
“But it’s dangerous there. I’ve had enough of bullets and hand grenades for a while.”
“The war’s over,” said Jonathan, propping himself on an elbow. “We’re helping them get back on their feet. Half the doctors left the country. Besides, we’re only there for three months, then we go to Indonesia as planned.”
“They could have at least allowed us to finish our honeymoon. Everything’s always a crisis. You’d think they could get along without us.” Emma rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later fully dressed. “I’m going out,” she said. “You want anything?”
“In this rain?”
Emma peeked out the window. “It’s not so bad.”
“Compared to what-the Flood?”
“Aren’t we biblical.”
“Coming from Eve herself, I guess that means something.” Jonathan chuckled, then threw off the blankets and stood. “Hold up, Mrs. Ransom, I’ll come with you.”