Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (108 page)

under his father’s supervision, escaping with his spoils when a bribed

busboy tried to put dirty dishes in the prep sink.

The second time Romeo climbed the balcony rail with his bag,

Julian laughed and protested that he had food now. The third time he

just shook his head with a grin. The fourth time, he had the table set.

By then Romeo was making everything he took up the hill himself,

and his mother and father were exchanging sly smiles and carefully

not watching him head out the door.

In three days Romeo and Julian had talked of football and what

Americans named football, of Australia where Romeo had visited and

Julian had lived, of the United States where Julian had gone to school

a few years and Romeo had never been, of Brazil where Romeo had

played and Julian had never gone. Julian’s guardian—whoever that

was—had taken him all over the world, it seemed.

They talked of Italian food and French food and what the

Americans called food. Of the skies and the oceans and the

exploration of both. Romeo talked of his vague and unmotivated

thoughts of eventual college and Julian mentioned he’d gone to art

school, but changed the subject when Romeo asked about his degree.

Several topics ended that way—the talk got too close to home, and

Julian shied away. A younger Romeo might have gotten frustrated,

but not anymore. “Each pass moves the goal closer,” Coach Rossi had

said so many times. The first five hundred or so times, he’d followed it

with, “and if you’re in center-field sulking, someone else gets that

shot.” After a while, though, the first half of the advice had been all

Romeo needed, and he learned to map the passes, finding the

weaknesses of the opposing team while exploiting the strengths of his

own.

Normally that wouldn’t end well. Even his family got angry when

Romeo brought his game tactics into friendly discussions, but Julian

stood his ground. Talking with Julian was like the most challenging

matches, exhilarating and captivating, like a fencing duel between

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masters. The mysterious young man could meet Romeo on any field,

whether it be science, politics, travel, or the arts, and make his points

with eloquence and passion. He spoke Italian, English, and Russian

fluently, could get by in Hindi and Arabic, and could ask for food or

the restroom in five more languages. He was widely read, deeply

curious, and staunchly courteous. Not to mention as beautiful as a

Greek god. By their fourth shared meal Romeo was helplessly,

hopelessly in love.

He had no idea how Julian felt. Romeo knew Julian could meet

his intensity with heat of his own when they talked politics and who

should be doing what. He knew he could be silent and still be

comfortable with Julian as so rarely happened with any but the oldest

friends. He could make Julian laugh. He could make Julian close his

eyes and groan with delight at something he’d prepared with just that

goal in mind. What he couldn’t do was make Julian tell him what he

most wanted to know.

Indeed, he was so in awe of what he’d found that Romeo was

afraid to breathe wrong, let alone ask a question that could so easily

shatter the magic forever.

So he cooked, and he talked, and he ignored the guilt when every

day he left the afternoon work to his family while he headed up the

hill. Between breakfast-cleanup and the lunch rush each day he hit the

tiny village library, and in the evenings he read until he couldn’t keep

his eyes open because Julian had been nearly everywhere and knew so

much and he had to keep up. On top of his practical measures and in a

nod to the fairy tales of his childhood, he always arrived by balcony

and he left by balcony and if Julian invited him into the house he

made excuses.

Caution went against his nature, though, so when Julian looked up

at the hill for perhaps the hundredth time and sighed, Romeo

suggested a hike for the next day.

“It’s Sunday,” Julian said, his attention coming back to the balcony

and his dinner partner. “Shouldn’t you be in church?” Romeo

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shrugged one-shouldered. He’d gotten better at remembering since

Julian threatened to put him in a sling if he didn’t.

“Good day for a hike. We’ll have the hill to ourselves.”

“It’s supposed to rain,” Julian pointed out.

“Are you likely to melt?”

“Not really. Can I wear a hat, though, or will that destroy your

respect for me?”

Romeo grinned.

That third night when Romeo stepped into the den to kiss his

mother good night, she dropped her knitting and clung to his good

arm.

“Romeo,” she said. “I stopped by the bakery this afternoon. I

talked to Rosaline for an hour. You weren’t there.”

“No, Momma.”

She darted a look at his father, bent over a new carving. One of

Romeo’s suggested changes was to turn the coatroom into a gift shop,

since his mother knit more than the whole family could possibly wear

and his father was always making beautiful little statuettes he then

stuck in a cupboard and forgot. The idea had not been well-received.

“You’re not going off to see Marino, are you?” she whispered.

“Your father—”

“No, Momma.” Romeo winced. “I’m just going up the hill.”

Marino was his father’s brother, living in exile with his boyfriend in

Florence. Romeo’s favorite uncle despite distance and disapproval,

and sure to be blamed when—

“Good, good.” Momma patted the sofa next to her. “Sit down and

talk to me.”

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Romeo held back a sigh and sat. He dug a skein of yarn out of her

basket and looped an end around his fingers, started rolling it into a

ball for her. She patted his knee.

“It’s good to have you home, my son.”

He’d been home two months aside from day-trips to the city for

medical appointments.

“But I worry,” she said. “It’s time you had a home of your own.”

“Momma…”

“No, I know,” she interrupted. “You’re young. You want to play,

you want to chase all the girls. I know.” She picked up her knitting.

“But think. Bianca’s married now. Your first girlfriend and she’s

expecting. Edda is engaged. Gia, Imelda, both married. You’re going

to blink, my son, and there won’t be any girls left to marry!”

“The world is not running out of girls, Momma.”

“Sure, sure. But the village is. How many girls out there in the

world would want to leave everything to live here, hmm? Even your

own family—you’re the only one still here, Romeo. Marcellus said

he’d come home, I know, but that girlfriend…”

“That girlfriend” was a favorite topic. Romeo didn’t mean to, but

he tuned Momma out, thinking of the planned hike. She jerked Romeo

back with a knitting needle to his arm.

“Up the hill?” she demanded. “I heard the Vocelli house is opened

up.”

Oh damn. “Momma—”

“You stay away from that Vocelli girl, Romeo Balducci. She’s

older than you, and—”

“What Vocelli girl?” Was there—right, yes, there was. “I haven’t

seen her, Momma, not since the day you dragged me home by my

ear.” Two hundred years ago, a Vocelli and a Conti—Momma’s

family—had killed each other in a duel. Every generation since had

some tragedy or betrayal to ascribe to the Vocellis. Romeo had

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compared stories with Donata once, and surprisingly the Vocellis had

a similar list about the Contis.

“Good.” His mother settled back to her knitting. “Now. Rosaline

hasn’t a fellow yet. Nunzia’s daughter is coming home next week; I’ll

invite them to the dinner. And there’s the Palmiro girl—”

The dinner. The anniversary dinner, celebrating thirty years with

the man she loved. Romeo sighed.

“I’m tired, Momma.” He set the yarn in the basket. “I’m going to

bed.” He kissed her and patted his father’s shoulder and made his

escape, up to his room under the eaves where he’d slept since he was

little. It had never felt less like home.

When he arrived the next day, Romeo stopped Julian from

climbing down until he could hand his bag up. Julian shook his head

as he set the bag inside.

“We’ll be here for lunch? I thought you were plotting an

expedition.”

“That’s dinner.” Romeo tilted his shoulder to show the bag he still

carried. “This is lunch.”

“If you always eat the way you’re feeding me, you should be as fat

as Santa Claus,” Julian grumbled, stepping over the railing. He wore

boots and a hat, as well as a windbreaker that would repel most rain.

Romeo had a hat himself, and a walking stick. When Julian stood on

the bank, he eyed the stick.

“You’re injured, remember. In recovery.”

“If you get tired, I’ll help you,” Romeo promised, pushing away

the silly thought that they hadn’t really left the balcony yet—he could

still back out and keep the spell intact. Instead he tossed his head and

showed Julian the steps he’d made climbing in and out of the gully in

the previous week.

For a while they walked in silence, Romeo following the stream

nearly straight up the hillside and robbing both of them of extra

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breath. When they reached the edge of the woods, he scrambled out of

the gully and Julian followed. After that Romeo set an easier pace,

zig-zagging up the hill and making sure their path found those places

he knew to be best for spring flowers. By the time they neared the

little graveyard, Julian’s hands were full.

“Do you know where we are?” Romeo asked. Julian rolled his

eyes.

“If you ask, it must be a place I know. Also, yes, I recognize that

tree. I have to say I’ve never come up by a more roundabout path.”

“I thought you’d enjoy the scenic route.” Romeo pointed his stick

at the old hermit house on the edge of the cemetery. “I’ll set up lunch

while you pay your respects, if you want.”

“That—thank you.”

Romeo had long since explored every nook and cranny of the

graveyard, but he was never disrespectful inside it or in the one room

stone house. He whispered an apology to the Madonna statue inside,

and gratitude for the shelter, before he spread out the lunch he’d

brought.

The clouds were thickening and Julian was taking a long time, but

when Romeo was about to take his stick and see if wolves had

rebounded in Italy just to eat his friend, Julian stumbled out of the

dimness and sank down on the stone floor. Romeo poured coffee from

the vacuum bottle and offered it. Julian reached for it with a shaking

hand.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Julian took the offered sugar and dumped heaping

spoonfuls into his cup. Romeo offered the cream, but Julian shook his

head and sat back, half-falling against the stone wall behind him. He

huddled there, his entire focus on the cup he clutched in both hands to

ease the shaking. Romeo filled one of the wooden plates with a bit of

everything and set it in front of Julian while he wondered if he’d

overdone it on the hike. He knew he tended to do that when he wasn’t

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careful. His brother Gastone wouldn’t wander with him anymore, even

called him spawn of a mountain goat when his parents weren’t around

to be insulted. And every team he’d every played on hated when he led

practices.

Julian was pretty fit—Romeo had spent enough time looking to

know—but maybe he’d been living somewhere flat too long.

“Have you ever wandered up here?” Romeo asked, making a plate

for himself. Julian didn’t answer so Romeo kept talking. “This little

cemetery has been in use since the fifteenth century. In school I’d

write reports about it. Once for an art portfolio I made tracings of the

stones.”

“Kind of a morbid interest,” Julian said, but he didn’t sound