Dry as Rain (19 page)

A boat party with Marnie and her snooty fashion friends was not on the menu.

She squinted at me long and hard, as though deciding if I was yacht-gala worthy. After a moment she rolled her eyes. “You need to call the concierge and tell him you need a tux.”

Kyra must have seen the disappointment in my eyes because she set her soft hand on my cheek and gave me the sweetest look. “You are the kindest, most romantic husband in the entire world.” When she kissed me, I realized my plans weren't nearly as important as her happiness. What really mattered was that I was with the woman I loved, and we had an entire day together.

“Can I at least have you to myself until then?” I asked. I'd really hoped to see da Vinci's
The Last Supper
while we were here, knowing neither of us would likely ever get the chance again.

Marnie frowned at me. “We couldn't possibly. I've got a meeting across town in an hour.”

“Who's got a meeting?” Kyra asked.

“I do.” Marnie sounded perturbed.

“Who?” Kyra repeated.

“I . . . do,”
Marnie said slow and loud as if Kyra were deaf and stupid. A knowing look finally washed over her. “Fine. Go. But remember, it's a two-hour drive to the party.”

Kyra glanced at her watch. “We've got enough time to catch one or two attractions and get a quick bite.”

Marnie lit up. “Oh, you've got to take the tram tour. Catch number twenty. It's the one with the big Ciao Milano sign painted on the side. The whole tour just takes about forty-five minutes, but you'll learn so much about the city. Then, you can catch a taxi to Golden Quadrilateral. It's one of the absolute best places to shop in Milan. Most of my inspiration so far comes—”

“Don't you have to get ready?” Kyra said, grabbing her purse.

Marnie rolled her eyes and mumbled something about a cultural vacuum and McDonald's.

Twenty-Four

“So, where we headed?” Kyra said as she walked beside me down the dimly lit hotel corridor. “I'm guessing it's not Milan's shopping district.”

“You probably don't remember this,” I said with a smile in my voice, “but you hate to shop as much as me. I'd like to take you to see da Vinci's
The Last Supper
. Is that okay?”

She slid the long leather straps of her purse crossways over her shoulder, letting the bag fall across her stomach. I'd never seen her wear it that way before, but from everything I'd read, tourists couldn't be too careful in Italy. I guess she'd heard the same thing.

Keeping stride, she slipped her fingers into mine. “A great choice. You'll love it.”

“You've already seen it?” Disappointment filled me. I'd just assumed we would experience it for the first time together.

“The day I arrived. It's the one thing I didn't want to chance missing.”

A stocky man with thick blond eyebrows and matching ear hair ducked out of one of the rooms and looked at us as if expecting someone. When our eyes met, his face turned red, and he retreated back inside his room and closed the door.

“We can do something else, then,” I offered, hoping she'd insist we go.

“I'd love to see it again.” She gave my fingers a squeeze. “You know you can't buy the tickets at the door, right? They only let twenty or so people in at a time and they're always sold out.”

I gave her a
you should know me better
look, which made her laugh.

“Guess I forgot who I was talking to.”

On the ancient-looking streets of Milan, catching a taxi was easy enough, and to my relief, our driver spoke perfect English, albeit with a heavy Italian accent. The ride to the church was short, so when he told me I owed him forty-two euros, I about choked. Kyra gave him a tongue-lashing like I'd never heard, and by the time she was through with him, he was apologizing for everything from dishonest drivers to the global economic decline. I was just glad I wasn't on the receiving end of her rant.

Watching the cab speed off, we stood on cobblestone streets just a few hundred feet from the large brick church that housed the world's most famous painting.

“Here it is,” Kyra said. “Santa Maria delle Grazie, home of Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece.”

From the outside, the church was plainer than I'd imagined. “For some reason I thought the place would be more cathedral-like.”

She stared ahead at the large brick building with a look of affection. “If you look at it from the back, it looks ten times bigger, but if it's a cathedral you want, let's hit the duomo next. It's one of the most magnificent in the world.”

“Do we have time?” I hated that we only had the afternoon to fit in our little Roman holiday when there was so much to see here.

“Plenty,” she said. “It's not far and there's a restaurant close by that has great pizza.”

“Little Caesars?” I asked.

She gave me her
you're not funny
look as she took my hand and pulled me gently toward the church.

I glanced at my watch. “Our viewing starts in about ten minutes.”

“We better head right back there then. Those guys wait for no one.”

The church was so much more on the inside than its outside alluded to. Our feet clicked along the tiled floors as we explored the magnificent frescos hanging between massive columns. The place even smelled old and impressive—a combination of linseed oil, incense, and time. Soon, we were joined by a group of a dozen or so other tourists and ushered back like sheep.

We all grew reverently quiet as we stepped into a white, rectangular room. Rows of generic spotlights pointed toward the main attraction, with the only natural light in the space coming from a line of small windows at the top of one wall. Those windows were outlined with chipped, multi-colored tiles that looked every bit as old as I suspected they were.

The rest of the room looked rather blasé except for the arched ceiling. The floor was made of simple brick, and the white plaster walls had been patched here and there. The room itself was not worthy of the rest of the church, but the nondescript backdrop only made the two frescos stand out.

On the wall behind us loomed a magnificent painting of the crucifixion. I knew nothing of this artwork and wondered why it got so little attention when it seemed to me to be every bit as well done as its more famous neighbor. Directly across from it, spanning the space of an entire wall, was what we'd come to see. We were allowed only so close, and while cameras were forbidden, it didn't stop the onlookers from blatantly snapping pictures with their cell phones.

Kyra and I stood with our hands touching on the railing that kept us from getting too close. “Can you believe they built a door in the middle of it?” she asked.

I looked at the arch in the center of the painting, which had been sealed shut. “Guess they didn't realize what they had.”

“I can empathize with that.”

“Me, too,” I said, wondering if she intended the same double meaning that I had.

“Look at the detail,” she whispered.

“They all look miserable,” I said, referring to the disciples gathered in front of the long table.

“Wouldn't you be, if Jesus just told you that one of you was about to betray Him?”

I stared ahead at the painting, considering what I would have thought if I'd been warned by God Himself that I would cheat on Kyra someday. I wouldn't have believed it. “Which one's Judas?”

She pointed to the man who was reaching for the same piece of bread as the One he would betray. “Isn't it poignant the way they're both reaching for the same thing?”

As I studied the onetime apostle, thoughts of what he'd done spun in my head. I tried to make sense of what might have caused such a blatant betrayal—greed, pride, insecurity? Nothing more than every man wrestled with at one time or another in his life. “Do you think maybe Judas got a bad rap?”

She turned to me, looking surprised. “How's that?”

“He messed up, but it's not like he's the only one. Thomas doubted Jesus when He'd come back from the dead, and what about Peter denying Him three times? How horrible was that? So how come Judas is synonymous with betrayal and not Peter?”

She gave me an incredulous look. “This from the same man who blames Adam for the fall of all humanity?”

“Yeah, well. I've been rethinking . . .”

Thankfully, I didn't have to finish the thought because the guide told us our time was up.

I followed Kyra out of the room. “That wasn't very long.”

She ran her fingers through her ponytail. “They're supposed to give you fifteen minutes, but it sure didn't seem like it, did it? You got to see it though. That's the important thing.”

“No,” I said, pulling her toward me, “getting to see you is the important thing.”

She blushed. “We're in a church, Eric.”

“What could be holier than love?”

She laughed. “Who
are
you?”

“The man who adores you.”

Pulling away from me, she lifted a camera out of her purse and held it in front of us.

“Smile,” she said.

Right before the camera flashed, I kissed her cheek. She turned the camera around, looked at the small digital screen, and grinned at me. “We're adorable.”

I took it from her and looked for myself. We really did look good together. “Not adorable—sexy.”

“Well, we better take our sexy selves over to the duomo before it gets too late.”

The Milan cathedral, aka the duomo, was everything Kyra had said it was. It looked like an enormous, gothic castle with its elaborate points aimed at heaven, carved in the likeness of saints, angels, and crosses. The inside was an elegant mass of marble, ordained with painted tiles, hand-carved statues, and intricate stained glass windows.

As I looked around, I felt as though I was committing a sin just by being in there. Despite its beauty, I couldn't wait to get out of there.

“So, what'd you think?” Kyra asked, as she intertwined her arm into mine and led me onto the street and back into daylight.

A tall stick of a woman knocked into me as she strutted by. She threw a look back at me as if I'd been the one to run into her. No excuse me,
scusi
, or anything. She looked more Swedish than Italian, and I guessed she probably was one of the many models employed by the fashion capital of the world.

“It's certainly amazing but I felt so small in there. So insignificant. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so.” She leaned into me. “That's how I feel when I'm looking up at the stars at night. Sometimes it scares me to think of just how small I am compared to God.” She pointed to a row of shops down the street. “There's the place Marnie and I ate when we came here. You up for real Italian pizza?”

“You sure you don't want something a little more fancy?” I said, still thinking about the cathedral.

“We're doing fancy tonight. Besides, you can't come to Italy and not have pizza.”

“I can eat pizza at home.”

“Not like this,” she said.

On a brick sidewalk, we sat under an umbrella as tourists and locals alike filed by. Sipping bottled water, we waited for our meal to be delivered and people-watched. Two shops down, a palm reader sat outside at a small, cloth-covered table. Even from a distance, it was obvious she was toothless. She wore a hideous purple-sequined top and rimmed hat. With her long, gnarled fingers, she petted the surface of what I guess was supposed to be a crystal ball. It looked more like a bowling ball to me. Whatever she said to the young woman in her chair made the girl grin and fork over a handful of euros.

Smells of garlic and basil wafted past me, and I looked over to see a waiter carrying a plate of half a dozen or so different foods, from potatoes to chunks of meat all covered in some kind of red sauce. My stomach grumbled right as our own waiter set down a round metal tray with a pizza in the center of it. It looked enough like a regular pizza except that the cheese was melted in chunks rather than spread evenly over the pie, and whole basil leaves garnished the top. Kyra pulled a slice from it and laid it on my plate, then took one for herself. “Taste,” she said with obvious anticipation.

Slowly, I took a bite. The crust was thinner and crunchier than I was used to, but the sauce was superb, especially mixed with the basil. I smiled and nodded at her.

“Isn't it amazing?” she asked.

“Amazing,” I agreed, gazing into my wife's eyes on a sidewalk in Milan.

Twenty-Five