“Uh-huh.” She needed to change the conversation before it headed toward dangerous territory. “Mr. Evan was a lifesaver more than once. He used to serve me coffee too.”
“Well, it’s nice to see you again,” he said, as if they had truly known each other.
Lissa could have closed her eyes and been back in Rome. This young man was Italian in every way, from his leather loafers and well-cut suit to his cigarette and espresso and his beautiful accent with its rolling melody and his dark eyes and hair and Roman nose—like one of the horses at the barn. Of course she’d never voice that thought—but it actually didn’t look bad at all on this young man.
Yes, she did remember him, an Emory University student who spent his days at The Sixth Declension. Her friends made fun of him, called him a flirt, but she had liked him just because he was Italian. They’d spoken three or four times at most.
“So did you?”
She had missed the question and blushed to admit it. “Did I what?”
“Did you do well in the national competition?”
“Oh, pretty well. I got to go to Rome.” She leaned back against the bookshelves, holding a textbook for fifth-year Latin students across her chest, almost protectively.
“Really! Well, yeah, I’d say you did
pretty
well.
Niente male!
”
“I loved it, every single ounce of Rome: the Coliseum, the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, the piazzas. All those wonderful piazzas—di Spagna, del Popolo, and my favorite, Piazza Navona with the jugglers and the musicians and the artists and the tourists sitting to have their portraits made. And Bernini’s Fountain of the Rivers. And the obelisk! We used to wander around the piazza, choose a little restaurant, and feel like life could not get any better.” She stopped suddenly, embarrassed by her overly enthusiastic monologue.
The young man didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he smiled and asked, “
Come si chiama?
”
“
Mi chiamo Lissa.
”
“Well, it’s nice to know your name, Lissa. I’m Silvano.”
She felt her face growing hot and could think of nothing to say except, “It’s nice to meet you too.”
He stood. “I come here every week, know this place like the back of my hand—or as we say in Italy,
le conosco a memoria
. Perhaps I can help you find what you’re looking for.”
Lissa glanced down at the list she had set on top of the textbook. “Oh, yes. Thanks. Um, I’m having a hard time finding the translation of Horace that we used a few years ago. It had the best footnotes. And I don’t seem to be having much luck with Plutarch either.”
When they had located the books, they stood in the back of the store talking about Rome. Lissa found herself laughing, almost tasting the creamy gelato and fresh bread. Without realizing it, she had traveled back, and it felt so good.
When the conversation lagged, she filled in quickly with a question. “Last time I saw you, I think you were a student at Emory. What are you up to now?”
“Well, I finished up at Emory two years ago. Landed my first job as an editor at Youngblood Publishers. I spend a lot of time reading the manuscripts of hopeful writers.”
“Mmm.”
“But there are lots of perks to the job—like meeting with the big names every once in a while. And right now”—he lowered his voice— “can you keep a secret?”
Lissa furrowed her brow, not sure she wanted to hear a secret from a stranger.
Silvano seemed undeterred. “We’re putting out a novel by S. A. Green.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe I know him.”
“Her. She’s the nutty lady who insists on complete anonymity and writes bestsellers every five or six years.”
“Oh. No, I don’t know her.”
He seemed disappointed.
“I don’t read a lot of modern literature. I tend to keep going back to the classics.”
“Well, you can’t go wrong there. So what’s kept you away from The Sixth Declension for so long?”
“The main thing is that I live in Chattanooga. And after the Latin competitions were over, well, I didn’t need to come as often. I’m just here helping my former Latin teacher pick up some books for her students. A trip down memory lane.”
“Chattanooga.”
“Yep. Well, actually, Lookout Mountain.”
“See Rock City and Ruby Falls!” he said, mimicking the billboards.
“Yes. It’s a lovely spot, in spite of the tourists.”
Lissa glanced toward the front of the store where Mrs. Gruder was setting a stack of books beside the cash register. “Um, hold on a sec— looks like my teacher has just about found everything she needs.”
Lissa took the textbooks and Plutarch’s history to the cash register, then came back to the table. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Silvano.”
“The pleasure was all mine,
bella puella
. Perhaps we’ll meet again before two years pass?”
“Perhaps.”
“For a pizza and bottle of Chianti?”
Lissa blushed again and shrugged. “
Ciao
, Silvano.”
“
Ciao
, Lissa.”
________
Lissa wrapped her arms around the gelding’s neck and buried her head in his mane. “Caleb. Caleb. I’m so sorry. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”
The chestnut nickered softly, ears pricked forward. Lissa knelt down and ran her hands along his front legs and fetlocks, instinctively feeling for any swelling. Nothing. The thoroughbred looked in perfect shape, albeit a little rounder around the barrel.
How could her father disown Caleb? Momma had loved this gelding, loved him like the second child she could never have. She relished accompanying Lissa and High Caliber—Caleb for short—to the competitions, even when it meant rising at four in the morning to help her braid the horse’s mane and tail.
Lissa pictured her mother waving from the bleachers or standing beside the white fences and wishing them well with her eyes. She had always rejoiced in their success.
Why did her father blame Caleb? Perhaps it was easier to blame the horse than let it all fall on Lissa’s shoulders. If they hadn’t stopped at the barn to visit Caleb on that May afternoon, if they’d gone straight home, the hail would have beaten down on the house on Lookout Mountain with Lissa and her mother and father all snuggled safely inside.
Didn’t her father understand that Caleb meant hope for Lissa?
Of course he understands. That’s the whole point. Squelch the hope.
Punish the perpetrators of the crime. Separate them. Condemn them.
During the first months after the accident, she had come to the stable and simply brushed Caleb, brushing, crying, grieving. Her father hadn’t seemed to mind back then. Perhaps he’d simply been numb with grief. But when Lissa had wanted to start riding again, he had flipped. That was the only explanation.
“Lissa, I don’t want you riding anymore.”
“What?”
“It isn’t safe.”
“Isn’t safe? What do you mean? Caleb and I are great together, Dad. You know that. You’ve seen us… .”
But the more she argued, the more stubborn he grew. His anger flared often. After she tore up her license, he refused to drive her to the barn. If she found a ride with someone else, he exploded. The very mention of Caleb became a huge boulder in their relationship, something much harder to scale that the steepest side of Lookout Mountain. Eventually he refused to let her see the horse at all.
Lissa could not understand his logic—his “illogic,” as she called it. He had stopped paying the board a year ago. Most of Lissa’s small salary from the library went to pay it now, despite her father’s vehement protests. He had put Caleb up for sale, and only Lissa’s desperate phone calls to Cammie, the middle-aged owner of Clover Leaf Stables, had kept Caleb from being sold.
Now Lissa found Mrs. Gruder sitting in the tack room, reading Plutarch. “Are you in a big hurry to get back to Chattanooga?”
Her teacher smiled at her. “Take your time. I’ve got plenty of reading material.”
Lissa grabbed her saddle and bridle, left Mrs. Gruder with Plutarch, and went into Caleb’s stall, quickly tacking up the gelding. Out in the paddock area, she pulled herself onto his back, landing effortlessly in the saddle and patting Caleb’s withers. He tossed his head impatiently as she coaxed him out of the barn into the bright October day, her kind of day, with the azure blue sky, the crisp fall weather, the leaves tinted in orange and yellow. The barn sat on ten acres of flatland twenty miles south of Chattanooga, and she intended to ride through the whole property this afternoon.
She trotted Caleb by the two large riding rings and rode into the open fields alone. Galloping across the bare terrain, Caleb’s hooves kicking up dirt, they went faster and faster until Lissa felt barely in control. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sting of her hair flapping wildly in her face as Caleb picked up speed.
She wondered if they galloped fast and far enough, if perhaps they could move beyond the
now
, move beyond fear and failure and
All your fault!
She didn’t need a little bottle of pills by her bed. She could ride away into nothingness, into some future hope that rose off the plain like the sudden appearance of Signal Mountain when they emerged from the woods.
She bent forward, almost lying on Caleb’s neck. How she missed the competition, the horse shows, the thrill of the jumper classes where the fences were set up higher and higher until only a handful of horses remained in the competition. The fastest to complete the course with no faults won. Caleb was easily the fastest. Even though he measured only fifteen hands three inches—small for a jumper—he was compact, with a spring in him that could jump the moon. He took the turns, cut corners, leapt like a puma from a spot so tight the spectators always gasped to see it. Together Lissa and Caleb had won their share of jumper classes, had gathered the long-tailed, multicolored blue, red, and yellow ribbons signifying Champion, the trophies and silver platters engraved with
Hunter-Jumper Classic, Champion, Junior Division.
She missed the competition—the adrenaline, the thrill, the satisfaction.
She had no idea how much time passed before she turned Caleb and retraced their tracks, eventually slowing him to a trot and then to a walk. She lay down with her back arched over the saddle, her head on his hindquarters, staring at the huge yellow-leaved hickories, and feeling the horse’s barrel expanding, in and out as white foam covered his body. She too was soaked in perspiration. It beaded on her lips and all along her arms. She felt her shirt sticking to her ribs, her hair matted, her face wet. It felt like
before
.
“We’ve had an offer from a girl in Virginia, Lissa,” Cammie said, meeting Lissa as she untacked Caleb. “A serious buyer. I think you should consider it. She’s fifteen, I think, gutsy, talented, determined. She reminds me of you.”
Lissa shot Cammie a frustrated glance.
“She came down to see him last week. Tried him out on Friday, then rode him again Saturday and Sunday. By Sunday they were jumping four-and-a-half-foot fences.”
Lissa swallowed the ball of hate in the back of her throat. “I thought you weren’t accepting any offers on him.”
Cammie looked pained. “Lissa, I can’t ignore your father forever.”
“So that’s why I got that letter from you encouraging me to come to the barn.”
“Yeah. It’s been a long time.”
“It’s not easy to get a ride out here, and if I dare pronounce Caleb’s name to Dad, all I get from him is a bona fide tantrum.”
Cammie put her arm around Lissa’s shoulder. “Look, Liss. I know you think your father is being horrible. But I think he’s just scared. I think his grief over your mother’s death has caused him to be afraid of losing you too.”
Lissa glared at her.
“At any rate, Caleb is getting fat and sassy. He needs exercise. You could just lease him for a year or two. Let her get him back in shape.”
“He called you, didn’t he?” Lissa spat out as if she hadn’t heard a word of what Cammie said. “He’s pressuring you to get rid of him.”
“Lissa, he’s right. You never come. You’re not going to ride him anymore.”
“I rode him today! I’m trying! I never come because
he
won’t
bring
me. I had to beg my Latin teacher to take a trip to Atlanta, for heaven’s sake, so I’d have some sort of excuse. Dad still blessed me out. I want to ride. I
need
to ride.”
Cammie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Liss. It’s been such a mess, hasn’t it?” She gave Lissa a hug. “I wish I could promise you that I won’t sell Caleb, but the problem is, your father is the official owner. He paid for him. I have to abide by his wishes. I
can
promise you I won’t sell him without letting you know.”
“Cammie, please! I’m paying to keep him here. Please give me a little more time. As soon as I get my license, I’ll be here four times a week. I swear it.”
“Got any idea how long that will be?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll do my best, Lissa. But I have to tell you the truth. Your father is bound and determined to get rid of Caleb, and I don’t know how much longer I can put him off.”
Lissa spent the drive back to Lookout Mountain staring out the window, counting the signs painted on barn roofs inviting every motorist to
See Rock City
and
Visit Ruby Falls
. She felt confused by the chance meeting with that young man, Silvano, by the way just talking with him had transported her back to Rome. Even now she could almost taste the creamy gelato, feel again the thrill of standing in the Sistine Chapel and craning her neck to stare at Michelangelo’s masterpiece on the ceiling. The creation of man. God’s finger reaching out to touch Adam’s. Life. Hope.
The Fall. Just as quickly, she saw Adam and Eve crouching in their shame, covered with leaves. Banished. Rome vanished, and she was in the car with Momma chatting about colleges and Caleb, heading home.
Just like today.
Her hands began to shake first. She knotted them into two tight balls, but the trembling continued. Her breathing became shallow. She felt the blood running out of her face, the beads of sweat on her brow and upper lip.
Mrs. Gruder glanced over, alarm on her face. “Lissa, are you okay?”