Page 1 of House of Clouds


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Prologue

Rome

The filmy white curtain billowed out behind her like a sail, full breasted, head to the wind. It was her sail, her ship, setting her on a different course, at least for a few days, taking her away from this room, this apartment, this city.

Below her and across the myriad tiled roofs, Rome was waking up, the sun just starting to cast canted light onto the piazza, finding the gaps in the old marble and granite buildings. At one end of the piazza, Maria entered, moving along the dusty cobbles, making her way to the weathered slate-blue door on the far side of the piazza, to prepare her employer’s breakfast and get the children ready for school. Signora Benedetti, broom in hand, exited from another door, this one more a mottled green, a closed awning of red stripes above it that when unfurled, read “Benedetti’s” in faded black cursive. The signora paused a moment, leaning on the broom before taking it up vigorously to sweep the small paved area in front of the little café at the end of the piazza. It was a familiar sight, a daily one, except Sundays, of course. The light, the colors, the people. It was Rome. Her Rome.

She felt him before she heard him, his bare footsteps silent across the tiled floor as he came to stand behind her. He pushed her dark auburn hair aside and kissed her neck. The kiss was soft, sensuous, with a hint of persuasion behind it.

“Come back to bed, Katerina,” he said softly in Italian. He brushed his fingers along her shoulders, the persuasion stronger now.

She turned to face him. “Giancarlo, you know I can’t. I have a flight to catch.”

“In Italian,” he said, a hint of admonishment in his tone. “Come back to bed, there’s still time.”

She sighed. She’d been too tired to speak in Italian, for once. Last night had been another late night. What charity had his mother chosen for the gala’s profits this time? She brushed the question aside. It didn’t matter. The faces were the same.

He kissed her now, his hands reaching under the flimsy negligee he’d only just bought her, tracing his fingers along her hip. “Come,” he said. “I won’t see you for a while. We must make the most of these last moments.”

She sighed, already getting lost in his kiss.

One

The handle was the same worn brass, so scuffed and scratched by the countless fingers and palms that had grabbed and pulled at it over the years, there was no reflection to be had. Nothing to check herself in, to give herself a last-minute once-over before she entered, suddenly self-conscious in her Valentino suit, silk blouse, Ferragamo pumps, and sleekly pulled-back hair. Giancarlo had picked out the outfit for her, certain it would make the right impact on the New York City gallery owner. And now, she was afraid of the impact it would make here, in Somerton Lake. Two worlds colliding. Kate grasped the handle and entered O’Connor’s pub. It was too late to change.

The music filtered to her as she made her way from the small foyer to the open room. Along the side opposite the door was the bar, a worn, dark mahogany- and-brass affair. Stools were pulled up to it like familiar friends clamoring for gossip, their surfaces worn smooth by people sliding on and off them over the years. The taps behind the bar showed the usual names, but also a variety of craft beers, something new to her. Above the optics hung the photos of long-ago Ireland and some faded shamrocks left from an ancient St. Patrick’s Day. They were still there then. The Guinness mirror was foxed and mottled at the edges, as if it, like a few of the regulars she noted present, had taken too much alcohol over the years, and its once-clear view was now rheumy and blurred.

The wood floor was worn nearly bare of any protective coating through multitudes of shoes and boots treading its boards in all weathers. No change there. The tables, filled with enough people that made it a good crowd for a Thursday night, were as she remembered. High ones in the center, with matching chairs and lower ones over to the side, by the frosted windows that faced the street. All this she took in during the initial few seconds, her primary thought to find her father, who was always here on a Thursday night. Until it wasn’t. Until the music penetrated the intention. The voice. His voice. Her eyes found the small stage area at the far end of the room, shocked, unbelieving. Ethan.

It was as if ten years hadn’t passed. Or she was cast back in time. He was perched on a stool, his head bent over his guitar, his long fingers moving along the frets and strings. Low-slung jeans, a Henley topped by a flannel shirt. She could recite all the clothes, including the fedora that topped his head, coal-black hair curling from underneath. Coal-black hair. The Tennyson phrase had risen to her mind unbidden then as it did now, capturing its dark beauty. The glasses were new; black horn-rimmed. She grabbed onto that difference even as his voice, that smooth-as-silk baritone, reached out to her and melted her, but the difference evaporated in the face of his voice, those words, that song. Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.”A pain shot through her.

He’d sung it at the college’s talent showcase the first week of her freshman year, before classes had started, when nothing was fixed and all the possibilities of what college might be were new and shiny, promising joy. The song “Suzanne”had confirmed it, shown her she was meant to be here, attending this college, finding her real path. He had confirmed it, singing that song. The song that was her mother’s. The song that linked her father, her brother and her. His long, graceful fingers picked out the riff, finding the chords. Those hands, mesmerizing in themselves. She’d watched them, his fingers, finely crafted, loving them again already, before he’d even looked up. Before his eyes met hers. Ice-blue, rimmed with thick, dark lashes. She knew he was singing to her, then, somehow she knew that. The words, the music, his look. It was all hers. Until the song ended and he unbent the leg he’d propped on the stool rung, and nodded. He stood, gave a bashful nod, and moved to get another guitar propped on the rack behind him. It was gone, the connection broken. A brief, shining, moment. A moment only. And the last of the shining moments and bright promise that college had offered, on balance. All a mirage, brief and wavering in the distance, just out of reach and wholly false. But it was a long time ago. Another world.

Kate pulled her eyes away and resumed her search for her father. It took a few seconds only. He was up front and center as always, keen to listen and view the musicians who took the stage. She made her way over to him, careful to move as quietly as possible. When she arrived at his side, she laid her hand on his shoulder and bent over, kissing his cheek. He smiled at her distractedly and nodded before his eyes returned to the stage where Ethan had just been. She smiled. Her father’s love of music would never die, she thought, fondly.

“I’m just going to get a drink,” she whispered to him. She noted his glass of beer. It was half-full. She’d get him one anyway.

With a final pat on his arm, she turned and made her way over to the bar, where a young, unfamiliar woman stood holding a glass under a craft beer tap, her eyes on the stage, dark head bobbing slowly to the song, as the frothy liquid filled the glass and overflowed.A college student, probably, Kate thought. The young woman’s large eyes and full chest told the real story of her employment in Kate’s opinion. Some things hadn’t changed.

When the young woman had served the beer and taken the money, she turned to Kate. “What can I get you?” Her eyes already slid back to the stage.

Kate considered her choice, already revising it quickly after observing the young woman’s skill. Or lack of it. Should she have wine? The quality of the wine probably hadn’t changed either. This was a college town, where anything sophisticated was a pointless exercise. Though there was craft beer. More than before. The guys. That would explain it. There were plenty of guys who would go for that now. She eyed the bottles in the fridge and settled for a vaguely recognizable brand of craft beer.

“Just give me a glass and the bottle,” Kate said brightly after she named her choice. “I’ll pour my own at the table.”

The young woman nodded, served her quickly, taking the money before she’d even retrieved the beer, and gave Kate the change and her beer with the glass upside down on the bottle at the same time. Kate hadn’t even muttered her thanks before the young bartender already had her attention turned to the stage, despite the three women who had just arrived at the other end of the bar.

Kate quickly put her change away in her large Fendi tote that contained her laptop and made her way back to her father’s table, wishing she didn’t have to lug around her computer. At least she didn’t have a suitcase. It had been a good decision, considering she’d taken a taxi from the train station and hadn’t rented a car in New York. She hadn’t told Giancarlo about her decision to wear clothes she’d left behind here, outdated though they were, rather than take items from her expensive wardrobe she wore in Rome. It had seemed for the best all around. For so many reasons. She was traveling light. No baggage. Her tote carried her essentials—simple makeup and toiletries. Anything more, and she would just grab it here. It was only a few days, after all.

When she reached her father, she placed the drink on the table and slid onto the high chair next to him, straightening her powder-blue suit jacket and the matching skirt. She scanned his face, checking for signs of change. The hair might be more gray than chestnut now, the jowl a little softer, but everything else looked the same.

The song finished, he turned his attention to her and grinned. “Kate, my Katydid. You got here.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You know I wouldn’t miss it.”

He raised his brows and though there was a twinkle in his eyes, the gesture still made her wince inwardly. It spoke of the years she’d been away, the years that she had missed birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and other events.

“This is the big six-oh, Dad,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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