It was Eva’s first kiss too, though he was pretty sure she’d received plenty since then. Eva had convinced him that they needed to see what all the fuss was about. She was twelve that summer and he was fourteen—still too young and far away from the priesthood to worry about his immortal soul if he kissed a signorina. Eva’s suggestion had seemed logical. Enticing even, and he had shrugged and let her pull his face to hers.
Her lips were soft, but his were sandy, and she had wrinkled her nose and laughed when their mouths touched.
“That tickles!” She brushed at his lips and they tried again, but neither of them closed their eyes. They stared at each other, even when they were too close to see anything but eyelashes and freckles.
They stayed frozen, lips touching, until Eva started to laugh again.
Angelo pulled away and scrubbed at his mouth, embarrassed.
“I think we’re doing it wrong,” he muttered.
“Really?” Eva frowned, her laughter fading. “What else should we be doing?”
“Well, for one, you could close your eyes.”
“But you didn’t close yours!” she argued.
“I’ll close mine too.”
“Okay. What else?”
He had a pretty good idea that kisses involved tongues. He wasn’t sure how, as that seemed extremely wet and a little disgusting. But he thought he would try just a tentative stroke. He wouldn’t tell Eva it was coming, then if it didn’t work he could claim the attempt was inadvertent.
“Tip your head so we don’t bonk noses,” he instructed.
“Okay. And come closer so we aren’t stretching,” she suggested.
They tried again, and he made sure there was no sand on his lips. They leaned in and simultaneously closed their eyes, tilting their heads instinctively. It was much better, especially because Eva wasn’t laughing. Angelo’s tongue tiptoed out and touched her top lip. She tasted like sunshine and grapes. She stiffened in surprise but didn’t pull away, and his hands fisted handfuls of sand as her tongue hesitantly returned the caress. Then his tongue was touching hers and her grape-and-sunshine flavor was in his mouth and tickling his nose, and his eyes were rolling back in his head, completely drunk on sensation.
That was when his nonna discovered them. She shrieked their names and swatted them both on the heads, crossing herself and praying between the slaps. They were grounded from each other for two days, and Camillo sat them both down for a serious talk.
When he was finished with his strange, rambling lecture about men and women and babies and kissing, Eva just laughed and bounced up from her seat. She placed herself in her father’s lap and looked him in the eye, her face deadly serious.
“Babbo! It was disgusting. It was like kissing an oyster! I never want to kiss another boy for as long as I live.”
“It was?” Angelo interjected, stunned that the experience had been so very different for him.
“You don’t?” Camillo looked as shocked as Angelo felt.
“No! It was a silly dare. Angelo is like my brother. I am his sister. It will never happen again, Babbo. Don’t worry. Now please, I need my friend back. I don’t want to spend my holiday all by myself.”
“Angelo?” Camillo was looking at him, his eyebrows raised.
“Huh?” He was completely lost, and his feelings were more than a little bruised.
“Was kissing Eva like kissing an oyster?” Camillo pressed.
Angelo’s eyes darted between Eva’s face and Camillo’s spectacled gaze, then back again. He always tried to tell the truth. Especially to Camillo. Should he tell him it was nothing like kissing an oyster? Should he tell him it was the most amazing fifteen seconds of his life? Eva had widened her eyes comically and tilted her head, giving Angelo a look that said, “Play along, you idiot!”
Oh.
Oh!
“Um, yeah. Maybe not like an oyster . . . but it was slimy and a little disgusting. Like kissing Nonna, maybe,” Angelo lied.
Eva laughed, not offended in the slightest.
Camillo narrowed his eyes at his daughter, and she grabbed his face and kissed his cheeks.
“Don’t worry, Babbo. Angelo is my brother. Now may we please go to the beach?”
The memory made Angelo smile. Eva had been devious and oh-so-convincing. Camillo had sighed and off they had gone. But they weren’t left alone again, even once, for the rest of the summer. And there was no more kissing. It was as if a decision had been made. The response of their elders had made the pathway clear: if they wanted to remain in each other’s lives, kissing was not an option.
They had never talked about it. Never admitted to each other that it was a beautiful first, a precious memory. But for years afterward they couldn’t mention oysters without grinning at each other, and when they did, Eva would get a look in her eyes. She got a look in her eyes, and Angelo got a pain in his chest.
He rubbed his hand over his heart, absentmindedly easing the old ache. His hand found his cross and he traced it, closing his eyes and trying to say his midday prayers, but the sway of the train and the shape of the girl beside him made his mind flit away, back to white beaches and forbidden kisses.
CHAPTER 9
THE CHURCH OF SANTA CECILIA
A gong sounded and a whistle blew, and Angelo awoke with a start. They were in Rome. He’d fallen asleep after all. Eva had too, and her head was tucked against his shoulder, as if she’d tried to prop it up against her seat, only to lose the battle to gravity. A surge of tenderness for her had him closing his eyes and asking for strength for the umpteenth time since he’d first seen her yesterday.
She stirred against his shoulder and pulled away with a jerk. He finished his prayer and stretched his arms, giving her time to compose herself. He straightened his collar and ran his hands over his closely cropped curls—as long as he kept them short, the waves conformed to the shape of his head, keeping the curl relatively tame—before placing his wide-brimmed black hat on his head.
“We’re here,” he said gently, finally turning toward her.
She nodded, a quick dip of her head, as she re-pinned her little white hat. She slicked a fresh coat of red across her lips and snapped her handbag closed, tucking it back down inside her small valise.
They stood and made their way off the train, the exhaust and bedlam of the station invigorating, even if the September day was still too warm.
“I have a place for you to stay. It’s not far from where I live,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he wove in and out of the crowd, using his cane to clear a path.
“I’m going to stay with my uncle. I sent a telegram. They’re expecting me,” she called out behind him.
He stopped abruptly, and Eva cursed under her breath as she collided with his rigid back. He resumed walking almost immediately, but when they reached the street and set down their luggage, waiting for a bus that could take them across town, he murmured his displeasure into her ear.
“They live in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood.”
Eva raised one delicate eyebrow and pursed her lips, waiting for him to continue.
“Living with a Jewish family is the most foolish thing you can do. You might as well wear a star on your chest.”
“Are you saying they’re in danger?” she murmured, keeping her voice as low as his.
“Yes! Eva, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shook his head, incredulous. “Staying with your uncle will completely undermine the whole reason I wanted you to come to Rome, a place where you aren’t known, a place where your name, your address, and your religion isn’t on some Fascist list, easily accessed by the SS. A place where no one can point you out.”
“I want to see them, Angelo. I haven’t seen them in two years.”
The bus pulled up and Angelo moved toward it, still lugging her suitcase and his much smaller bag.
“This is our bus,” he said, though she had no idea what that meant or where it went.
They boarded, sliding into a seat near the front, stowing their bags on a rack above their heads. When the bus lurched and groaned and eventually resumed its route, Eva tried to find out.
“Where do you live?”
“I’m not far from your uncle. I live on the west side of the Tiber near the Basilica di Santa Maria.”
Eva had no idea where that was. His landmarks were meaningless to her.
“Do you live with other priests?”
“I live in an apartment with Monsignor Luciano and his older sister, a lovely old woman who spends her days making lace when she’s not playing housekeeper. She likes to pretend I’m her son. She takes very good care of both of us.”
“I thought you lived in a . . . a rectory. Isn’t that what a priest’s home is called?”
“I used to. After I was ordained, I served in a village just south of Rome for about six months before I was assigned as a curate at the Church of the Sacred Heart east of Trastevere, not far from the Colosseum.”
“A curate?”
“An assistant to the parish priest. I served there for two years. In that time, I got to know the area very well.”
“And now?”
“Now my duties have changed.”
“You don’t conduct Mass every day?” She had always imagined him feeding wafers to open-mouthed parishioners and giving long sermons. She realized suddenly how little she really knew about Angelo’s daily life.
“I attend Mass every day. Several times if my duties allow it. But no. I am an assistant to Monsignor Luciano, who is a senior official with the Roman Curia.”
“What is the Roman Curia?’
“It is the administrative arm of the Catholic Church.”
“You work in an office?” She was stunned.
“Yes. I do. When I’m not running all over the city, I work in an office in the Vatican. It is a busy time for my department. It will only get busier.”
“What is your department?”
“Migrant assistance.”
She stared at him, bemused. “There is such a department?”