Chapter Fifteen

SHE IS PULLING ME through the heavy door, and the moment we are in the bar I am assailed by the sharp stench of stale booze and cigarette smoke, and, very faintly, the hard, female scents of lipstick and cheap perfume.

We've been here before. I like it and I don't like it. It's exciting and scary. But this time something is different. Because I am here, inside this little girl who is me.

I want to scream at my mother to take me home. But I can't. All I can do is watch, exist in the moment.

I am trapped.

Inside this little girl. Inside myself.

She's pulling really hard on my arm, and my shoulder aches. I reach up with my free hand to rub it as she yanks me along.

There they are: the pretty women. They wear the shortest skirts I've ever seen, and high-heeled shoes. One woman has red shoes on, and I wish they were mine. Maybe someday I'll have shiny red shoes, just like hers. But when I look up her face is hard and mean behind a blue cloud of cigarette smoke, and I'm scared again.

I will never be that mean.

Mom is still pulling on my arm, almost dragging me, and muttering. I know what she's saying, but I don't want to hear it. I don't like those bad names. I don't like it when she's angry. I don't like being here.

But I can't stop looking at the women.

There's loud music, talking, laughing. Everyone looks like they're having fun, except that somewhere inside I know they're not.

There are men talking to the pretty women. They aren't nice men, but they are being nice to the women. Smiling. Leaning in close to talk to them. The men love them.

She finds him, the man who is my father, but who I hardly know. He's mad. Mom is mad. This is not going to be good.

Shouting then, and she lets go of my arm and I back away. But there's nowhere to go here.

I am trapped.

Inside this moment. Inside myself.

Dad grabs Mom by the arm and drags her out, and I follow them into the living room, which smells a little like the bar. They're laughing now, quietly, and I know what's coming next.

Mom takes my arm again and pulls me into my room. I'm hungry, but I know that doesn't matter to either of them. I'm lonely, but I know that matters even less. I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head, hearing her turn the lock on my door.

I listen for a while, waiting until their laughter drifts away, then I reach out, find the cigar box I keep in my nightstand drawer, and pull out my bag of gummi bears. I take a red one, my favorite, and slip it into my mouth. So sweet on my tongue. I can always lose myself in the sugar. For a little while, anyway.

But they're making so much noise now. Laughing and moaning and the furniture is bumping around and it feels like there's an earthquake. It scares me.

It scares me even more that they've left me alone again. Maybe someday Mom will lock me in here and never come back. I'll be trapped forever.

My skin feels too tight for my body and I want to scream. I open my mouth but nothing comes out but a little red sugar from the gummi bear.

Only it's not red sugar. It's blood.

I try to be good, I really do, but it doesn't matter. I'm never good enough. So they lock me in here when they're together, keeping me separate. Keeping me out. And it's all my fault.

It's all my fault.

It's all my fault.

I try to scream again, and this time there is a long, loud wail, and it is my voice, screaming for them to love me.

I wake with a start, and remember that I am in Rome even before my heart stops pounding. I breathe in the unfamiliar night air, pulling it deeply into my lungs, commanding myself to calm down. But there is a lump in my throat that won't go away.

I can still see the dream in my head, as though that's where I was all night. Maybe I was. I can almost smell the rancid booze, the waxy lipstick scent. I can taste the gummi bear and the blood in my mouth. I can taste the fear and the disappointment. I can taste my shame, sharp and bitter.

I know, logically, that my parents' behavior wasn't my fault. But I also realize that on some deep, emotional level I don't like to look at, I am still that scared little girl. I just don't know what the hell to do with her.

Maybe I don't want to let her go. Maybe that's too new, too frightening a prospect. The familiar is comforting, even when it's not necessarily good. At least I know what to expect. And suddenly my entire life is one big, unknown factor. No wonder I'm such a fucking mess.

I am shivering all over, simply contemplating all of this.

I lie back in the plush, canopied bed, pull a pillow to my chest, curling my fingers into the softness while I force my mind to go blank, and wait for the dawn.

It comes slowly, revealing my surroundings in misty, gray-veiled shades of amber light. The room itself is beautiful, everything done in heavy damask, in rich hues that match the rising sun: pale gold, red, yellow. It is unbelievably pretty, every piece of furniture, the small crystal chandelier that hangs in the center of the room, the paintings on the walls. And the view is one of the most spectacular in Italy.

The Intercontinental Hotel De La Ville sits at the top of the Spanish Steps, the entire city spread out below. From my window I can see Saint Peter's Dome and the Pantheon, which looks like some mythical otherrealm beneath the low-hanging clouds.

I have been here for three days. I haven't left the hotel, haven't done any sightseeing. I've just been holing up in my room, eating my meals here, taking long baths in the deep, luxurious marble tub, staring at the view. I've watched some Italian television. It doesn't seem to matter that I barely understand anything the people on the screen say. I'm too much in my own head to pay much attention.

The weather here is dreary, which is fine with me. Sunshine would seem too optimistically cheerful to me right now. I don't think I could take it.

It's raining, and I can hear the quiet patter through the glass doors leading to the small mosaic-tiled terrace outside my suite. After the dry desert air of L.A., the damp feels heavy to me here, almost as though it is holding me down. Holding my emotions in check.

I have not cried once. I am surprised and yet not surprised. In the worst of times I have always sought outer forms of comfort, rather than dealing with whatever the issue is head-on. Burying what I feel is habit for me. Lydia has been trying to tell me that.

Joshua was trying to tell me that.

Was it a mistake, leaving him, coming here?

I still don't know. All I know is that he was too close to me in L.A. I have no objectivity in his presence. How can I figure out what I'm doing for the rest of my life with him so close to me?

How am I ever going to figure it all out?

Three days of utter solitude hasn't helped. Maybe nothing will. I feel stuck.

Trapped.

Maybe that's what the dream was all about, rather than containing some profound message. Simply a manifestation of my current emotional state. But I don't quite believe that. I think there's more to it. And it's almost beginning to gel, but not quite. It's as though the answer is at the tip of my tongue—the tip of my mind—but I can't get to it. It's possible I never will.

As I've often said before, I am nothing if not a realist. And we humans are such a fallible lot. Me, more than most.

Finally, I get up, take a shower. The bath feels too self-indulgent to me today. Today is a day for action, finally. I don't know how I know this; nothing apparent has changed since I arrived. Maybe it's just time.

I get dressed in a pair of brown wool slacks, a black turtleneck sweater, a scarf I bought in Paris a few years ago. I can't seem to get warm, even though the temperature is no lower than the sixties.

I order room service: a cappuccino, some pastry, fruit. But I can't eat. I drink the coffee quickly, letting it scald my tongue a little. Stupid of me; the caffeine immediately makes me feel more jittery. Still, I ignore my nerves, pick up the phone, and dial Enzo's number.

It rings and rings, and I am suddenly overcome by doubt: he's away, out of the country. Maybe even filming in some remote corner of the world. Maybe gone for months.

Or, even worse, he sees my cell number on his caller ID and has no desire to talk to me.

And then, miraculously, his voice on the other end.

“Valentine!”

“Enzo?”

I want to cry. But I don't.

“Where are you? What have you been doing? Are you well?” That familiar Italian-accented voice. One of the few things that feels even remotely familiar lately.

“Yes, I'm okay. Well… no, I'm not. God, I'm sorry. I'm not making sense, even to myself. Are you here, Enzo? In Rome?”

“I am in Florence. Where are you?”

“I'm in Rome, Enzo. I'm at the Intercontinental Hotel De La Ville. And I'm—”

But my throat just closes up and suddenly I'm choking.

“Valentine? What is it? Tell me what is going on. What are you doing in Rome? No, never mind. I heard from Deirdre. I have some idea. I didn't want to call you. I knew you would contact me when you were ready.”

It's another full minute before I can force the enormous lump in my throat away and breathe again. “I'm sorry, Enzo. I should have gotten ahold of you myself.”

“We have known each other too long to worry over details. I will return to Rome immediately. Stay there. Will you do that?”

“Yes. I'll wait for you.”

“Tomorrow. I will call you as soon as I return.”

I nod into the phone. “Yes. Alright.”

“And, Valentine?”

“Yes?”

“This was the right thing, to come to me. I don't want you to doubt that. I will see you as soon as I can.”

“Yes. Okay.”

We hang up, and I'm not sure if I feel any better, although I do feel in some strange way that I'm one step closer to … I'm not sure what. A way to move beyond my past? A way to live my new life?

I put the phone down on the night table, look around the room. But it feels so small to me suddenly; I can't stand to be there any longer. I pick up my purse from the floor where I discarded it three days ago. I have only touched it to look for tip money for room service. Slipping it onto my shoulder, I head out the door.

It's a short ride in the elevator, then I'm walking through the elegant lobby I barely noticed when I arrived. It's all marble and crystal and gold accents. Beautiful. But I don't want to linger.

Pushing through the revolving door and outside, into the damp, gray air, I make my way to the famous Spanish Steps, pause at the top to look at the city. It's a bit gloomy this time of year, but still heartbreakingly lovely. Such a waste that I haven't spent any time seeing it. But what would I absorb right now, anyway? And I'm not here on vacation. I'm here on a mission, aren't I?

I start making my way down the endless, ancient staircase, my boot heels clicking on the stone. The morning rain has changed everything: the scent in the air of old, wet stone, as though the history of the city is that much nearer to the surface. And the streets gleam wetly, making them appear cleaner than they really are.

As I descend I can smell garlic in the air, and baking bread. And as I reach the square, the inevitable smell of garbage, urine. The scent of humanity that is present in some form or another in every large city, except that here there is also the musty scent of the Italian waterways that run everywhere through Rome. And suddenly I am desperate to get to the street, to walk. To think.

Yes, I need to think. I need to stop running every time my brain kicks into gear.

This late in the fall is the off-season, and the streets are mostly empty; just a few hard-core tourists, students in their torn jeans and backpacks from every corner of the world, the locals on their bicycles and Vespas.

I wander, simply walking the streets. Slowly I make my way down the Via dei Condotti, pass the designer shops, the cafés tucked in between them. But I don't want to shop, no matter how beautiful the items in the brightly lit windows. I need to keep moving, need to think. My mind is full of one idea and image after another: The Broker's face when she was telling me how I can never escape my life, being at the hotel in New York with Zayed, Regan, and Rosalyn, my pathetic mother sitting on the sagging sofa with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. And I'm angry. In a rage.

And then there's Joshua.

His face, his hands. If I close my eyes I think I could almost draw his scent into my lungs, hold it there as though it's something precious. It is to me. But I don't let myself do it. It's too hard, still, with him so far away.

I keep walking, taking one turn after another. I can feel the timelessness of this place, like a weight holding me to the earth, and I think it was right for me to come to Rome.

The walking is beginning to calm me, finally, the movement over the old cobblestone streets working some of the fury out of me. I'm able to take in some of what I see around me now, the old, beautiful architecture, unlike anything to be found in the United States. Some of these structures look as though they've been here forever, and something in their solid presence comforts me.

My feet are beginning to hurt and I want to stop, to rest. I find myself in front of one of the ancient basilicas: San Lorenzo in Lucina. I pause in front of the colonnaded building, gaze for a moment at the stucco fagade, which is a sort of pink and gold in the late morning light, like everything else in this city. It's imposing, formal looking, a mixture of ancient Rome and Greece, as a number of buildings in this city are.

It appears to be open to the public, and I slip through the ornate gates and go inside.

I don't know what I'm doing here; I'm not at all religious. But something about the serenity of the place draws me.

This structure is spectacular, unexpectedly colorful and grand, every corner, column, and archway painted in great detail, everything highlighted in gold, and the intricate, coffered ceiling vaulting overhead. I move a few feet in, over the patterned gray and white marble floor, and sit in the first pew I come to. The wood is hard beneath me. The place smells like incense and incalculable centuries.

At the other end of the endlessly long aisle is an enormous painting of Christ over the gold and marble altar, as bloody as these images often are. Grotesque, in a way. But so horribly sad.

But it's really just my own sadness. It's everything I've been through, everything I want. Everything I've convinced myself I can't have.

I think once more about what Joshua has said to me, about change, about being able to choose. If only it were as easy as making a choice. I don't know; maybe it is. Maybe I have to choose to get over it all, to really leave all the garbage in my life behind me. Choose to be with him.

If he'll even still have me, after what I've put him through. If I can ever give him what he deserves to have.

Fuck.

The gruesome image of Christ seems to stare down at me from the altar, and I feel the sadness in the figure like a lump of solid lead in my chest. It weighs on me, as though the sadness itself will push me down, into the pew, right through the floor to the earth below. The sensation grows heavier and heavier, until it's hard to breathe.

My gaze darts around in a panic, over the bleeding Christ, the golden altar, the painted columns, but I don't know what I'm looking for. It's too quiet here. There is no sound to distract me from the voices in my head, the ones that want to talk about everything that has happened to me in my life. About what is happening now. It's too much. But maybe I need this. Maybe I came here for a reason.

I don't know what it is about this church. If it's the history of the place, the hushed air making it feel sacred, even to those of us who are sinners. Or maybe this is simply where I happen to be at this moment. I don't understand any of it.

All I know is the wrenching sensation in my chest, and I pull in a long, deep breath. And as I let it go, I let myself begin to think about my life. How long am I going to blame everyone for what happened, including myself? How is blaming in any way constructive? I take responsibility for what I've done, the choices I've made. What more can I do? What more is necessary?

It's time to let that go.

This is what Lydia has been trying to tell me. And as I think this through, I feel some of the weight lifting from my body, a physical sensation of becoming lighter.

It hurts, this letting go, as much as hanging on to the old shit does. But what did I expect? This stuff that Lydia calls “archaic issues” has been with me my entire life, building and building as the experiences of my childhood stacked up, as I added to it by selling my body for sex. No matter how I convinced myself I was being of service to my clients. No matter how sympathetic I felt toward those like my blind Louis, like Zayed and his emasculating erection problems. It made me feel accomplished, somehow. But it was all bullshit. All a veil behind which I hid myself, like the glamour a witch puts on. Except that I've been seducing myself with that glamour as much as I have anyone else. I've needed to believe in it as much as they have.

Now I need to believe in something a lot more real. Why is that so damn difficult for me? But I have to figure it out.

The tears come then. Just a few, but I am horrified. I look around the church to see if anyone is watching. I don't know why I care; I don't know these people, this handful of tourists, an old Italian woman in a black head scarf praying in the front pew. They don't know me. But suddenly everything feels so damn important!

Sacred.

My blurred gaze goes back once more to the altar, to the woman in the front pew, her eyes on the bloody figure of Christ. She's passing a rosary through her hands, whispering, praying. I don't understand it. I've never had one moment of belief in God, in any sort of religion. I wish I had it, that faith. That kind of comfort.

I watch as she raises her face, kisses the cross on her rosary. Even in profile I can see the glow of hope there, the small smile on her lips. Beautiful.

A shiver runs through me.

Is it possible for me to feel that kind of hope, hope driven by nothing more than pure faith? I don't believe in God; I think that's asking too much from someone like me. But love? Can't I believe in love? How can I have a future without hope?

I think again, as I have so often lately, about those girls in the article. The woman who was helping them did more than give them shelter, clothing, teach them how to get through a job interview. She gave them hope.

Maybe I need to start by giving myself hope. And maybe I can do that by believing in love, by having at least that much faith in something.

I am filling up inside. It's scary and lovely all at once, sweet and painful. It is a physical sensation, and I am about to burst with it. It's too unfamiliar; I have to swallow it down. But it's there.

Faith. Love.

I don't know what to do now. If this small epiphany will make any difference after this moment. It feels almost too easy, as though it doesn't hurt enough.

But I've been hurting myself all these years, haven't I? And it's time to stop. Stop punishing myself. Stop punishing Joshua, who does not deserve it. The man loves me. Loves me! And I love him more than I ever thought possible. Maybe it really is that simple. Maybe the rest doesn't matter nearly as much as I thought it did.

I am dizzy with this idea. Breathless. Afraid.

I want to talk to Joshua, to tell him about all of these thoughts going through my head. To let him comfort me through this. But it's too soon.

I can't even contemplate how much I miss him.

The damn tears are clouding my eyes, until the colors of the church blend together, gold, white, and red, like a water-color painting of itself. Stubbornly, I blink them away. I have no patience for tears. I don't care how healthy it might be for me at this point. This is as much crying as I can stand.

Wiping my face on my sleeve gracelessly, I stand up and walk from the church, back onto the street. But I can't stop crying. Small, noiseless tears as I make my way down the street. I'm not even certain what I'm crying for. I don't feel so sad anymore, exactly. I feel … as though I'm flying without a net. That familiar comfort of knowing what my life is about. Even being free from some of my old baggage scares the hell out of me. The freedom itself is making me cry, maybe. Or maybe I'm just detoxing.

I walk for a long time, and the tears stop eventually. The afternoon sun breaks through the gray clouds, and I'm hot, hiding my swollen eyes behind my sunglasses, which isn't working very well, wiping my nose with a crumpled Kleenex I find in my purse.

Exhausted, I make it back to my hotel, stumble through the lobby, dig my key out of my purse, let myself into my room.

It feels stuffy after the outside air. Heavy. My body feels heavy, as though I am weighed down all over: my arms and legs, my stomach, my head.

I drop my purse on the floor, pull my clothes off, and sit on the side of the bed in my underwear with my cell phone in my hand.

God, I want to call him. Need to hear his voice.

Joshua.

But I'm not ready yet. I'm not done with what I came here for.

I shake my head, set the phone on the night table and get under the covers, curl up, and wish I'd thought to bring my gummi bears with me. But I don't really need them, do I? It's habit. I'm fine. I really am. For once.

I'm just tired, so tired. My hand smooths over the damask bedcover, my fingers stroking the satin edging. I feel… grateful. Dizzy with these new thoughts in my head, but in a good way. Soon, the emotional exhaustion of the day creeps over me, and I sleep.

IT'S LATE MORNING NOW and I am still red-eyed, my head full with too much sleep. I slept like the dead all night. Must have been twelve, thirteen hours. I am still jubilant, fearful, my pulse racing every time I think about yesterday, about faith, about love. I have just this one more thing to do.

I'm on my way to see Enzo. He called me an hour ago, told me where to meet him, at some small café on the Via de Fiore, a few blocks from the hotel.

He never suggested coming to my hotel room. He understands on some instinctive level why I can't do that.

I pass stranger after stranger, hidden behind my sunglasses, even though the sun is barely peeking through the clouds. It rained again early this morning and the streets are wet, shining in the diffused sunlight. It makes everything seem surreal. And I feel this momentary sense of total disconnection from everyone around me, as though I am not quite a part of the human race.

I realize how often I've felt like that. And just as suddenly, the feeling disappears as I understand how ridiculous it is. How self-indulgent of me. I am just as human as the rest of the people on this planet. Just as fallible.

Forgivable.

Another element to absorb. But later. After I've seen Enzo, spoken with him, heard his advice. I have been too much alone in my own head. I don't know any longer what to do with all of these new ideas, how to organize it all.

I see the green awning of the café from a distance, with the name in white lettering: La Dolce Vita. How perfect, when I am about to really begin my life.

And there he is, Enzo Alighieri. He is so elegant, with his thick silver hair and his neatly trimmed mustache, the way he dresses, the way he holds himself. Utterly Italian as he sits at the picturesque sidewalk café, leaning back in his chair in a perfectly relaxed pose, as though he knows he belongs there. He is confident, solid.

My heart lurches in my chest. I don't want to have this conversation with him. But I must. I owe him every good thing there's been in my life for the last ten years. And I need him. Need some sort of answer from him.

He smiles when he sees me, waves me over, stands to kiss me chastely on the cheek, holds a chair out for me and orders a coffee in rapid Italian.

We sit at the small, round, marble-topped table and simply stare at each other for a minute or two. Then he asks, “How are you, Valentine?”

“I'm good. Better than I've been for a very long time. Better than I've ever been, maybe. So much is happening to me.”

He nods, as though he understands what I mean without my having to explain.

The coffee comes, a small cappuccino, and I hold the cup in my hands, warming them. Enzo is quiet, waiting for me to speak.

“You're probably wondering what I'm doing here …”

“I have some idea, as I said yesterday. I know you've stopped working. And knowing you as I do, I understand something important must have happened to you.”

“I'm sorry to take you away from your vacation, Enzo.”

“No, no, it's fine. I was bored with all the socializing. The four-hour dinners and the wine we are expected to drink. I am getting too old for this sort of thing.”

“Never, Enzo.” I smile at him. “You know, you're one of the few people I've ever really trusted,” I tell him.

He nods his head. “This has been the nature of your life.”

I nod my head.

“But that is changing, is it not?”

I nod again, still smiling despite the fear of what might lie ahead.

He reaches out, covers my hand with his. That old buzz is still there. I am still attracted to this seventy-year-old man. He has been my mentor. My lover. My friend.

“Valentine, life is changeable. It is supposed to be this way.”

“My life was the same for ten years. And I liked that. I thought I did, anyway. But now … now everything is shifting and I'm not certain how to handle it. But at the same time, it's absolutely necessary.” I pause, look into his dark eyes. “I've met someone.”

Enzo is smiling at me, as though he is truly pleased for me. He nods for me to continue, and I do.

“This man … Joshua has come into my life at the right time. No matter what happens, this experience has changed me. And I needed to change. But now … I don't know what happens now.”

“What would you like to happen?”

“Do you mean in my little fantasy world in my head? Or in terms of what is actually possible?”

“Perhaps a little of both.”

I stop to bring the cappuccino to my lips, sip it, buying time to think, focusing for a few moments on the people passing by on the street. There is a young boy on a blue bicycle, a woman holding the hands of two small children. A couple with their arms twined around each other. They are absorbed in each other, rapt.

“I want… some small sense of normalcy. I want to believe it can happen. I want to do something real with my life. Something to do with art. Or maybe … maybe to be of some help to other girls going through this stuff. I have some ideas about that. Maybe I can find a way to blend the two. But that's still a way off. What I really want is … love. Just that.”

“Ah, yes. This is the crux of it, isn't it? Of life.”

“Yes. I realized that just yesterday. I mean, I really came to understand it. To believe it. But I still have some doubts. Questions. It's hard because I never had any sort of good example. What I saw of it as a kid was almost a farce. My mother's desperation. That wasn't love, even if she thought it was. I knew that even then. And so many of my clients all these years have been married … including you, Enzo. What does that say about love?” I look up to find his dark, intense gaze on me. I can't tell what he's thinking. “I'm sorry. I don't mean that as any kind of judgment. I'm the last person who would judge you. Who would judge anyone.”

“Valentine, there is something you must understand about me. Something I assumed you already knew. I believe very much in love. I am Italian, after all; I am a man of great passion. Great love. My wife, my mistress. You.”

“Enzo …” But I can't finish. My eyes fill with tears that won't quite come out.

He waves a hand. “My darling Valentine, do you think I would have spent all these years with you, taken you under my wing, if I didn't love you? In my own way, perhaps, yes. But love is love, regardless of the form it takes. And yes, I know, I am not excusing my own behavior. I am simply telling you how I feel. Love is as imperfect as we are. I have abused it, perhaps. Yet love itself remains as beautiful, as essential, as ever.”

“Enzo … How could you have … loved me? Me? How could you love someone who does what I do? Who you hire for sex?”

“Would I have had you any other way? Would you have paid attention to an old man if it weren't for the money?”

“God, you make it sound so shallow. Fuck. It was shallow.”

I really do want to cry now. But there have been enough tears. I need to stop the self-pity and pay attention.

“No, cara, it was never shallow. You always meant something to me. But we both know what the money was about for you. It wasn't the money itself that was important to you. It was what it symbolized. It was the sense of control it gave you. And you cannot blame yourself for that, or judge yourself. You are a good person, Valentine. And that is how I loved you, why I will always love you. That is why this man loves you. Why he should. Don't be so afraid of love that you turn away from it, Valentine. Don't be afraid that it cannot exist because of anything you might have done.”

I nod. It's becoming clearer to me. I don't know why I need Enzo to validate these things for me; I just do. Maybe because he has been the only person I've truly trusted for the last ten years. The only one in my whole life. Until now. Until Joshua.

“What do you need from me now, Valentine?” he asks quietly.

“You've already given me more than I expected. Everything you've done for me over the years. Talking with me today. Loving me.” I stop, smile at him. “I love him, Enzo,” I say, my voice so soft I can barely hear myself.

He nods, smiles a little, is quiet for several long moments while he sips his cappuccino. “I won't see you after this, Valentine,” he says.

I look at him, at his handsome, lined face. The sincerity and sadness in his dark eyes.

“No.” I smile at him once more, even as new tears fill my eyes.

He grasps my hand again, holds on, his fingers warming mine.

“Remember that I loved you, Valentine, if you remember nothing else.”

“I'll remember everything, Enzo, all you've done for me.”

“No. There is no need. I do what I want. I am a self-indulgent man; I know this. And all of that, it is not important. I think you understand now what is.” He pauses once more, sets his cup down on the saucer with a small clink. “Go to your young man, Valentine. Have a life. Have love.”

He stands, and I can hardly bear to see him go. Yet I can't wait another moment to call Joshua.

Enzo takes my hand, lifts it to his lips, and kisses it carefully, his lips warm and dry. Sweet. My heart is breaking, and so full at the same time!

“Be well, my Valentine.”

“Enzo. I'll miss you!”

He smiles, a real smile this time, even if the sadness lingers at the corners of his eyes. “No. No, you won't.”

I watch him walk away, two women turning to admire his elegant form as he strolls down the street as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

I pull my cell phone out of my purse with shaking hands.

Joshua.

I dial, wait the endless moments for the phone to make the international connection. My pulse is a hammer in my veins, threatening to break me.

Please answer …

“Joshua Spencer.”

My heart lurches at the sound of his voice, and it takes me a moment to find mine.

“Hello?”

“Joshua.”

“Valentine?”

“Joshua!”

And then I'm crying, so hard I can't speak. He'll be angry with me, I'm certain, and I can't blame him. Oh, God, what if he doesn't want me, after all I've put him through? After what I've finally discovered?

“Valentine, calm clown. What is it? Where are you? Are you okay? Talk to me.”

“Joshua … I have so much to tell you.”

“Then tell me.”

I can picture his face, his hazel eyes, his dark lashes. I can imagine the intensity of his beautiful features. I can't stand it that he's so far away.

“I'm so sorry, Joshua. That I had to go away. That I was so confused. I didn't mean to be melodramatic. But… I think … I think I understand now.”

“What do you understand, Valentine?” His voice is soft, uncertain.

“That I love you. I love you. That it's all that really matters.” The tears are coming so hard now, I can't see. It doesn't matter. All that matters is how I feel, Joshua's voice on the other end of the line. “God, I love you.”

“Valentine. God damn it.” I hear his voice break. “I need to be with you. I need to hold you.”

“Yes, I need all of that. I need you. I finally get it. I get that I need you, and that it's okay. I'm not so scared anymore. Because I finally believe it, Joshua. I believe in love. I believe I can have it, that it's real. That it means something. That it carries its own power. But, Joshua … what if I don't do it right?”

“There is no right way. That's one of the ideas you have to let go. There is no perfect relationship. There are no perfect people. We all just flounder around and hope everything turns out okay. I don't expect you to be perfect. I just expect you to be you, to be true to your feelings.”

“I think I finally can be. I think I've finally figured out a way to integrate all of those parts of myself we talked about. I know where to begin, anyway. I need to begin by trusting myself. Trusting how I feel about you. Trusting that love can get me through. Can get us through.”

“It was so damn hard to let you go, Valentine, but I knew I had to. That you really did have to figure some of this stuff out for yourself. Tell me what's happened. I need to know.”

I wipe the tears from my cheeks, take a deep breath. “I found … faith. In some ways, it's as simple as that. There's more, but that's the most crucial part. We can talk about the rest when I see you. I can't wait to see you. I want to love you, Joshua. I want to accept that you love me. And I do. I believe it.”

“Valentine …” His voice is gruff with emotion. I've hurt him so much.

“It's still hard. The old stuff hasn't entirely gone away. You've helped me so much, even though it's taken a while for me to absorb it all, and I know I'm not done yet. But I want to be with you while I do it. Is that…” I have to stop. I can hardly stand to ask him, to hear his answer. “Is it okay with you? Can we … Joshua …”

“Valentine, I love you. Come to me. We'll do this together. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Just come to me.”

“God, Joshua. I love you.”

“I love you, baby.”

How is it possible that I have this? That somehow I've come full circle, only to end in a better place than I started? But this is my new reality. Impossible. And yet, here it is. Love. The one intangible thing in my life. The one thing I've always yearned for, even if I never knew it.

He loves me. And I love him in a way that is so powerful, it makes anything possible.

“Joshua, I love you so much. And I need you. Not just anyone, not just an escape. But you?”

I know what I have to do. And I know what I want. And for the first time, these things are one and the same. I'm finally able to let the past go. To move beyond it. And to truly live. To truly love. To find myself, on my own and with this amazing man. His love for me, my love for him, redeems me as nothing else could.

For the first time in my life, I am no longer flying without a net.

“Come to me, Valentine. I can't wait.”

“I'm coming. I'm coming home.”