Their food arrived and both he and Francesca seemed to realize how hungry they were at the same time. The lunch lasted through another carafe of water and a bottle of wine, the conversation between them light and easy once more. He told her information about the city—not specific memories, he still couldn’t grasp that—but facts that came to him so readily it was if he’d read them off a placard somewhere. He tried to recall if he’d done exactly that, perhaps on the day-long boat ride to Asteri Island or while he was there.
He hadn’t though. And the reason why was—there’d been no information available either on the yacht or the island. No magazines, no tourist brochures, no newspapers.
“What’s wrong?” Francesca asked, and when he realized she was watching him again, her brows drawn together. “What are you thinking?”
“I—it’s nothing,” he said. “But I haven’t seen a newspaper or website or television…” he laughed. “In over a year. An entire world is going on around me, and I don’t know the first thing about it. I would have thought…” he shook his head. “I would have thought I’d have seensomething.”
She nodded, but her expression remained tight. “I suspect the doctors didn’t want you to be overwhelmed. Perhaps that’s all it is?”
Something in her tone seemed off, but he knew no good could come of pursuing this path. Later, maybe when she was asleep, he would find a newspaper or a bar with a working television. Anything he learned would be worthwhile.
Nevertheless, a small, contrary part of him was willing to put off the inevitable end to his ignorance for a few hours longer. He didn’t want to see Francesca worried, he wanted to see her relaxed. If that meant avoiding the news for a few hours more, it was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make.
Instead he could focus on her.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find a place to hide for a while.”
As he’d suspected, her entire face eased, her tension flowing away in a wave of relief. “I’d like that,” she nodded as they stood. “There’s got to be someplace near here that will work—not too fancy, but safe. Private. Not too close to the marina.”
“That sounds exactly perfect,” he said, and reached for her.
When she put her hand in his, it felt like coming home.
8
Fran kept her fingers entwined with Ari’s the whole way up the three flights of stairs from the tiny front lobby of the hotel. She’d been in far worse accommodations, to be sure. And given that Ari had lived in a cage for the past year, she figured no matter what the room above held, he’d not complain.
More importantly, the hotel fit her needs for keeping Ari out of sight until nightfall. Little more than a half mile from where they’d hidden away in the Garronois café, the hotel was on a quiet back street off the tourist district but in a very respectable part of town—and the street was a curved one that didn’t dump into a courtyard. There would be no long sightlines for watchers to observe them.
There was also a back entrance.
They’d stopped and bought clothing and bathroom supplies—as well as more food and wine—at a series of small shops along the way, though neither of them was hungry at this point. To all the world they looked like a couple out for a lazy afternoon walk, she thought. She didn’t think Ari took such walks very often. He exclaimed too much over too many details, and never with a wince of pain. He was discovering his city as an outsider would, and his delight knew no bounds. Everything was beautiful and charming or majestic and impressive, and she got the feeling that she could pick up a dusty stone and he’d declare it his kin. He so clearly belonged here—in this city, this country. Surely it was only a matter of time before his mind breached the fences keeping him from all his memories.
Ari chuckled as he fit the long key into the door. “I don’t think the desk man believed we were simply exhausted from a day at the beach.”
“Good. We’ll not stand out then,” Fran said, still focused on the logistics of getting one of the most famous men in the city out of sight. When the door opened inward on the room, however, she pulled up short.
“What’s wrong?” Ari asked, stepping in beside her.
“Nothing—nothing.” She stared, startled to the point of not saying anything more. The room was…well, it was something out of a fairy tale. And she’d stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.
It was rudimentary, yes—a swept wooden floor with a bright red rug, iron bed with bleached white covers, gray walls with white trim. The bathroom was down the hallway, but there was small table with a carafe of water and two glasses beside the main window which was tall and standing open, looking out over the street.
“Hardly roughing it,” Ari observed wryly, and Fran laughed, pivoting around the tiny space.
“It’s perfect,” she said, beaming up at him. “Exactly right. We can stay here for hours and no one will see.”
“Good,” Ari said. He held up the bag containing their food. “Hungry?”
“Not even remotely.”
“Then wine it is.” She followed him to the table as with quick, efficient movements he laid everything out. The water cups were immediately transformed into wine glasses, and he poured two generous servings, then offered a glass to Fran.
She accepted it, suddenly a little shy, as he held up his glass. “Thank you, Francesca,” he said, and there was that tone in his voice again that kept making her nervous.
“For what?”
“For this room, for this day. For you.”
