Page 10 of Tempted Hearts
“I’m going with you,” I said, coiling the rope the way my dad had taught me… tight, even, no slack. No point in him having to trek halfway across the world alone. In his current state, Parker was more likely to get stranded too than to successfully rescue Delaney.
“No way,” he said, his fingers flying across his phone as he texted. “Can’t ask you do to that.”
So he was going.
Figured.
“You didn’t ask. What the hell else do I have to do?” I asked, stowing the rods.
“Knowing you, plenty. You’ve probably got a paper to revise, or a grant to chase down before someone else does.”
He knew me well. “I don’t have anything pressing. Besides, Pia threatened to recruit me to fix her inventory system by color-coding wine bottles by variety.”
Parker’s smile was grateful, but worry was etched all over him.
“I’m going,” I said, firmly enough that he wouldn’t argue. “What’s the plan?”
As we rowed back to shore, Parker explained that he told Delaney to get some sleep and stay put, that he was taking the first flight over. In the meantime, we had some work to do.
“They’ll need an appointment for emergency passport replacement. Find out where the closest consulate is to Cinque Terre. Florence, maybe? If not, Milan I’d guess. Then ask both of them if they have any copies of their passport or driver’s license anywhere. If not, we’ll have to call the state department. Thankfully it’s early enough to get it done. What’s time’s our flight?”
Parker just looked at me, blankly.
“How the hell do you know all this?”
“Long story. I see you on Google Flights over there. What time’s the flight?”
“Think we can make a five o’clock from Rochester? There’s one with a connection in Zurich that will get us to Pisa by 10:30a.m. their time. Delaney said that’s the closest airport to them. From there it’s a short train ride. She’s sending all of the details.”
I looked at the time. “We’ll need to be there by two. Leave here by eleven thirty if we want a chance to clear security. I assume you don’t have pre-check?”
He looked at me like I had two heads. “Are you serious?”
Sighing, I wondered what Delaney saw in this neanderthal. “Your fiancée likes to travel. You really should get it.”
“Are we really gonna debate that now?”
And that was how I found myself in Juliette’s house, looking for her old driver’s license.
She lived in an old Victorian a few blocks off the square. Two rocking chairs and hanging plants, not to mention the bright blue color of her house, made me think of a particular block in Algiers Point. Too many people visited New Orleans without leaving the French Quarter, but just a quick ferry ride across the river, houses similar to these lined the streets. Punching in the code Delaney had given Parker, I stepped inside, forgetting the license to the smell of something faintly laundry detergent and cinnamon. A faded bandanna lay folded on a stack of notebooks on a hall table. Next to it, a silver bracelet that was probably handmade by Delaney.
I glanced at the sofa and fuzzy throw haphazardly draped on it. Why she’d need a throw blanket in the middle of summer, I wasn’t sure, but it was clearly recently used. Her fireplace mantle caught my eye. It was hand-carved, beautiful work actually. Knowing I didn’t have a ton of time to waste, I wandered over to it anyway. There were only a few pictures, all of Juliette on some sort of vacation. I stared at the one in the middle. An older version of her, her mom apparently, with a pepper-haired man on the other side of Juliette. All three of them stood in what looked like San Antonio—I’d been there myself less than two years ago—smiling in a way my family had never done.
Not that I could remember, anyway.
Her eyes seemed to look straight at me. Through me even. It was hard to tell from the picture but I knew they were hazel, more green than blue.
Beautiful. But like her house, chaotic. Shaking my head, I headed toward the stairs wondering what she had against matching furniture.
Supposedly her old license, the only thing Juliette could think of to use since she had no copies of her license or passport, was in a drawer next to her nightstand.
Holy shit.
Inside the first door on the left, her bedroom, the scene was even more shocking than downstairs. The bed was a tumble of colors and patterns that had no business working together, but did anyway. A scarf hung from the bedpost, like an unfulfilled promise. A chipped mug sat beside a half-read book and a picture on the mirror caught her mid-laugh, eyes bright and wild.
It was loud. Messy. Alive.
Everything I wasn’t.
