Page 65 of The Unraveling of Julia

“What is it about love that inspires legends, opera, books, poetry, and the greatest music in the world? It just can’t only be earthly, like between two people in bed. It’s because the emotion is bigger, and higher, than earth itself.” Gianluca spread his arms. “Love connects us to the divine. We talk about soul mates, but I believe it, literally, and everything has a soul. That’s why everything is connected, heaven and earth, all of us.”

Julia felt it strike a chord. “That’s what I like about astrology. The connection, to everything.”

“I get that. Julian of Norwich held a hazelnut, saying, ‘It is all that is made,’ meaning the entire world.” Gianluca put up a hand. “Sorry, end of lecture, again. Want a gelato before I take you home? I know a great place.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to take me home.”

“Why not?” Gianluca signaled to the waiter for the check. “Is Piero coming?”

“No, I drove myself in Rossi’s Ferrari.”

“What?” Gianluca asked, his eyes popping.

Night had fallen, and the sky shimmered like a Raphael-blue cupola of tiny lights. The air had a warm softness, wafting off the Arno witha pleasantly briny odor. Julia finished an icy chocolate gelato as she walked with Gianluca along the riverbank. Lovers, families, and tourists strolled the promenade, but it wasn’t that big a crowd, and she let her guard down, thanks to the wine and something else. She felt safe with him.

Gianluca finished his waffle cone. “We’re going to the next bridge down. I want to show you something.”

“Great.”

Gianluca looked over, his dark eyes flashing with amusement. “You know, my staff is abuzz about the woman I stole books for.”

Julia laughed. “Oh no! How long can I keep them?”

“As long as you need. I run the interlibrary loan cartel.” Gianluca checked his phone. “Here we go. Look.”

Julia leaned over to Gianluca’s phone, showing a painting of a man in a red cap and a black robe, walking on a bridge over the Arno and meeting three women at the corner. The woman in the center was tall with dark blond hair, wearing a flowing white dress. “I should know this painting, but I don’t.”

“This isDante and Beatriceby Henry Holiday, painted in 1884. I know it because Florentines are raised on Dante. It’s the first time Dante sees his beloved Beatrice.” Gianluca stopped walking. “See, they’re meeting on this spot?”

“Really?” Julia looked around, astounded. They were standing on the same corner as in the painting. “Thisis where Dante fell in love with Beatrice?”

“Exactly.” Gianluca smiled. “We’re on the Ponte Santa Trinità. He and Beatrice were fourteen years old, and it was love at first sight. Florence is the city of love at first sight.”

Julia smiled. “That’s a love story.”

“It’sthelove story. Dante loved her his whole life and when he wroteParadiso, he named her as the Angel that leads him to heaven. It’s what I was saying at dinner, about love being divine. Maybe that’s what love at first sight is, two souls recognizing each other.” Gianluca smiled. “I believe it because it happened to me. I felt it the moment I saw you. I’m falling in love with you.”

Aw.Julia didn’t know what to say. A warm rush of happiness suffused her, filling her heart, but her next thought was of Mike.

“I know you’re in mourning, I understand that.” Gianluca gazed at her softly. “But do you think you could ever have feelings for me? I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Suddenly a large group of men surged toward them, all wearing the same blue hoodies as the man who’d killed Mike, like a nightmare army.

Julia’s heart began to thunder. Tears of fright sprang to her eyes. She was back in Philly, reliving Mike’s murder. The hoodie. The knife. The blood spurting from his chest. She edged backward, trying to get away.

“What’s the matter?” Gianluca grabbed her as the men surrounded them, swarming the bridge, drunkenly jostling them. He held her until they passed, searching her face in bewilderment. “Julia, what’s happening?”

“Those men—” Julia’s heart pounded so hard she thought it was a heart attack. She felt dizzy, even faint.

“Let’s get out of here,” Gianluca said, taking her away.

37

I’m sorry,” Julia said, embarrassed. She sipped a glass of ice water, recovering her composure on Gianluca’s black leather couch. His living room was lined with books and framed sketches, and its walls were a dark red. Tensor lamps on the end tables were matte black, creating a darkly dramatic interior. Two windows overlooked the Florentine night.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Gianluca sat on an ottoman opposite her, concerned. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks,” Julia answered, though it was only partly true. “I guess I had a panic attack.”

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