My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 6

  Ah. The important associate. I don’t know if it’s customary to shake hands, curtsy, or what, so instead I do a little head bob. “Lovely to meet you both.”

  Light-blue eyes the color of blown glass shine back at me. “The pleasure is all mine, Signorina D’Angeli,” Niccolo says, wrapping his warm hand around mine. He squeezes my fingers, and a slow smile steals across his face.

  Antonia’s sneer grows into a full-fledged, hostile glare.

  Well, that’s awesome.

  I take my hand back and look from one to the other, then to my uncle for some kind of help. What did I do this time?

  Thankfully, Antonia’s mom picks that exact moment to herd us into the dining room. I pull Alessandra aside and slow her stride, allowing the rest of our group to walk ahead of us. “Okay, what is Antonia’s deal? Seriously, that girl looked like she wanted to toss me out on my ass.”

  Alessandra sighs. “I told you she was a wretch.”

  I follow her into the spacious dining room and nod. “Yes, you did. And I shall never doubt you again.”

  Keeping my head down to avoid any other awkward encounters, I find my way to my seat and ponder this latest development. Antonia is definitely the concept of mean girl personified, but something tells me her contempt for me is more personal than that.

  I sit down, distracted by my thoughts, and study the candied fruit on my plate. When I eventually lift my eyes, they run right smack into Lorenzo’s chocolate ones.

  “I did say we would meet again, though I must confess, I did not think it would be this soon.” He rests his elbows on the table and leans closer, his player grin twitching the corners of his lips. “But I will be sure to remember this fortuitous moment in my prayers.”

  The boy is good; I’ll give him that. But I can stay strong in the face of such delicious temptation. The only reason he’s even acknowledging my existence is because I’m fresh meat and didn’t fall all over myself at the piazza earlier. He’s just like every other guy out there, intrigued by a challenge. But this is one he won’t conquer. I’m from the twenty-first century; I’m smart enough not to fall for his Renaissance game.

  I nod politely, refusing to engage in the flirtatious repartee. Musicians carrying strangely shaped guitars enter the room and begin serenading us. I watch as they encircle our table, fully aware that Lorenzo is watching me. Of their own accord, my eyes dart back to him. His eyes, glowing in the table’s candlelight, dip to the neckline of my surcoat and leisurely work their way up my neck to meet mine. He winks, and my breath catches.

  Traitorous hormones.

  A servant reaches over to place a cup on the table in front of me, and I grab it from her hands, tossing back the liquid to wet my parched throat.

  And immediately begin choking.

  With a shaking hand, I try to put the cup down and end up spilling wine all over myself. The minstrels stop playing. I catch Lorenzo’s concerned gaze and nearly die of embarrassment. Well, that and lack of oxygen. My eyes water from the burning inside my nose, and I struggle to stop sputtering. My throat aches. I pound on my chest and glance around to see all eyes focused on me.

  My uncle was right—I am the star tonight. The evening’s real entertainment.

  With hot tears running down my face from choking, I manage to rake in a ragged breath. And another. I cough again and then breathe deeply, my head hanging low like a rag doll. I exhale in shaky bursts and look up to offer my audience a wan smile.

  Alessandra puts her hand on mine. “Cousin, are you ill?”

  I dab at my soaked surcoat as a servant refills my cup and laugh halfheartedly. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. The wine just went down wrong, that’s all.”

  Shaking my head weakly, I focus my gaze on my lap, waiting for conversations to continue and everyone to forget this ever happened.

  From the other end of the table, Antonia asks, “Is our refreshment not to your liking?” My head snaps up at her scathing tone. She smiles condescendingly, then turns toward the other guests. “Perhaps our newest Florentine prefers London wine to our own.”

  I hear Alessandra’s sharp intake of air and feel my own blood boil. Who does this chick think she is? Everyone seems poised for my response. Lorenzo nudges my foot under the table. My aunt looks over Alessandra’s head, an unspoken plea in her eyes. Uncle Marco’s head is down, looking at his plate.

  And Niccolo, my uncle’s important associate, is right beside him, focused on our exchange.

  Great.

  It’s not too late to salvage this. I count to five and clear my throat. “No, Antonia, I assure you the local wine is delightful. I just expected water in my cup and took too big of a sip. My apologies for disrupting the meal.”

  Feeling the weight of everyone’s stares, I grab a pear slice and sit up tall. Even though I hate myself for doing it, I look at Lorenzo, needing to feel some type of assurance. His eyes narrow slightly in question, but the smile that breaks across his face seems genuine. My insides warm.

  And then Antonia opens her mouth again.

  “Water?” she asks, her shrieking voice like nails on a chalkboard. “Are you insinuating we are trying to harm our friends and guests? Do you dare insult the Stefani family at our own table?”

  Say what?

  My head jerks back as if she slapped me, and I look at Lorenzo with wide eyes. His nostrils flare, and his lips draw together in a tight line.

  “Antonia, do you dare insult a guest at your own table?” he asks in a commanding voice. “Perhaps I am mistaken, but I did not hear Signorina Patience imply any devious actions at all. She simply misunderstood. And perhaps London water is safer than our own here in Florence. Are you insinuating you know more about her homeland than she does?”

  Oh, snap!

  That shuts her up. Antonia’s mouth puckers, and she shoots me a look of disgust. After a beat, the minstrels start playing a lively tune, perhaps to cover up the palpable tension at the table, and I give Lorenzo a grateful smile.

  I can’t believe he just did that. Along with his Romeo persona, he must just have a thing for saving damsels in distress. It would totally fit with the whole fairy-tale hero vibe he tries to project.

  The glacier-like woman from the piazza leans in and whispers something in his ear, and just as before, the light and joy he seemed to radiate completely go out. He nods once, stiffly, then starts eating, keeping his head down. The woman turns her attention to me, aiming a lethal stare from across the table, and I throw my head against the back of the wooden chair.

  If looks could kill, I’d be a barbecued pineapple.

  …

  By some miracle, I make it through dinner, and now I’m just waiting for the blessed words, “It’s time to go home.” All I want to do is take off my damp dress, curl up in bed, and try not to replay my fantabulous choking exhibition over and over.

  Standing to the side of the room, I watch Uncle Marco say his good-byes to Niccolo. They both glance in my direction, and I clench my fists. All I can do is hope I didn’t completely ruin their business arrangement.

  Aunt Francesca sidles up to me and laces her arm around mine. “I am proud of you.”

  I turn to her, shaking my head. “Proud of what? My ability to cause a scene and spaz out with nothing more than a cup of wine and my sparkling wit? You’re right, I am quite talented.”

  A peal of laughter erupts from her throat before she catches herself. Her eyes dart around the crowd, and she tightens her mouth to hide her smile. “You have such a wondrously strange vocabulary, Patience, but you amuse me greatly.” She hugs me closer and presses a light kiss on my cheek. “I am so glad you have come to join us. Our lives will be richer and merrier because of it.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I blink. “I’m glad I’m here, too,” I say, meeting her gaze for a moment before looking down at the ground. It’s strange, feeling completely accepted, especially after such an embarrassing performance. What’s even stranger is having these words of affection come from my mo
ther’s doppelgänger.

  My aunt starts walking, and I fall in step beside her, our arms still linked. “What I meant,” she says, “was that I am proud of you for controlling your tongue. It is not easy in the face of such antagonism.”

  First the mushy words and now a compliment. I literally don’t know what to do with myself. Alessandra joins us, taking her place on my other side, and we walk out of the dining room, our skirts swishing in unison.

  “Tonight’s party was the most interesting one I have ever attended, cousin.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “And witnessing Lorenzo put Antonia in her place was a rare treat indeed.”

  “Yeah, it’s a shame the night’s over. I had a whole second act planned. Maybe next time, right?”

  “Over?” Alessandra asks with a quick look to her mom. “Are we not staying for the music and entertainment?”

  “Of course we are, Daughter. A guest should not leave until dismissed by the host or has a pressing engagement like Signor di Rialto. Unless Patience truly is ill?” She turns to me, concern flashing in her eyes.

  It’s so tempting to lie. If I say I’m sick, this horrid night can end. The D’Angeli clan will pack themselves into the carriage and head on home, and I can safely avoid any additional embarrassment. But I don’t want to lie to them. They’ve been nothing but nice, especially the two worried women standing on either side of me. They don’t deserve that.

  Plus, if I were really being honest with myself, I wouldn’t mind hanging around with Lorenzo a little longer. On a strictly platonic level, of course. He did defend me, after all.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say, forcing a fake smile onto my face. “I can’t wait to see what else they have planned.”

  We follow the group into the Grand Sala, a room boasting several carved dark wood chairs and a harpsichord. I recognize it from the movie Amadeus. Instinctively, I start searching for Lorenzo and find him near the roaring fireplace, talking with Cipriano.

  But his gaze is connected with mine.

  I take a faltering step and trip, and a slow smile crosses his face. Alessandra grabs my arm, pulling me forward.

  “You can deny your feelings all you like, dear cousin, but you cannot fool me. We are blood relations, and I can decipher your thoughts as if they were my own.” She smiles wickedly and lifts her eyebrow, daring me to deny my interest. “Come, let us join the gentlemen, shall we?”

  I attempt to calm the fluttering in my stomach as we walk across the room. Lorenzo bites his lower lip and lazily watches us approach, which only makes the butterflies go more berserk. I sigh. Cipriano looks back and shakes his head.

  “Cousin, you are making it impossible to hold a conversation with my friend. I fear you have completely bewitched him.” He grins and playfully punches Lorenzo on the shoulder.

  Determined to get a hold of the situation, I throw my shoulders back and smirk. “Maybe it’s just that your conversational skills are lacking, dear cousin.”

  Both boys stare at me for a moment and then break into raucous laughter, eliciting a round of disapproving glares. Alessandra’s mouth drops, and she turns to me. “You must teach me to speak with such a cunning tongue. Clearly you have a gift.”

  I smile, imagining sweet Alessandra tossing out verbal barbs. “It takes a lifetime of practice.”

  A dinging of crystal causes the crowd to quiet, and I look to the front of the room where Signora Stefani and Antonia stand.

  “Friends and guests, we are grateful for your presence this evening. My own Antonia has agreed to begin this night’s entertainment. And,” she says, casting her eyes at our small group, instantly making me nervous, “it is our shared hope that the younger Signor Cappelli will grace us with his accompaniment.”

  Lorenzo’s lips twitch as he tries to hide a confident grin. He glances at me and nods. “It would be my pleasure, Signora Stefani.”

  He walks to the front of the room, passing close enough behind me to slide his fingers along the back of my hand, and tingles shoot up my arm from the simple touch. The crowd claps politely as Alessandra and Cipriano lead me to the empty seats near my aunt and uncle.

  And I try not to hyperventilate.

  It’s not that a guy’s never touched me before. I held hands in junior high—back when that was the epitome of hooking up—and even slow danced at school dances.

  It’s just that no one’s ever made my pulse rate go all supernova.

  I put my hand over my heart, trying to calm its erratic beat, as Lorenzo places his on the wooden keys of the harpsichord. Antonia leans in close and whispers in his ear, and a pang of jealousy hits my stomach. Then the music begins.

  Despite my disdain for the girl, I have to admit she knows how to work a room. She stands before us, completely in the spotlight—well, so to speak—and seems to thrive. She oozes self-confidence and doesn’t appear to be afraid of anything. Her singing is flawless. The two of them perform together as if they’ve done it a million times, and while I’m envious of their obvious connection, I’m also extremely happy it’s not me up there.

  At the end of the song, Lorenzo stands, bows to Antonia, and then leads the applause for her. With reluctance, I join in with the rest of the crowd, lightly tapping my fingers together. But when she smiles and turns to acknowledge Lorenzo, I shoot to my feet. I whoop and even break out with a whistle.

  Then I realize everyone is staring at me. Again.

  “They certainly are lively with their admiration in London,” Antonia says with a smirk, and I fight the intense urge to wipe it off her face. “Perhaps they are equally so in their performance.”

  She pauses, and I get the tunnel-vision sensation of a camera zooming in as the villain lowers the boom.

  “Patience, will you do us the honor of singing next?”

  The evil glint in her eye tells me she knows exactly how this is going to go down. I look to my aunt’s and uncle’s delighted faces, realizing from the reading I’ve done that it’s an honor even to be asked. Girls in the past loved displaying their talents for large crowds, but there’s one small problem. I can’t sing.

  I’m always reading books about girls who are terrified of singing and supposedly can’t do it at all but then end up stealing the show. That’s not gonna happen here. I have a voice made for silent musicals. It’s not pretty.

  I look to Alessandra and then my aunt, begging them with my eyes to get me out of this, but they just smile encouragingly. Alessandra gives me a not-so-gentle push, and then I’m standing in front of the room. Awaiting my latest failure.

  Lorenzo places his fingers on my elbow, but even the zing of electricity isn’t enough to distract me. He leans in, and his curls tickle my nose. “What shall I play for you?”

  I snort. I don’t know any classical music, especially not any with words. I could attempt opera, but that would just break the lovely crystal and glass the Stefanis have going on in the room. I’m gonna have to wing this.

  “To be honest, Lorenzo, I don’t know any Italian songs. Maybe I should just sing by myself.” At least that way he’ll be spared from association with this suckfest. “Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat?”

  I beam at him, pulling out the smile I’ve perfected for the paparazzi, and then turn around and freak out at the wall. What on earth can I possibly sing? Something tells me they won’t appreciate Lady Gaga, and My Chemical Romance could potentially get me thrown outside the city gates. It has to be slow, calm, and non-future-like.

  Then it hits me. Last year, Dad took me to a production of Les Misérables, and I fell in love with the whole story. Around the middle of the play, the character Eponine sings a haunting song, “On My Own,” which I downloaded as soon as I got home. It’s raw and beautiful and sounds old. The story is even set sometime in the past. Although it’ll be in English, and the audience probably won’t understand a single word, it’s my best shot.

  I turn back to them and scan their confused faces. Lorenzo smiles, and I quickly look to my aunt. There’s no way
I can watch him while I do this.

  Someone coughs impatiently, and I realize I can’t delay the inevitable any longer. With spaghetti legs, I take a breath and open my mouth. The first line tumbles out barely above a whisper.

  Alessandra squints. Louder, she mouths to me.

  I nod, raise my voice, and completely overcompensate. The next note is so shrill and loud it even startles me. I wince, and so does she.

  My heart is hammering so loudly in my ears that I can’t even hear my own singing. I fight the urge to run from the room, knowing—as hard as it is to imagine—that will shame my family even more than this horrendous performance.

  Eventually, after struggling with a few more notes and sliding up and down the entire vocal scale, I manage to find a middle ground. But it still isn’t pretty. Glass doesn’t break, and the guests don’t go running out screaming into the night, but their pinched faces and the laughter shining in Antonia’s eyes lets me know it truly is as bad as it sounds to my own ears.

  I can’t even force myself to look at my uncle. Thank the stars Niccolo left before this disaster. Whatever business arrangement they had would’ve been as tattered as my pride right now.

  Alessandra smiles in solidarity, and I want to kiss her. I stumble on a lyric, close my eyes, and try to find a happy place.

  Why can’t the gypsy magic send me back right now?

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the song ends. I sigh in relief, taking a moment to enjoy the silence, and start preparing for the judgment. With head held high and shoulders back, I attempt to look confidently out into the audience.

  You could hear a pin drop.

  Slowly the applause begins. It is way less enthusiastic than Antonia’s, but I know I don’t deserve even this meager effort. Somehow the lack of obvious ridicule only deflates my false confidence, and with tears pricking my eyes, I lower my head and rush back to my seat. I brush past Lorenzo, refusing to meet his gaze. I’m sure whatever interest he had in me has been squashed like a bug.