Passionate Calanettis: Soldier, Hero...Husband?

“That would be a very foolish undertaking, I’m sure,” she said, a little stain that confirmed his suspicions moving up her cheeks. “It’s hard to find, the place where the boys swim. That’s all.”

“Yes, please, then, show it to me,” he heard himself saying, though he had no doubt he could find good places to swim all by himself. He didn’t want to hurt her pride. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

And so he found himself, with dawn smudging the air, painting the medieval skyline of Monte Calanetti in magnificence, walking down twisting streets not yet touched by the light beside Isabella to the river.

And enjoying the pink-painted splendor of the moment way more than he had a right to.

* * *

Isabella contemplated what moment of madness had made the words slip from her mouth that she would show Connor the way to the river. By getting up so early, she’d been trying to avoid him this morning.

Instead, she was walking through the still darkened streets of Monte Calanetti with him by her side.

And despite the pure madness that must have motivated her invitation, she would not have withdrawn it had she been given a chance. Because that moment, of unguarded impulse, had led to this one.

It was unexpectedly magical, the streets still dim, the brilliance of the dawn that was staining the sky above them not yet reaching into the cracks and crevices of the town. The occasional light was blinking on in the houses and businesses they passed.

Isabella was intensely aware of how it felt to have this man walk beside her. He was so big, his presence commanding. He had gone back up to his room for a moment, and when he came down he carried a small black bag and had a white towel strung around his neck.

He had a way of walking—shoulders back, stride long and confident and calm—that gave a sense that he owned the earth and he knew it. Isabella had never felt unsafe in Monte Calanetti, but she was aware, walking beside him, of feeling immensely protected.

“I can’t believe the light,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s part of what makes Tuscany famous, that quality of light. Artists throng here for that.”

“How would you say this in Italian?” he said, making a sweeping gesture that took in everything—the amazing light and the twisting streets, still in shadows, dawn beginning to paint the rooflines in gold.

She thought a moment. Wasn’t this exactly what she had longed to do and had decided was dangerous? The morning was too beautiful to fight with herself, to be petty about what she would and wouldn’t give. She would give him a few words, nothing more.

“In tutto il suo splendore,” Isabella said.

He repeated it, rolling the words off his tongue. Mixed with his drawl and the deepness of his voice, it was very charming.

“And the translation?” he asked her.

“In glory.”

“Ah,” he said. “Perfect.”

After that neither of them attempted conversation, but the quiet was comfortable between them as they moved down the narrow streets. It gave a sense of walking toward the light as they left the last of the buildings behind and followed the road past the neat row of vineyards that followed the undulating green of the hills.

“There it is,” she said, finally, pointing at the ribbon of river that had become visible up ahead of them. “When you come to the bridge, turn right and follow the river. You’ll see a tire suspended on a rope where the boys swim.”

“Thank you. Grazie.”

“You’re welcome.” She should have turned back toward the town, but she did not. She recognized a reluctance to leave the simple glory of this moment behind. He must have felt that, too.

“Come with me.” His voice was husky.

Come with him? Where?

“Swimming?” she asked. Her voice felt very squeaky. It felt as if he had asked something far graver. To tangle their lives together, to follow the thread of magic that had led them through the town in the enchanted light of early morning.

When he said nothing, she rushed to fill the silence. “I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know how to swim. The water will be cold. I—I—I don’t have proper bathing wear.”

“Don’t come this far and not at least put your feet in the water.”

It felt as if he was saying something else altogether. He was inviting her to wake up instead of sleeping. He was inviting her to really live instead of going through the motions of living.

“I have to tell you a little secret,” she confessed. “I’ve never learned to swim because I am a little bit afraid of the water.”

“All the more reason to say yes instead of no,” he said.

It occurred to her Connor Benson was that kind of man. Being with him would challenge you to be more than you had been before. She had always been perfectly content with who she was before!

“Maybe another time,” she said uneasily.

“Putting your feet in the water is the first step to swimming, to overcoming that fear.”

“It’s not as if it’s a crippling fear—it’s not as if it changes my life,” she said defensively, already sorry she’d confided in him that she was afraid.

“Fear can be a gift,” he said, his voice calm and low. “It can show you that you are in very real danger. But an irrational fear can change your life in ways you don’t even understand. If you give in to it, it can expand. So, one day you’re afraid of swimming, the next you’re afraid of everything.”

Did he see her as afraid of everything? And how much truth was there in that? She looked at the safe little world she had created for herself. Maybe, even if it was annoying, maybe he was right. She needed to stretch just a tiny bit out of her comfort zone.

What would it hurt to get her feet wet?

“All right,” she whispered, and was rewarded with a tentative smile. The smile put the dawn to shame and warned her exploring new territories and experiences was always going to be fraught with hidden dangers.

That’s why she had chosen life as a schoolteacher in a small town. Her choices had given her a life with a reassuring sameness to everything that made her feel safe and secure.

Though in this amazing dawn, she saw things in a new and less flattering light. Had she allowed herself to become utterly boring? Apparently. Apparently she had become the kind of woman who you could tell in a single glance was a schoolteacher.

They came to the bridge and stood on it for a moment. The water was flowing underneath it like liquid gold, stained by the rising sun. They stood there in silence, watching morning mist rise off the vineyards all around them.

“Everyone should know how to swim,” he said sternly, as if he was deliberately moving away from the magic of the shared moment, as if he was making sure she was not mistaken about his motivations in asking her to join him.

“Really? Why?”

He frowned at her, as if the question was too silly to deserve an answer.

“Most of the world’s population, including you, lives near some sort of body of water. You could be in a boat that capsizes. You could fall in.”

“I suppose,” she agreed, but looking at him, she recognized what was at his very core. He protected people. It was more than evident that was his vocation and his calling. His shoulders were huge and broad, but broad enough to carry the weight of the whole world?

He broke her gaze, as if he knew she had seen something of him that he did not want her to see. Connor moved off the bridge and found a path worn deep by the feet of hundreds of hot little boys over many, many years.

The path was steep in places, and her footwear—a pair of flimsy sandals, fine for town—was not very good for scrambling over rocks.