The Willing

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREEI SMILED BACK. SHE stepped forward and said, “Excuse me, but being late, I did not get your name.”

“It’s Warren. Warren Steelgrave. Please forgive me but I was so concentrating on the test I have forgotten yours.”

“My name is Cynthia O’Brian. Everyone calls me Cindy.”

“Good to meet you, Cindy. It looks like we are the only two Americans in the class. I was headed to get a little something to eat at a pizzeria around the corner at Piazza del Duomo. Would you like to join me?”

“Okay,” she said and off we went.

We arrived at the Caffé Duomo. There were tables on a platform that extended from the sidewalk out into the street from the curb about seven feet with a canopy covering for outside dining and views of the Basilica da Santa Maria del Fiore. Inside was a large bar on the right that extended almost to the back of the Caffé. It had about fifteen tables. We went inside and the Italian waiter intuitively seated us at a small table in the back of the restaurant where we could have some privacy. The restaurant was very nice.

“Please forgive me. I was so involved with the test I really did not get any of your introduction, Cindy.”

“Well, let me see. There is not a lot to tell. I was born in a small town: Alliance, Ohio. My parents were a product of the ’60s and divorced when I was young. I have a younger sister and my dad is a carpenter. I am married, have three boys and a passion for singing, songwriting, and Italian culture.”

“Where are you staying while in Florence?” I asked.

“I am staying at the Hotel Roma, just off Via dei Solo near the Basilica di Maria Novella.”

Cindy and I spent the next two hours talking about Italy, music, our children, and much more. I had never felt so close to anyone. It was as if I had known her for years and not hours. I had a good friend who believed in past lives. He said the reason some people have trouble connecting is because, in a past life, they lost their true love and soul mate. They spend their current life searching for them and are not truly happy until they find them again. I have never believed in past lives, soul mates, true love, or love at first sight. Today, if you asked me, I would have to say maybe to all of it.

For three weeks after, we went to Caffé Duomo after class and practiced Italian for an hour or so. During weekends, we spent time visiting museums. On warm nights, we would meet at the Piazzale Michelangelo and sit on the steps enjoying the live music, watching the sunset over the city. One Saturday, we lay on a blanket on the banks of the Arno watching the teams race with their racing shells. I was sure she felt the same connection and the same way I did. It was driving me crazy. She was married, with children. I would not break up a family but where was this going? What were her thoughts? I would lie in bed at night thinking of a way to tell her how I felt, but when we would meet, she would smile and that would turn my world upside down and I would become helpless. What was it about her that made me keep my feelings hidden? The next time I see her, I have to let her know how I feel, I thought.

The next day we had coffee and just before she had to leave I said, “I have to tell you how I feel,” and with great detail I described my love for her. Then I said, “I have to know if you feel the same toward me.”

She seemed surprised and answered, “I am happily married.” I was a little embarrassed. She had gotten up to leave, but came over and gave me a tight embrace and said, “Thank you for sharing that with me; it means a lot.” I was almost back at my apartment before I started to settle down and realized she never gave me an answer. “I am happily married” is not an answer. She didn’t say, “I do not feel the same way,” or as intensely—or a hundred more ways to say, “No, I do not feel the same way.”

What did I get wrong? I had always been spot on when it came to others’ feelings and internal thoughts. I would have bet my life she had made the same connection. I started doubting myself, my ability to read tells and body language. Should I trust myself or was I being played? That night, I started reading Francesco Petrarch’s sonnets and shorter poems. Maybe she was going to be my Laura, and in his sonnets I would find an understanding of this relationship and how to cope with unrequited love.

For the next week, everything was great. We would go to the Caffé Duomo after class as usual and to dinner almost every night. We talked at length about our difficult childhoods, etc. It was becoming apparent I was the one doing most of the talking and giving up most of the information. She would never let me pick her up at her apartment. We would always meet at a restaurant or at the Piazzale Michelangelo or a museum. I once tried to buy her a Ferragamo wallet and she refused. We never held hands and never kissed. We just hugged when we parted.

But what a hug! It would send me home on a cloud. I would convince myself she felt only a deep friendship toward me and then I would receive a text—a verse from a love song or an intimate poem—and, again, I would think, There is a real connection here. One day after class, I was at the Caffé Duomo having coffee and waiting for her. I was a little depressed because there was only two weeks of school left and the thought of not seeing her every day depressed me. I was trying to think of ways I could keep the connection after returning home, when she sat down. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“What?” I replied.

“With your hand,” she said.

“Oh, this?” I said, opening my hand to reveal a 1922 silver dollar. “Whenever I am troubled about something, I rub it between my thumb and finger. It has always given me a direction to take.”

“Really? Does it work?”

“Always,” I said. “It was given to me by the father of a good friend, many years ago. We were doing a project that was almost impossible to do. You have heard the phrase ‘bitten off more than one could chew?” Well, this was one of the many times I had done just that. I had everything tied up in that project and if I missed the completion date I would lose it all and be bankrupt.

My friend, Mike, said, ‘Let me call my dad. He is retired but if anyone can come and save this project it would be him.’ We called him. He came and saved the day. I had a dinner at the end of the project for everyone who had worked on the project so I could thank them.”

I paused, remembering.

“When we were done, Mike’s dad took me alongside and gave me this coin. He said. ‘It is magical. When you are in trouble or need an answer, just rub it and it will give you the answer you need.’ As you can see, the face is almost rubbed off. The next day, I took him to the airport. As I was telling him goodbye, the last thing he said to me was, ‘If ever the giver of the coin gets it back from the one he gave it to, it means the person is in too deep for the coin to help and the original giver has to do all they can to help.’ He got on the plane and went home. I never saw him again. The idea came to me just a minute ago that I would like to give it to you as a tie between us.”

She hesitated, then took it.