Free Matala by Craig Holden Page B

sense of excitement, of raw possibility, that she did not remember having felt for a long, long time, and she wanted to think about it some more, to contemplate it, to roll around in it. But then she slipped almost immediately into the deepest sleep she’d had in ages.
    December 15, 1987
    Locanda Apostoli
Venice, Italy
    Dear Whoever Daddy Has Sent After Me:
    Welcome to Venice! It’s a beautiful place. You should really take a little time out from your hot pursuit and walk around a bit, watch the sunlight coming off the canals, taste the wine, ride in a gondola. We saw the Bridge of Sighs this morning, early, before we had to check out, and it made me cry. You should go. And the Paolo San Marco. And, for a hoot, the American Café. But I know you won’t. You’re surely one of Daddy’s hard-ons-for-hire, an ex-cop, a private investigator, who knows what. A bounty hunter maybe! Anyway, I hope you’re having fun, but I’m sure you’re not.
    So, to business: If you’re reading this, you’ve caught up to me this far. I stayed in this very hotel for two nights. You’re here because you traced the credit card charges I made. Easy work. But don’t get used to that.
    You are, of course, at least a day late, maybe more, but you’re smart and probably mean, and Daddy has undoubtedly rented you a private jet and pilot, so you’ll think of something. In the meantime, here’s a little hint:
    Sit by the phone. Don’t move! You might miss me.
    Your new friend,
Darcy

The Balkans

Seven
    I COULD NOT SHAKE THE ODD dual emotions of trepidation and fascination that had wracked me since the scene in the diner the night before. In the Santa Lucia Station, Sunday evening, Justine sat apart from us and seemed to have collapsed into herself. She hardly spoke and did not eat or accept my offer of a cup of tea. Darcy was left in charge of finding the right train this time. It was as if Justine had abnegated all her powers to this girl and had taken to regarding me only at arm’s length, as she had when we were first together.
    In the very beginning, it had taken me a couple of days to make the decision to leave with her, although she’d allowed for that possibility the first night. During that time she stayed in a faded hotel in downtown Roanoke alone—that is, without inviting me up. She hugged me at the front door a couple of times but did not allow me so much as a peck on the cheek. After we took off and were sharing rooms, I guess I thought a more complete relationship would just naturally happen. How could it not? But of all things, she behaved demurely. She changed only in the bathroom. She slept either fully clothed or in a flannel neck-to-ankle nightgown that looked as old as she was. And she wouldn’t let us get drunk. After the first few days, I was coming to believe I’d taken on a den mother rather than a partner. I had no idea how to act toward her, how she wanted me to act, and whether things were to continue in this vein. Otherwise, she fascinated me. What she was teaching me was both thrilling and abhorrent, so it wasn’t like I was bored or anything. But I was attracted to her. Smitten. Crazy.
    So one night I got into her bed. I don’t know what I expected: that she’d get angry, kick me out not only of the bed but of her life, or she’d melt at my hot nearness and we’d fall into each other. But she did nothing. She just moved over to make room for me and went to sleep. And that was how we woke up. I didn’t bother the next night, but then the night after that, she got in with me. I tried to kiss her, and she just turned away without saying anything but letting me lie against her back.
    A week or so passed like this, and then a strange thing happened one morning. We woke up together in the same bed, as chaste as we had been, and as I lay looking at the ceiling, she raised herself on one arm and looked at me. And from that angle,