Free Gladly Beyond by Nichole van Page A

focus for longer than ten seconds was a lost cause. She was like a gerbil on meth.
    I would have to ask the Colonel himself about Grammy, if and when the right moment presented itself. And just hope his answer would make sense and feel normal without a trace of old-man-pervy.
    I refused to think about the situation being anything other than above board with the Colonel. Too much of my financial future rested on this job.
    Tourists swirled around me on the bridge. I looked up the Arno River toward Piazzale Michelangelo and the cathedral of San Miniato al Monte outlined against impossibly blue sky. My boyfriend-city had produced another stunning red-banner day.
    Suddenly, my neck prickled with that all-too-familiar feeling of being watched. I was so sick of the sensation.
    I casually turned in a circle, pretending to study the jewelry shops. No random old gypsy women. No top-hatted Regency bucks. Nothing unusual.
    My phone buzzed.
     
    I watched you as you slept last night. Tasted your lips. Never forget—you will be mine in the end.
     
    My heart rate soared, pulse a snare-drum in my ears.
    Ugh.
    Bloody hell.
    (I learned that little bit of language from my fifth nanny, Mrs. Evans-Sharp. Very British, very proper. Hired her by virtue of her cultured accent alone. She was Mary Poppins-esque until you crossed her. Then her south London roots made a dramatic appearance.)
    Stupid online bully. When would this end?
    I closed my eyes. Did my normal dose of self-help talk— breatheyoucandothiscourage. This online harasser only had the power to upset me if I let him.
    Pick up Fear and move on. I could hear Grammy say. Don’t let them win, darling. It should be your man tra. Ha!
    Notching my chin upward, I walked into the middle of the Ponte Vecchio and took a selfie. Me and the medieval bridge.
    More photos in memory of Grammy.
    I would live my life.
    With a determined smile, I left the Ponte Vecchio and headed down Via Calimala toward the Duomo, taking the occasional selfie.
    When I was fourteen, a distant cousin had left Grammy some money. My mom and JB were neck-deep in a project in Miami and done with my teenage angst. Grammy used the money to book a trip to Florence, taking me with her.
    Three months in Tuscany.
    My passion for Italian art was born in those months. I was born.
    Could any woman have given her grandchild a greater gift?
    I chewed my lip. Blink, blink, blink.
    We had stayed in a small pensione near Santa Croce, visiting museums, wearing holes in our shoes on the flagstone streets and expanding our waistlines with gelato.
    When I was with Grammy, I was . . . home. She had always faced hard things head on. I would too. Push worries aside. Engage in normal, everyday activities.
    To that end, I popped into a divine-smelling bakery and bought some bread. The sign called it schiacciata , though it looked like a thinner focaccia to me, finger-dimpled and slathered in olive oil. In passable English, the cute girl behind the counter said the bread was a Tuscan specialty. (Elena. Crushes on Johnny Depp. Loves Big Macs.)
    Tearing off pieces of the hot bread, I walked by the soaring arches of the Loggia del Mercato Nuovo—the new market, which was a paltry four hundred years old. Finishing up the bread, I tossed the oil-soaked paper in a nearby trashcan and brushed crumbs from my fingers (and my lips and my shirt and my jeans).
    Opposite the market, I paused to take a selfie with the lucky bronze pig, Il Porcellino. (Pietro Tacca. Baroque. Modern copy.) Like all good tourists, I dropped a coin in its mouth and rubbed its shiny snout for good luck.
    My shoulder-blades tingling the entire time with that feeling of being watched. Selfies and oil-soaked carbs could only push the fear back so far.
    I hated this. Hated that I couldn’t go anywhere without this paranoia lingering. Hated the stupid texter who was determined to frighten me.
    I kept going, walking into the giant Piazza della Republica and took another selfie.
    I would