Gabriel’s eyes flew open. In absolute horror he looked down into a pair of laughing blue eyes.
Paulina was naked and crouched over him, smiling triumphantly as she held him close to her mouth. Gabriel recoiled, cursing and crowding backward against the headboard while she sat on her heels, watching him.
She laughed and pointed to his nose, indicating that he should wipe the traces of cocaine from his nostrils.
What have I done?
He scrubbed his face roughly with both hands. As the enormity of his depravity sunk in, he retched, dry heaving over the side of the bed. When he came to himself, he held out his left hand to show her his ring—but there was none.
The wedding ring was gone.
Paulina laughed again and began crawling toward him, eyes feral, her naked body brushing against his own.
Chapter 35
Gabriel struggled and flailed before jolting awake. He tore at the bedclothes, earnestly looking for any sign of her. But there was none.
He was alone in a dark hotel room. He’d extinguished the lights before retiring, which was his first mistake. Neglecting to place the framed photograph on his nightstand was his second, for it served as a talisman against the darkness.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his face in his hands. Enduring rehab all those years ago had been excruciating but nothing compared with losing Julianne. He would have suffered the nightmares and haunting memories of old sins gladly if he could hold her in his arms every night.
As he gazed with contempt at the half-empty bottle of Scotch, he felt the darkness closing in. His desperate pursuit had placed a great deal of pressure on him. When that pressure was coupled with a striking sense of loss, it made it almost impossible for him to function at a high level without some kind of crutch.
Every day the drinks grew larger. Every day he realized that he needed to do something before he became trapped by his old coping mechanisms and ruined his future. He knew that if he didn’t do something, quickly, he’d relapse.
Impulsively, he made two telephone calls before gathering his belongings and shoving them into his suitcase. Then he directed the concierge to secure him a cab that would take him to the airport. He didn’t bother to ensure that his appearance was neat and professional. In fact, he didn’t bother looking into the mirror at all, for he knew that what he saw would disgust him.
Many hours later, he arrived in Florence and checked into the Gallery Hotel Art. It had been short notice, but he’d persuaded the manager to give him the same suite in which he and Julia had consummated their relationship. It was either that or a rehabilitation program, and he was convinced his connection to her would prove far more redemptive.
As he walked into the room, he half-expected to see her, or at least, signs of her. A pair of tangerine stilettos carelessly kicked off under a coffee table. A taffeta dress pooled on the floor next to a blank wall. A pair of seamed black stockings strewn across an unmade bed.
But of course, he saw none of those things.
After a relatively restful sleep and a shower, Gabriel contacted his old friend Dottore Vitali at the Uffizi Gallery and met him for dinner. They spoke of Harvard’s new chair of Dante Studies. They spoke of Giuseppe Pacciani and Gabriel was marginally gratified to learn that although Giuseppe had been offered a campus interview while Gabriel had not, Giuseppe’s lecture had been regarded as poor by the Harvard faculty. It was cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
The next day Gabriel sought to distract himself from his troubles by engaging in pleasurable activities—breakfast on a piazza, a walk along the Arno, a lengthy afternoon at his tailor’s in which he ordered a hand-made black wool suit, and an hour or so spent looking for the perfect pair of shoes to match his finery. His tailor joked that the suit was so fine Gabriel could be married in it. The tailor had laughed, until Gabriel held up his left hand and showed him his ring.
“I’m newly married,” he explained, much to the tailor’s surprise.
No matter where Gabriel walked in the city of Florence, he was assaulted with memories of her. He would stand on the Ponte Santa Trinita, hugging the sweet and sour feelings tightly to his chest, knowing that they were preferable to chemical alternatives.
Late one evening, slightly drunk, he wandered by the Duomo, retracing the path he’d taken with Julianne months earlier. Tortured by his memory of her face when she accused him of f**king her, he stumbled across a familiar looking beggar, who sat in the shade of Brunelleschi’s dome.
Gabriel approached him.
“Just a few coins for an old man,” the beggar cried in Italian.