He selects the gown, and then we continue browsing. As we make our way to the register, I pause at an obscenely beautiful Maharani slip. Unfortunately, it has an equally obscene price. I move on, but Nate doesn’t.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabs my size from the rack and folds it over his arm. He didn’t even glance at the price tag. I stare at him, mouth agape, for several seconds before I shake my head and follow quietly along behind him.
I make a mental note. From this point on, I know better than to pause to look at anything I’m not prepared to leave the store with. I have no doubt he’ll purchase everything I give a second glance.
Finally, packages in tow, we leave La Perla and make our way farther down the street. We are quiet, and Nate’s hand is at the small of my back, his warmth seeping into me and skittering up my spine. Up ahead, I can see the famed Spanish Steps. They’re a sight in and of themselves, but with the sun beginning its descent behind them, they’re positively breathtaking. I think to myself that this place, this night, with my husband by my side, the world couldn’t be more perfect.
As though Nate can sense the direction of my thoughts, he reaches down to lace his fingers through mine, giving them a light squeeze. When I glace over at him, he winks, something he’s done for all the years we’ve been together, and the moment feels right. So, so right.
Our destination is a restaurant at the top of the stunning stairs. Together, we take each step, one at a time, moving in a fluid ascent that feels more like floating than walking. Once, I catch my toe and lose my footing, stumbling, but Nate keeps me steady, the tips of his fingers clinging to mine until he can grip them more firmly. Even to climb some stairs, he won’t let me go.
That’s why I know he never will.
Not ever.
Once we are in the elevator, I rest my head on his shoulder, and he pulls me in tight against him.
The doors open silently to Imago, a restaurant that is, itself, a sensual experience. Mouthwatering aromas tantalize our nostrils the instant we walk inside. Then we’re led to a table that overlooks Rome from the top of the Steps, a view so magnificent it could thrill even the most cynical eye. But if that hadn’t been enough to wow me and overwhelm my senses, the delightful meal would’ve been. The food was spectacular from start to finish.
All in all, the entire affair is an Italian masterpiece. Even the walk back to the hotel seems like something from a dream. The air, the night, the company—I can’t think of anything more perfect.
Until we get back to our room, and Nate insists that I model my La Perla gown for him. Within thirty seconds of stepping out of the bathroom, Nate is in front of me, carefully peeling the expensive material from my naked body and carrying me swiftly to the bed. I have only a few seconds to think of the gown lying crumpled on the floor before I can think of nothing except the hands and lips and words of the man I love.
Over an hour later, as I lie, sated, in Nate’s arms, I think back on Rome. From the moment I’d begun feeling better to this very second, the whole day has been utterly flawless. It is by far our best day in Europe so far, despite its rocky beginning.
Unfortunately, I soon discover that every morning is destined to begin in the same way—with me so nauseated I can hardly move without vomiting. For hours each day, I lie in bed, curled on my side, sick to my stomach, wondering what new horror is taking hold in my body. Yet, every afternoon, I suddenly feel human again. Like the flip of a switch. Like magic.
It isn’t until the fourth day that I begin to see a pattern. It’s almost miraculous the way I start to feel better, as though my body suddenly passes a finish line I can’t see. Or like a switch has flipped, from on to off.
Like a switch.
That’s when my mind begins to wander in a totally different direction.
One not of death, but of life.
Late on our fourth morning, my thoughts racing in circles around themselves, I push myself into a sitting position and turn to find Nate. He’s settled in a chair across the room, reading the news from his iPad, never far from me.
My pulse patters wildly in my throat. Could it be?
Could. It. Be?
I clear my throat. “I think I might call down and see if they have any spa openings. Would that be okay with you?”
Nate looks up from his tablet and pins me with his perceptive stare. I do my best to hide my growing suspicion behind a casual expression.
“Of course. Anything you want to do. You know that.”
“Great,” I say, throwing back the covers and sliding out of bed. “I thought maybe we could drive to Vatican City later, once I’m all dolled up.”
Nate tips his head to one side and casts me a derisive look. “It doesn’t take a team of people to make you beautiful. You wake up that way.”
“I love you for thinking so, but I figure I should look my best. I mean, we will be walking beneath some of the most gorgeous artwork known to mankind.”
“Like it has a chance in hell of competing with you,” Nate scoffs.