“You are okay now,” said Giuseppe. “No worries.”
Two more black sedans joined us, one taking the lead, the other bringing up the rear, and we headed at top speed away from the airport and into the city. During the drive to the hotel, I tried to prepare myself for my upcoming meeting with the pope.
I liked what I’d seen and read about Pope Gregory. He seemed kind, a moderate with modern leanings, but he disapproved of everything JMJ stood for. And he had to be disturbed by the widespread growth of our breakaway churches.
I had a hard time imagining anything but a short, awkward meeting with Pope Gregory. I didn’t see it ending well. At all.
Gilly was having a different experience entirely. She was absorbing everything: the wide avenues and historic landmarks, the police escort, the crazy Roman traffic. She had her hands pressed against the windows and said, “Mom, are we staying here?”
Our car pulled up to the Hotel Hassler, a five-star hotel at the top of the Spanish Steps, overlooking the ancient city. Our bodyguards escorted us through the teeming and gilded hotel lobby to the front desk. All the while, her head turning from side to side, Gilly stared around in a state of subdued wonder.
“Mommy, look. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, look.”
I looked at the beautiful people, at the grand scale of the famous hotel lobby, at the rich appointments, and I laughed, delighting in my seven-year-old little girl’s innocence and astonishment.
Gilly wasn’t in Massachusetts anymore.
Our suite, like the lobby, was appointed in ruby red and gold, hung with Venetian mirrors and crystal chandeliers. There was a terrace the length of the suite with a fireplace and endless city views. On the table in the sitting room was an extravagant floral arrangement and a note from Father Raphael.
It read: Welcome, Brigid and Gillian. I will come for you tomorrow morning at nine and bring you to the Apostolic Palace. Pope Gregory is very eager to meet you.
We kicked off our shoes, and I was looking at the room-service menu on the video monitor when the room phone rang.
Gilly answered, “Heyyyy.”
Then, “Mom. Guess who?”
Chapter 110
I PEERED through the peephole and saw his face.
“Open up, Red. It is I, your humble scribe.”
I opened the door and told our bodyguards that Zach was a friend. I was so excited to see him—and yet puzzled. Zach insisted on making surprise drop-in visits. Why? He had a phone. I hugged my tall, journalist, book-writing friend, and Gilly flew across the room and jumped up into his arms.
“I’m a royal princess,” she said. “Would you like to see my domain?”
“I absolutely would,” said Zach.
As Gilly took Zach away, I shouted after him, “Why are you here?”
“Easter week at Vatican City. I was available to cover it.”
“Are you having dinner with us?”
“Uh. Sure. Thanks.”
I’d seen Zach every few months since he signed his book contract, and I knew him well enough by now that I could read between the lines on his face. Something was bothering him.
But Gilly had Zach under her spell. She gave him the grandest of tours. He taught her the waltz while I signed for room service that was delivered after scrutiny by our guards outside the door.
We tucked into a six-course gourmet dinner on our terrace overlooking the Spanish Steps, and after Zach pointed out the visible ancient landmarks, Gilly provided the entertainment.
“I wanted kittens for my birthday,” Gilly was telling Zach.
“Kittens and rodents are off the table,” I said.
Ignoring me, Gilly went on. “After I got turned down for hamsters and kittens, I asked for Jesus to come to my birthday party.”
I rolled my eyes. “She did not.”
“Oh. How did that turn out?” Zach asked her.
Gilly reached down into the front of her dress and pulled up a gold chain. “Look,” she said, showing off her new crucifix.
“Beautiful,” said Zach, looking over Gilly’s head at me.
I said, “Gilly, do me a favor? Get me my sweater? The pink cardigan.”
While Gilly was gone, I said, “Zach, something is bothering you. What is it?”
“Why don’t I just get right to it,” he said, looking miserable. “Maybe you caught it on CNN.”
“What? No.”
“There’s been a credible threat of violence against a JMJ church here in Rome.”
“Oh, no. I hadn’t heard. When did this happen?”
“Early this morning.”
“That’s horrible. Was this because of my visit?”
Zach forced a smile.
“Don’t know.”
“Why does the pope want to see me?”
“Don’t know that, either. But, whether he wants to or not, he’ll like you. Even if he’s made of marble, he’ll like you.”
Zach looked at me for a moment too long.
I cleared my throat, refilled his wineglass.