Elizabeth Hunter - A Hidden Fire

“No, thank you. You know me-I like the exercise.”

She chuckled a little and smiled. “Right.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He turned and loped toward the stairwell, his quick feet almost noiseless in the dim corridor. She muttered under her breath as she watched him.

“Right…sure I know you.”

She ran into him again two nights later while she was working on a paper for her Medieval Literature class. She’d just finished her paper on the role of illuminations in devotional manuscripts when she saw him watching her from the archway by the coffee shop. She caught a glimpse of his pale face and was immediately thrown back to a memory from the summer she turned fifteen.

“Grandpa, I think I saw him again tonight, by the movie theater.”

Her grandfather sat at his workbench in the garage, working on a small carving of a butterfly for his wife. He set his knife down and brushed off his gnarled hands, holding one out to her. She took it and came to stand next to him, her purple shirt brushing against the bench and picking up small shavings of wood she flicked away with pink-tinted nails.

“Mariposa,” he squeezed her hand, “my butterfly girl, I see him too. I still see him sitting at the kitchen table in the mornings, or tinkering with me in the garage. The memories, they’re natural, mija. It’s normal to remember him that way.”

She frowned and shook her head, unable or unwilling to share her growing fears with her down-to-earth grandfather. The dreams were getting worse, and it was becoming more difficult to spend time with her friends who only seemed to want to talk about boys, clothes, or the latest music. She looked up into her grandfather’s loving and concerned face.

Hector de Nova had handled the loss of his son as well as could be expected, flying to Italy to return with a coffin he had been warned not to open. His deep sorrow had been subsumed by the need to care for his grief-stricken wife and granddaughter.

“But he-he doesn’t look the same when I see him. He’s too thin, and his skin… it’s not the way I remember.” She felt her heart begin to race. “Am I going crazy?”

He pulled her into a fierce hug. “No, you’re not crazy. Do you hear me? You’re one of the most levelheaded people I know, but you need to stop thinking about him so much. It’s not healthy, mija. Get out with your friends more. Have some fun.”

She whispered into his collar, “Okay, Grandpa.”

“And you don’t tell Grandma, okay? She’ll just get upset.”

“I know.”

“When things start to bother you, just come talk to me.”

He pulled away to look into dark eyes that matched his own, the same eyes her father had. “We’ll be okay, B. We’ll get past this.”

Her hands clenched. “Sometimes, I wish I could just forget him, Grandpa. I know that’s horrible.”

He kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, Beatrice. It’s going to be okay…”

“Beatrice?” Giovanni stood before her, wearing a grey tweed jacket and holding two cups of steaming coffee. “May I join you?”

Shaking her head slightly to clear her mind, she motioned to the red-cushioned seat across from her. “Of course. What are you doing here?”

Working out your glorious backside by walking the ten-storied staircase of the architecture building?

Stealing secret documents for the Russians? Plotting to assassinate my U.S. Foreign Policy professor? Please let it be that. Stalking me for some completely mind-boggling and inexplicable reason?

“Just meeting a friend for coffee.”

“Oh really? What time are you supposed to meet him?” She looked at her watch as he frowned and cocked his head at her.

“Oh,” she said in sudden realization. “Oh, me?”

He chuckled and sat across from her. “I was doing some research in the stacks and I saw you leave. I thought I might take a break.”

“What are you working on?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if judging whether she was worth confiding in. She raised her eyebrow when he remained silent, shrugged, and returned to typing on her laptop.

“Researching some documents for a client.”

She looked up, surprised he had spoken. “That sounds interesting. What kind of documents?”

His slightly pained expression had her waving a hand.

“Never mind,” she added. “None of my business.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re trustworthy,” he said quickly. “This collector is very private. I haven’t even shared the specifics with Caspar.”

“Caspar?”

“Oh,” he paused. “Caspar is my…”

“Is he the guy that picks you up from the library sometimes?”

“Yes, he’s my butler, I guess you could say. He works for me, but runs my house, as well. He also helps me in my work.”

She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “I have never met anyone with a butler before.”

“Well,” he shrugged. “I suppose you have now.”

“Tell the truth, Giovanni Vecchio.” A mischievous look came to her eye. “You have a butler, a cool car, and I’ve only ever seen you at night…”

He froze, tension suddenly evident in the set of his shoulders. Beatrice leaned closer and whispered, “You’re Batman, aren’t you?”

His mouth dropped open in surprise before the grin overtook his face.

She smiled back at him, chuckling until he joined in. Soon, they were both laughing.

“You looked so serious for a second! What did you think I was going to say? A spy? Vampire? Hired killer?”

He shook his head in amusement. “You’re confounding. No, I was just surprised you guessed. I am, in fact, Batman. I would appreciate your discretion.”

She nodded with a smirk, and took another sip of the coffee he’d brought her. It had just a touch of cream, exactly the way she liked it. “Sure you are. I’m a skeptic until I see the rubber suit. You’re not fooling me.”

He looked at her, smiling mischievously. “You really want to see me in a rubber suit?”

His seductive grin brought her to a halt. “What?” She blushed. “No, I was just-joking, Gio. Sheesh.”

He laughed at her uncomfortable expression. Giovanni blew on his coffee, holding it in his hands and smiling at her over the edge.

“What are you working on?” he asked, setting down his drink.

She shrugged. “Medieval Lit paper.”

“Dante, by any chance?”

She cocked her head. “Not my area.”

“Sorry.”

They looked at each other for a few moments before she relaxed again. “It’s fine. Valid question, I guess. A lot of people thought I would follow in my dad’s footsteps.”

“But you chose not to.”

She shrugged at him. “I like the library. Information science is…kind of like solving mysteries.”

“So you’re a detective?” he asked with a smile. “Do you like mysteries?”

She rolled her eyes. “I have no illusions of grandeur. People need information. I find out what they need to know and help them find it. It’s satisfying.”

“That’s somewhat like your father. Isn’t that what he was doing in Italy? Solving mysteries?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe. You’re awfully interested in ten-year-old research.”

“I’m quite fond of Dante. I am Italian, after all.”

“That’s true.” She paused. “I don’t know what he was looking for.” She took another sip of her coffee and couldn’t help but notice the avid interest he was trying hard not to show. “He told my grandfather he thought he had a line on some previously unknown letters connected with the Alighieri family. Some missing collection of correspondence. You know how they used to take a collection of letters and bind them in correspondence books? I think he was looking for some of those.”