5. Christian

5

CHRISTIAN

O n Wednesday morning, I’m surprised to find myself more nervous than excited. Not just because I’ve never flown across an ocean before, but because I’m going to be on a private jet with my boss for eight hours. Also, and I hate to say this for obvious reasons, but he looks good.

He’s got a killer smile, one I rarely see, but when he throws it at me as I board the jet, I have to catch my breath. Older men don’t do it for me in general, but Gibson does not look his age. He’s all health and vitality, muscles and good hair. And that smile—it makes him almost relatable.

Because I’m awkward, and my mouth always moves before my brain does, I ask, “How do I look?”

“Great,” he says, gesturing to the seat opposite his. Someone already took my bag, so I’m unencumbered as I sit, my phone clutched tightly in my hand.

I blurt out another random question. “So, what do you wanna do for the next eight hours?”

He leans back in his seat, large hands sliding down enormous thighs to smooth his casual navy slacks, his smile still on high wattage. “Whatever you’d like. Talk, take a nap, solve world peace.”

“I don’t know about world peace, and I just woke up, but I could talk.”

“No pressure. If you’d rather enjoy the trip in privacy, I can make myself scarce.”

Like I’d ever ask him to do that. It’s his jet. “Not at all, but don’t feel pressured to talk to me, either.”

“We do have a few things to go over, but it won’t take long.”

I glance around, taking in the luxury aircraft. It’s the kind of place I never thought I’d find myself, and with Gibson of all people? Surreal.

When my father returned to civilian life with a wife who spoke five words of English, he settled in New York. I don’t know if his wife used him for the green card or what, but she left him pretty quick. Years and two more divorces later, he got sick and came back to Pennsylvania to live with his parents. When he found out I was planning to move to New York, the last, good thing he ever did for me was reintroduce me to Gibson who hired me without an interview.

My father died when I was twenty-one after a hard fought battle with testicular cancer, which makes me overly preoccupied with my own set of balls. So far, so good, though.

“I have a few things I want to get out of the way before we get into any of the business stuff,” I say.

He nods for me to go ahead.

“My dad always called you his best friend. Was that true for you?”

Gibson’s jaw ticks as he regards me. “In high school, I’d say yes. But not once he was in New York. We weren’t strangers or anything, but I had my hands full with Marianne and the business.”

“He worked for you too, though, didn’t he? ”

“As a building inspector. He had his own friends—his own life. We grew apart, but we stayed in touch.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“I visited him in the hospital. A few days before he passed.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah?”

Gibson nods.

“What was that like?”

“Sad,” he sighs. “Did you not see him?”

“No one told me it was that close to the end. I like to think I would have come, but I don’t really know.”

“Full disclosure,” Gibson says. “He did ask me to look out for you.”

“Ah.” I stare down at my phone.

“So, how’ve I done?”

I get the sense he’s trying to be funny, and I manage a half-grin. “You’ve kept a roof over my head—kept me fed. It’s a little weird. Knowing that.”

“I felt like it needed to be said. To get it out of the way.”

“I get it. So that’s not what this is about?” I ask skeptically with a gesture at the plane.

“You’ve worked for me for ten years.”

“Eleven,” I correct him.

“Jesus,” he sighs. “Okay. Eleven. You show up on time, you always make sure your shifts are covered, you’re discreet, polite, efficient. Like I said—I trust you. And there’s no harm in this town trading on connections. Believe me, if I thought you were a loser, I would have found something for you, but it wouldn’t have been as my doorman. Especially not at Gramercy.”

It helps to hear that. That maybe I got the chance because of my father, but I’ve proven myself, too. “Fair enough.”

“Do you want me to go over the details of this opportunity, or would you rather jump in cold?”

“You can tell me what you expect me to do for six to eight hours a day. ”

“Wear the suit and take notes.”

“That’s it?”

“More or less.”

“And when you say more …”

He grins. “Since we have a few minutes…wanna grab your laptop?”

“Someone took it from me.”

“I’m sure we can get it back.”

For the next few hours, Gibson tells me why he’s going to Rome, who he’s meeting with, the places he needs to visit, and what he needs an assistant for in general. It’s nothing complicated. It seems like he needs a second brain for himself, preferably one with a knack for remembering details, and I have one of those. For words especially, which would make me useful in meetings or reading emails.

He assures me real estate is more common sense and intuition than anything else, but the exchange of money is where it gets complicated—laws and regulations are involved. He gives me access to his business email address where he has the Do Not Ignore contacts already flagged. He works for a few hours while I read through his emails, trying to piece together what he does for a living.

There are a lot of moving parts. Whenever I have a question, he stops what he’s doing and answers it. By the time we land, I’ve got folders made for each of his properties, and I’ve made a game of sorting his emails into the corresponding file.

A car picks us up on the tarmac. It’s dusk in Rome, and I stare out the window like I’ve never ridden in a car before. New York has some old stuff, but nothing compares to what unfolds before my eyes as we enter the ancient city .

“What are you looking forward to seeing the most?” Gibson asks.

“St. Peter’s,” I answer without having to think about it.

“Any particular reason?”

“It’s complicated,” I say. “But I’ve got a bone to pick with God.”

He doesn’t respond, and I realize I sound like a raving lunatic, but he asked.

“My hotel where we’re staying isn’t far from Vatican City. It’s an easy walk.”

“Yeah? Great.”

“I’m guessing you won’t want company for this reckoning.”

I turn and look at him, sensing something behind the question. If it was emotion, his face doesn’t betray it. But my confusion makes it harder to answer the question. “Do you believe in God?” I ask instead.

“I think so.”

“I hate to break this to you, but I don’t think that’s the answer that gets you into heaven.”

“I definitely don’t believe in heaven.”

“What do you know for sure you do believe in?” I ask.

“Sin.”

I arch a brow. “I guess that answer doesn’t surprise me.”

He huffs. “It shouldn’t.”

“I believe in sin, too,” I say. “Not so sure about forgiveness, though.”

“No? Suffering only?”

“It’s what it feels like sometimes,” I say quietly, turning back to the window as we pass a fountain I’ve seen in movies. “What fountain is that?”

“The Tritons? I think? We’ll be in the Piazza Navonna. All the best fountains are there.”

I laugh. “Is that right?”

“You’ll see. ”

“You have a favorite spot here?”

“Yeah. My hotel.”

That makes me smile again. “But you have two hotels here.”

“I have a favorite. And thank you for doing your homework. Does this mean you’ll take the job?”

“Let me pray on it tomorrow, and I’ll let you know Monday.”

He laughs at my tasteless joke. The sound is full-throated and rich. It’s an amazing sound, and one I realize I’ve never heard before. I like it. The nerves from this morning are gone. Clearing the air about my father helped.

“Can I do anything to help you see what you want to see?” he asks. “Private tour? Anything like that?”

“I’ve got Trip Advisor and a map app. I think I’ll be okay,” I tell him. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“The Sistine Chapel for example. I could get you in there on your own so you wouldn’t have to be in a huge tour group.”

“You can do that?”

“Honestly, there’s not much I can’t do,” he says, and amazingly, he manages not to sound like an asshole.

“I’d be pretty stupid to turn down an offer like that.”

“Not if you have a problem with once in a lifetime opportunities.”

“Do you know the Pope or something?” I ask.

“No. But I know people who know people who do. Anyway, the Pope doesn’t have much to do with it. The whole world turns on money and favors.”

“That’s cynical.”

“It’s disappointing isn’t it? We’re raised to think love and kindness are all that matters, but what really gets things done is manipulation and leverage. Pressure and money.”

“That’s your world, huh?”

“That’s the world.”

“Not mine,” I say quietly as we pass another amazing fountain, and the traffic slows to a crawl. “Is all of Italy like this? ”

“No. Rome is like the Manhattan of Italy.”

“Feels like it. Looks totally different, though.”

“We’re not far from the hotel,” he says.

“I wouldn’t mind walking.”

“Restless legs?”

“A little,” I admit.

“Let’s walk then.” He lets the driver know to meet us at the hotel, and soon we’re on the sidewalk. I match his long strides as I try not to stare at— everything .

Rome is almost impossible to believe. Putting aside the crush of cars on the street and the people hurrying past, it’s like walking through a Medieval fairytale. The warm colors of the buildings with vines growing up the sides are a sharp contrast with the gray, steel structures in Manhattan. Cobblestone and archways capture my attention, as well as old-fashioned streetlights and the occasional line of laundry drying above our heads.

“You want to see the Trevi fountain?” Gibson asks.

“Of course.”

He makes a sharp left down a smaller street, and I shuffle around people to catch up. The sound of water rushing announces the fountain’s presence, and then here it is.

It’s huge—both familiar and strange. Some tourists throw coins, and others try to back up far enough to get a good shot of the fountain, but unless they have wide-angle lenses, I don’t see how they can do it. The scale of it surprises me the most. The fountain itself is enormous, but it’s tucked away in a small square packed with tourists like me who seem just as disoriented.

Gibson fishes a few coins from his pocket. Handing me a quarter, he says, “I may not believe in much, but I do believe in this fountain. I’ve come back every time.”

I grin and take the coin. He takes a picture of me tossing it backwards over my head. I laugh, feeling ridiculous, and also weirdly happy. After switching places for him to toss his own coin, we stand at the edge of the fountain, and he points out some of the art engraved in the wall behind it. It’s truly stunning, and I can’t get over how old it is—how well it’s held up.

And then I have the thought I always have when I have an experience like this— Trinity will never see this .

“Anything else cool around here?” I ask, anxious to think about something else, but not sure it’s possible. After all, I’ve done nothing to deserve a trip like this. I didn’t earn the privilege of seeing the Trevi Fountain, or the Piazza Navonna where we go next, which is a whole other kind of incredible and ancient.

“They used to have chariot races here,” Gibson tells me.

It’s obvious, too, in the elliptical shape.

“This is incredible,” I can’t help but say.

“No better time of day to see it.”

“Your hotel is here ?”

He points at what looks like one ancient building among many directly behind a fountain with an obelisk. “Right there.”

“That’s a hotel?”

“It is now. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“I get that you come here a lot, but it’s crazy how casual you are about it.”

That pulls him up short. The look he gives me is almost embarrassed. “Sorry—did you want to look around more?”

“No,” I say quickly, eager to clear up the misunderstanding. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sure the people who live here take it for granted, too. It’s just wild.”

Our eyes meet, and he frowns slightly. “I don’t,” he says. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Seriously,” I say, afraid I offended him. “I wasn’t trying to say you should slow down—I’m processing out loud. I do that a lot.” It’s not you, it’s me.

“We should get a drink,” he says.

He must sense my sudden confusion because he adds, “This conversation is a mess, and it’s making me nervous. We need to relax. We should drink. ”

I don’t disagree, but also, has the conversation been that bad ? A little forced, maybe, but I haven’t been rude or overly distracted. At least, I don’t think I have. I’m second-guessing myself all over again.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got a great view. You won’t miss a thing.”