Read Online Blood Orange by Drusilla Campbell - Free Book Online

could have
prepared her for the size and life that emanated from the actual statues. She forgot about having fun, about David and Bailey.
    In front of the reproduction of Michelangelo’s David, Micah
said, “I’ll take you to see the original in the Academia. It’s amazing,
of course, practically a shrine, with camera Nazis all over the place
and everyone telling you to be quiet if you raise your voice above a
whisper.” He looked disgusted. “I actually like this one out here
better, even if it isn’t the original. The David was meant to be public
art, exposed to life. I understand all the practicalities, but I don’t
like it when people treat art like it’s … holy. Mostly Italy doesn’t do
that.”
    They walked back toward the Arno through the imposing colonnade of the Uffizi Palace Gallery. “I love this city,” he said. “Everywhere I look I see something beautiful.”
    His words awakened her. Until that moment she had been seeing Micah as Lexy’s eccentric and impertinent little brother, as a wild
driver and a source of restless energy who would not let her sleep.
But in the amber twilight of the colonnade she shed her resistance
like a snake its tired skin. She saw that he was like an angel in a
Renaissance painting, with his dark and curly, untidy hair, his large
blue-black eyes and sensual, sulky mouth. Micah’s high energy and
enthusiasm had made him seem boyish at first, but in the half shadows she could see the sadness in his face. The lines around his eyes
had not come from laughing. She felt an instant empathy, and
vaguely remembered Lexy saying her brother suffered from depression and had been unhappy as a boy. Happiness and grief were both
written in his face along with something renegade she could not
classify. As she stared at him, half mesmerized by the contrasts, she
lost her footing and stumbled. He steadied her with his hand on the
small of her back. His touch excited her, and she jerked away. She
had not been prepared for that.

    They crossed the Arno at the Ponte Vecchio, where most of the
gold- and silversmiths had closed their shops for the night. It was
the middle of the week and not quite tourist season. Though there
was plenty of foot traffic on the ancient bridge, it did not feel
crowded to Dana. They walked up the hill past the hideous facade
of the Pitti Palace until they came to the little Piazza Santo Spirito
and a first-floor restaurant just large enough for six tables. Micah
had to duck his head as they walked in. He was perhaps six-three or
four and slender; but he moved like an athlete, which surprised
Dana. Jock-artist was not a common type. David was smart, but he
had no interest in art.
    Micah and the owner, Paolo, played together on a recreational
soccer team; they greeted each other with an embrace. Their conversation was incomprehensible to Dana, but she guessed the subject was soccer because the body language of men talking sports is much the same in any country. The heads turn from side to side, the
shoulders and arms pump.

    At dinner Dana and Micah talked about the city and art, and she
went on about her thesis topic until she felt she had to apologize for
talking so much. He said he was interested and asked more questions, informed questions that started her off again. Explaining, explaining: her thesis had never seemed more real than it did that
night. It was thrilling to be in Florence on her own, talking art,
without Bailey tugging on her, or David looking at his watch, never
telling her where to go exactly but always with his hand on her
elbow steering and supporting like she might fall over if he did not
hold her up. She felt guilty for her thoughts.
    It was after eleven and cold when they left Paolo’s and walked
toward the river through the almost empty streets.
    Micah put his arm across her back. Tired and a little drunk after
sharing two bottles of wine, she leaned into him and resisted his
suggestion they