wall of the high-ceilinged room. Lee grabbed her hand and pulled her along. His broad hand grasped her thin fingers casually, yet a warm sensation shot up Meghan’s arm.
One box lined with velvet held saws that reminded her of those in her grandfather’s garage, only these sported pearl handles, not paint-flecked red wood. The hacksaw looked ominous, conjuring up visions of surgeries on a battle’s sidelines. The broad-bladed saw was similar to the one she and Karen had used to cut down a sapling in her grandfather’s backyard. They never got in trouble for felling the little tree; their grandfather had a soft spot for them that seemed endless.
Lee muttered something about amputations.
Meghan ignored him. She moved closer to a series of life-size wax models mounted to the wall. Models of wombs, with babies in various positions, jutted out from the wall. She felt Lee’s palms on the caps of her shoulders.
“They used them for obstetrics instruction. Pretty cool, huh?”
Meghan wondered how twins, like she and Karen, had looked inside a womb. Crowded, for sure. But do twins have their heads in the same direction, or are they yin-yang, one up and one down?
Lee’s breath brushed her left ear. “Ready to bug out?”
She nodded.
They bolted hand-in-hand from the museum, away from the River Arno. Minutes later, the heat of the afternoon sun beat against their bare heads. They wove through the streets, Lee pulling Meghan along behind him. The streets opened into a piazza. Meghan knew where he’d brought her.
The Gothic white Santa Croce church presided over one side of the sand-covered piazza. It loomed like a smaller version of the Duomo. They had toured the church the previous week—the resting place of Michelangelo, Leonardo Bruni, and Galileo.
“Great.” Meghan raised her hands in mock exasperation. “First Galileo’s finger, now his tomb. You got a thing for him?”
Lee shook his head. “Nope.” He grinned. One hand gestured to the piazza. “Check it out. For the Calcio, the football game that started centuries ago.”
“Football?” Meghan had tuned out most of their guide’s talk about Santa Croce.
“They brought in sand for a playing surface. The players all wear elaborate costumes, like from olden days. It started right here, at Santa Croce.”
Sand covered the stone center of the piazza, and wooden bleachers lined one side of the square.
“There’s a match today.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
His mouth twitched. “I pay attention.”
“This is pass-fail, remember? You don’t need to nail an A in it. You and Stillman want to go to med school, so you need a high GPA, but this class won’t matter, not unless you flunk.”
“I dig Florence.” His eyes looked serious, reminding Meghan of a professor. “I’ll live here someday.”
“Why?”
His head ducked low, as if he were embarrassed to answer the question. “The art. Mostly the sculptures.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. “C’mon.”
They walked around the piazza, then down a tiny street off to the side. Shadows edged the narrow street. Lee stopped near a window that displayed a single black leather jacket and matching handbag. He pulled her inside the store.
Her eyes adjusted to the subdued light after the glaring sun of the piazza. Glass ceiling fixtures—identical to those in her grandparents’ small frame house in Chicago—lit the store. Their cozy house always felt welcoming and warmed by love. This tiny leather goods shop had the same feeling. It was exactly what she hoped one day to capture in a boutique of her own.
Six jackets hung side by side on the left in the shop. Narrow walnut shelves lined the opposite wall. A scant dozen purses and three belts comprised the rest of the visible selection. Below the shelves, splotches of color peeked out from narrow cubbyholes. Pink, yellow, tan, white, black, red, shades of brown and cordovan. The cubbyholes held leather gloves for every
One box lined with velvet held saws that reminded her of those in her grandfather’s garage, only these sported pearl handles, not paint-flecked red wood. The hacksaw looked ominous, conjuring up visions of surgeries on a battle’s sidelines. The broad-bladed saw was similar to the one she and Karen had used to cut down a sapling in her grandfather’s backyard. They never got in trouble for felling the little tree; their grandfather had a soft spot for them that seemed endless.
Lee muttered something about amputations.
Meghan ignored him. She moved closer to a series of life-size wax models mounted to the wall. Models of wombs, with babies in various positions, jutted out from the wall. She felt Lee’s palms on the caps of her shoulders.
“They used them for obstetrics instruction. Pretty cool, huh?”
Meghan wondered how twins, like she and Karen, had looked inside a womb. Crowded, for sure. But do twins have their heads in the same direction, or are they yin-yang, one up and one down?
Lee’s breath brushed her left ear. “Ready to bug out?”
She nodded.
They bolted hand-in-hand from the museum, away from the River Arno. Minutes later, the heat of the afternoon sun beat against their bare heads. They wove through the streets, Lee pulling Meghan along behind him. The streets opened into a piazza. Meghan knew where he’d brought her.
The Gothic white Santa Croce church presided over one side of the sand-covered piazza. It loomed like a smaller version of the Duomo. They had toured the church the previous week—the resting place of Michelangelo, Leonardo Bruni, and Galileo.
“Great.” Meghan raised her hands in mock exasperation. “First Galileo’s finger, now his tomb. You got a thing for him?”
Lee shook his head. “Nope.” He grinned. One hand gestured to the piazza. “Check it out. For the Calcio, the football game that started centuries ago.”
“Football?” Meghan had tuned out most of their guide’s talk about Santa Croce.
“They brought in sand for a playing surface. The players all wear elaborate costumes, like from olden days. It started right here, at Santa Croce.”
Sand covered the stone center of the piazza, and wooden bleachers lined one side of the square.
“There’s a match today.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
His mouth twitched. “I pay attention.”
“This is pass-fail, remember? You don’t need to nail an A in it. You and Stillman want to go to med school, so you need a high GPA, but this class won’t matter, not unless you flunk.”
“I dig Florence.” His eyes looked serious, reminding Meghan of a professor. “I’ll live here someday.”
“Why?”
His head ducked low, as if he were embarrassed to answer the question. “The art. Mostly the sculptures.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. “C’mon.”
They walked around the piazza, then down a tiny street off to the side. Shadows edged the narrow street. Lee stopped near a window that displayed a single black leather jacket and matching handbag. He pulled her inside the store.
Her eyes adjusted to the subdued light after the glaring sun of the piazza. Glass ceiling fixtures—identical to those in her grandparents’ small frame house in Chicago—lit the store. Their cozy house always felt welcoming and warmed by love. This tiny leather goods shop had the same feeling. It was exactly what she hoped one day to capture in a boutique of her own.
Six jackets hung side by side on the left in the shop. Narrow walnut shelves lined the opposite wall. A scant dozen purses and three belts comprised the rest of the visible selection. Below the shelves, splotches of color peeked out from narrow cubbyholes. Pink, yellow, tan, white, black, red, shades of brown and cordovan. The cubbyholes held leather gloves for every
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