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Keefe
From the balcony of their fifth-story, luxury hotel room—cell phone to his ear—Keefe West feasted his eyes on the sea of red-tiled roofs and pale buildings of Florence, Italy. A red dome rose up in the distance. He couldn’t wait to see what it belonged to. When would Papa let him loose to explore the area?
They’d arrived in Florence after dark a few days ago, but Papa had kept him busy with online research and phone calls while he met with dealers. They had taken all their meals in the hotel restaurant, so the view from the balcony was all Keefe had seen of the city. Still . . . it was amazing.
He had traveled often with his family, and each place had something to offer, but he had never left the continental U.S. Being an ocean away from home, in a city so unlike any he’d ever seen, made him feel different inside. He felt free—not that it made sense. Free from what? He felt like he’d woken from a coma or as if life just began. His soul sang with a sense of adventure.
Keefe stepped back from the balcony railing, sat in a wrought iron chair, and closed his eyes. A soothing breeze blew his dark curls into his face. It carried the scent of a woman’s flowery perfume. Indistinct chatter and laughter came from somewhere below. God, he was blessed to be here.
How had he lucked out, being chosen by Papa to go on this trip? Papa had originally wanted Roland to go. Roland always threw himself into work, helping Papa with assignments, so it only made sense that he should’ve been the one. Jarret had messed it up for Roland, making him look bad, blaming him for things he hadn’t done, and even getting Nanny to believe the lies. Roland could’ve defended himself and explained his side of things. He had barely made an effort. Why? It didn’t make sense. If he had, he’d be here right now, gazing down at the awesome view of clay roofs and antiquated buildings. He’d have loved it.
Keefe’s eyes snapped open, his guilt in the situation weighing on him. He’d wanted to tell Papa before. But when Papa chose him to go on this trip, he hadn’t wanted to blow it. Now his conscience nagged him to come clean.
He glanced at his cell phone then stuffed it into the back pocket of his chinos. Why wouldn’t Jarret answer his phone or call? The second Papa had announced Keefe would go on the trip, Jarret had grown distant and angry. Sure, it took him a long time to get over things, but that was over a week ago.
The balcony door slid open, and a sheer white curtain blew out, flapping against Keefe’s legs and the wrought iron chair. Papa stepped outside backwards, lighting his pipe.
“Did you talk to Jarret?” Keefe scooted his chair over a few inches.
Papa shook his head, holding the pipe to one side of his mouth while smoke seeped out the other. Lowering the pipe, he leaned his forearms on the balcony railing and made a sweeping gaze of the view. “I spoke with your nanny and Roland. Everything’s fine over there. I wouldn’t worry about Jarret. It takes him a while to haul in his horns.”
Keefe nodded. “It’s seven hours earlier back home, right?”
“Yup. It’s about seven-thirty there now. Maybe he’s in the shower.”
Keefe shook his head. Jarret wasn’t in the shower. He knew exactly what his twin did and when. Jarret kept a strict morning routine: wake at five-thirty to work out on the weights, then shower, breakfast, and off to school by seven-forty.
“I remember being here with your mother.”
Keefe’s ears perked. Papa rarely spoke about Mama since her death many years ago. “Here? Did you stay at this hotel?”
Papa nodded and stuffed the pipe into his mouth. Years under the sun as an archaeologist had made him tan and weathered, but he always had an air of distinction, a cool composure that rarely wavered. As he gazed out over the city, his deep blue eyes seemed to view something else, some memory or impression of the past.
“How long were you two in Italy?” Keefe longed to know more, but he’d have to tread lightly to get Papa to keep talking.
A smile flickered on Papa’s lips, fading when he glanced at Keefe. “Several months.” The cold look in Papa’s eyes said the conversation was over.
“What did you two do here?” Keefe wanted to ask, but Papa never said more than he wanted to, and prodding soured his mood.
Keefe took a breath. Might as well get the confession out and give his conscience a rest. “Papa, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Papa’s eyes shifted to him.
“I, uh . . . It’s about Roland.” Keefe shoved the curls off his forehead, trying to think how to word it. He should probably just blurt it out. “I really shouldn’t be here. Roland should. I want to explain what happened two weeks ago, what I did.”
Papa lowered his head and adjusted his cowboy hat. “No, son. Let’s leave that be. I know that situation was a mite different from what it appeared, different from what you boys told me. I know Roland had very little guilt in the matter. But I respect his decision to . . .” He looked Keefe dead in the eyes. “. . . cover for his brothers.”
Keefe swallowed hard. So Papa already knew. Papa knew he had some share in the guilt.
“Each one of you needs to think for yourself and not go along with things that are wrong or questionable. You need to learn to fish on your own hook.” Papa’s gaze sharpened, piercing a deep place in Keefe’s soul. “You need to find yourself, Keefe. That’s why I brought you with me.”
A breeze ruffled Keefe’s hair. He shifted in the cool, wrought iron chair. With a glance and a few words, Papa had laid his soul bare and exposed his weakness. Papa was right. He did need to find himself. He had gone along with Jarret, for good or bad, all his life. Until now, he hadn’t considered it a weakness. Jarret needed him. How many times had he talked Jarret out of making bad choices? Jarret had even told him that Keefe was his conscience. What would Jarret do without his guidance?
As if by impulse, Keefe reached for his phone. Why wouldn’t Jarret call him back?
Papa spoke before Keefe drew his phone out. “I’ll need to see the list of museums, dealers, and buyers.” Even before they’d left for Italy, he’d had Keefe compiling lists. Their mission was to locate and reacquire the collection of antique paintings that once belonged to the Giodarno family. The collection had been with the family for generations until a frivolous young heir decided to liquidate it to support his lifestyle.
“We’ll be spending the afternoon and the next few days making visits,” Papa said.
Glad for the change of topic, Keefe stepped inside to get the list. With wall-sized frescoes of mythical battle scenes, high ceilings, and ornate antique-style furniture, their hotel room was a step into the past.
“What about the churches and cloisters?” Keefe said, his voice sounding loud in the quiet hotel room.
“We’ll get to those.” Papa spoke from the balcony. “On the weekend, we’ll head over to Bagno di Romagna.”
“Where’s that?” Keefe flipped through folders until he found the one with the lists.
“About fifty miles due east. But we’ll have to wind around some mountains to get there. So, about a two-hour drive. We’ll stay one night at least. There’re a few people and an old basilica we’ll need to visit.”
Bagno di Romagna meant nothing to Keefe, but the two-hour drive meant he’d have an opportunity to get in touch with Jarret . . . if Papa didn’t have him working on something in the car.