“Yes. We wanted to do this as a family.” The man paused and

looked at Gabriel intently.

“Would you consider coming with us? The Franciscans can always

use more help.”

“No,” said Gabriel, stabbing a piece of beef determinedly. “I’m

not Catholic.”

“Neither are we. We’re Lutherans.”

Gabriel gazed at the doctor with interest. His knowledge of

Lutherans was limited almost exclusively to the writings of Garrison Keillor. (Not that he was willing to admit it.)

Sylvain Reynard

The doctor smiled. “We wanted to lend a hand to a good work.

I wanted to encourage my son to think beyond beach vacations and

video games.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I must decline.” Gabriel was

firm in his response, and so the doctor changed the subject.

Later that evening, Gabriel stared out the window of his simple

hotel room, thinking as he always did about Julia.

She wouldn’t have said no. She would have gone.

As ever, he was reminded of the divide between her generosity

and his selfishness. A divide that, even after spending so many months with her, was yet to be breached.

P

Two weeks later, Gabriel stood in front of the monument to

Dante in Santa Croce. He’d joined the Lutherans in their trip to

Florence and become one of the Franciscans’ most troublesome vol-

unteers. He served meals to the poor but was horrified by the quality of food on offer, so he wrote a check to hire a caterer to make the meals. He went with the other volunteers as they gave toiletries and clean clothing to homeless people, but he was so troubled by the

lack of cleanliness of the men and women that he wrote a check to

construct washrooms and shower facilities for the homeless at the

Franciscan mission.

In short, by the time Gabriel had seen every aspect of the Fran-

ciscans’ work with the poor, he’d endeavored to change everything

and agreed to finance the changes himself. Then he paid a few visits to some wealthy Florentine families, who he knew through his academic life, asking them to support the Franciscans as they helped

the poor of Florence. Their donations would ensure a steady stream of revenue for years to come.

As he stood in front of the Dante memorial, he was struck by a

sudden kinship with his favorite poet. Dante had been exiled from

Florence. Even though the city eventually forgave him and allowed

a memorial to be placed in his honor in the Basilica, he was buried in Ravenna. In a strange twist of fate, Gabriel now knew what it was 284

Gabriel’s Rapture

like to be exiled from his job, his city, and his home, for Julianne’s arms would always be his home. Even though he was forced into exile.

The memorials around him reminded him of his own mortality.

If he was lucky, he’d have a long life, but many people such as Grace had their lives cut short. He could be hit by a car, or contract cancer, or have a heart attack. Suddenly, his time on earth seemed very short and very precious.

Since he’d left Assisi, he’d tried to assuage his guilt and loneliness by doing good works. Volunteering with the Franciscans was

certainly a step in that direction. But what about making amends

with Paulina? It was far too late to make his peace with Grace, or Maia, or his biological mother and father.

What about Julianne?

Gabriel stared at the figure of a despairing woman who leaned

on what looked like Dante’s casket. He’d accepted his exile, but that didn’t mean he’d refrained from writing letter after letter to her, letters that were never sent.

P

Cemeteries had a stillness all their own. Even cemeteries located

in busy urban centers possessed this stil ness — an unearthly quiet that clings to the air.

Walking through the cemetery, Gabriel couldn’t pretend that he

was strolling in a park. The sparse trees that peppered the landscape were not teeming with singing birds. The grass, though green and

very well kept, was not alive with squirrels or the occasional urban rabbit, playing with his brothers or looking for food.

He saw the stone angels in the distance, their twin forms stand-

ing like tall sentries among the other monuments. They were made

of marble, not granite, their skin white and pale and perfect. The angels faced away from him, their wings spread wide. It was easier for him to stand behind the monument. He couldn’t see the name

etched in stone. He could stay there forever, a few feet away, and never approach. But that would be cowardly.

285

Sylvain Reynard

He inhaled deeply, his sapphire eyes shut tightly, as he said a

silent prayer. Then he walked a half circuit around the monument,

stopping in front of the marker.

He removed a pristine handkerchief from his trouser pocket. An

onlooker might have guessed that he had need of it for sweat or tears, but he didn’t. He leaned forward and with a gentle hand swept the

white linen over the black stone. The dirt came away easily. He would need to tend the rose bushes that had begun to encroach upon the

letters. He made a mental note to hire a gardener.

He placed flowers in front of the stone, his mouth moving as if

he were whispering. But he wasn’t. The grave, of course, was empty.

A tear or two clouded his vision, followed by their brothers, and

soon his face was wet with their rain. He didn’t bother to wipe them away as he lifted his face to gaze upon the angels, the souls of silent, marble compassion.

He asked for forgiveness. He expressed his guilt, a guilt he knew

would ache for the rest of his life. He didn’t ask for his burden to be removed, for it seemed to him to be part of the consequences of his actions. Or rather, the consequences of what he failed to do for a mother and their child.

He reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone and dialed

a number from the iPhone’s memory.

“Hello?”

“Paulina. I need to see you.”

286

Chapter 38

Julia’s father insisted on attending her graduation and refused to allow Paul to move her to Cambridge alone. Tom paid the security

deposit and rent on her summer sublet. And it was Tom who flew

to Toronto so he could watch his only daughter graduate with her

MA on June eleventh.

Dressed in simple black with artful shoes, Julia left Paul and Tom on the steps of Convocation Hall while she went to line up with all the other graduating students.

Tom liked Paul. A lot.

Paul was forthright and had a firm handshake. He looked Tom

directly in the eye when they spoke to one another. Paul offered his assistance in helping move Julia to Cambridge, including accommodations on his family’s farm in Burlington, even after Tom had

insisted that he could move Julia by himself. Tom dropped a hint to his daughter over dinner the evening before graduation, suggesting that Paul was an obvious choice for a new love interest, but Julia pretended she hadn’t heard him.

As the graduates filed into the hall, Julia couldn’t help but scan the audience, looking for Gabriel. With so many people it was unlikely that she would see him, even if he were present. However, when she gazed over at the faculty section she easily located Katherine Picton, dressed in her Oxonian robes. If the faculty were arranged alpha-betically, and it certainly seemed as if they were, then Julia should have been able to guess where Gabriel would be seated, dressed in

Harvard’s crimson. But he wasn’t.

When they called Julia’s name, it was Katherine who ascended

the stage in slow but certain steps to hood Julia with the vestment Sylvain Reynard

of a magister. It was Katherine who shook her hand professionally, wished her well at Harvard, and handed her the diploma.

Later that evening, after a celebratory dinner with Paul and Tom

at a local steakhouse, Julia checked her voice mail and found a new message. It was from Rachel.

“Congratulations, Julia! We all send our love and we have presents for you. Thanks for sending me your new address in Cambridge. I’ll mail everything and make sure it arrives after you do. I’m also sending your bridesmaid’s dress.

“Dad booked your flight from Boston to Philadelphia for August twenty-first. I hope that’s okay. He wanted to pay for it, and I know that you were planning on coming a week early.

“I still haven’t heard from Gabriel. I’m hoping he was at your graduation. But if he wasn’t, maybe you two will be able to sort everything out at the wedding. I can’t imagine that he’d miss it. He’s supposed to be a groomsman, and I don’t even have his measurements for his tux!”

288

Chapter 39

A certain blue-eyed Dante specialist read T.S. Eliot’s poem

Ash Wednesday before offering his nighttime prayers. He was alone, and yet not alone.

Looking at the photograph on his bedside table he thought about

her graduation. How beautiful and proud she would have looked

in her robes. With a sigh, he closed his book of poetry and turned out the light.

In the darkness of his old bedroom in the Clarks’ former house,

he reflected on the past weeks. He’d left Italy and traveled to Boston and Minnesota. He’d promised the Franciscans he’d return, for they’d said (wisely) that they prized his presence more than his donations.