He was quiet for a few minutes afterward, brooding on some other unspoken memory that he clearly didn’t want to share.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation.”
“You didn’t. It just makes me want to see it with you.”
“It’s not much. Food and a view, that’s all. Maybe one day I’ll show you.”
“Show me now,” I said without thinking.
I couldn’t help it. It was Sunday. Florence could wait a few more hours if this sense of ease could continue.
Matthew looked at me and grinned. “All right, doll. I will.”
After parking at the top of Riomaggiore, we changed into more appropriate walking attire and then scrambled down the steep streets of the tiny city until we reached the deli from Matthew’s recollections. (“It’s still here!” he hooted in triumph.) We bought the exact same meal he described and enjoyed it atop one of the huge slanted rocks jutting out over the water. It wasn’t exactly the balmy summer sunset from his last trip, as the wind forced us to bundle up in our coats. But my belly was warm with food and something else by the end of it. Something that seemed quietly like happiness.
We decided to walk the main trail along the cliffs to the next few towns over, exploring first Manarola and Corniglia. We found ourselves in Vernazza after the path popped us into the town center next to a jumble of brightly painted fishing boats and a church just after they had let out the afternoon Mass.
“Do you mind?” Matthew asked, nodding toward the open doors. “I won’t be long. It is Sunday.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said and followed him into the small medieval basilica.
Our footsteps echoed on the stone floors. Matthew dipped his fingers into water in the font by the entrance and crossed himself, then quickly found a row about halfway to the altar, touched his right knee to the ground, then slid into the pew. I followed, but by the time we were both seated, he had already arranged himself on the kneeler and folded his hands in prayer over the top of the pew in front of us. His lips moved wordlessly, but otherwise he was still, head bowed, eyes closed.
I sat back, content to look around like the other tourists who had ventured in while parishioners were still praying or lighting candles on a stand near a small wood confessional box. It was a relatively simple church compared to some of the much more ornate cathedrals in Europe—a traditional basilica in the shape of a cross, where the seating was arranged between rows of thick columns of crooked limestone bricks that matched the walls, upon which hung small carved pieces of Catholic iconography, the largest of which was a prominent and bloody crucifix.
And still, for all its humble appearance, there was something quite beautiful about the place. As I watched dust swirl in a stream of light shining through one of the small arched windows, I was struck with awe. There was something sacred about this place and others like it that people erected for nothing more than a spirit they believed in. Whether or not I thought that spirit, that God was real, I did believe their faith—Matthew’s faith—was worth honoring.
Beside me, Matthew crossed himself again, then sat back on the pew with me.
“Better now?” I whispered.
He flashed another heart-stopping grin. “Much. Thanks for humoring me, doll.”
“What do you say when you pray?” I wondered quietly when he relaxed against the hard wooden back. I had never done it myself, unless you counted the services I’d been forced to endure a handful of times at First Presbyterian Church.
“Oh, the usual stuff,” he said, watching a clergy member walk around the church, nodding to a few people, speaking quietly to others. “If I’m doing penance, then there are the standard Hail Marys, Our Fathers, Glory Bes and all that. But when I’m on my own, I pray for my grandfather’s soul, and for my father’s too. For Nonna, my sisters and their families; for my friends, some of them. And I pray for my mother and the grace to forgive her.”
I opened my mouth to ask more about that. Matthew never really talked about his mother, who had essentially left him and his sisters after the car crash that had taken their father. But I knew those wounds ran deep. And I could understand that. I too had a parent who had abandoned me as a child. I knew what it was like to have someone who was supposed to love you the most leave you to the wolves.
“I prayed for you too, just now,” he said almost casually, as if he were letting me know he had picked up my mail or something equally benign. “You and Olivia.”
“A prayer for me?” I tipped my head, not quite sure why my heart thrummed in response. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“Well, I pray for you a lot. But this was one extra.”
“What was it for?”
Matthew shrugged. “I just asked Him to help us out tomorrow. I know it won’t be easy for you, talking to this woman about her dead husband. So, I asked Him for some mercy on your behalf.”
I wasn’t sure what I thought of it, this praying business. I honestly wasn’t sure I was worth the trouble.
But in the end, I found that I liked it. For more reasons than just myself.
“Olivia is Catholic,” I said as we stared up at the great beams that held up the church.
Matthew turned. “Come again?”
I sighed and turned back to him. “I still don’t know why I did it, but I asked for her to be baptized just after she was born. To give her a little something of her father, I suppose, something she could access in New York, when the time came. I’m not Catholic, of
