Tom stepped on the ferry headed for Palermo at 7:00am, helping himself to an unsatisfying breakfast of Cracker Jacks. He kept his head down to avoid any onlookers who might recognize him, and promptly found his cabin, where he stayed for the duration of the trip. He did little except stir. With no one to keep him company, the voyage was anything but enjoyable. However, he sat with a pocket sized sketchbook in hand and began to draw a mockup of Sicilian architecture much like the architecture he assumed he would see in Palermo.
Night fell and the above deck chatter dissipated. All he was left with was his thoughts. He tried to sleep but found himself tossing and turning like the ocean beneath him. He felt almost seasick, a condition he never before experienced. Every time he closed his eyes he saw flashes of dark brown hair, crystalline green eyes, a dimply smile, and even that ridiculous black coat. He heard that rich voice singing a cut from one of the operas he was working on our simply laughing at a horrible joke. He smelled bergamot and oak. He felt warm hands and long fingertips. Every sense said one thing: Peter.
He craved Peter. However, Tom was no fool and knew that, because of his actions, Peter would likely never trust Tom again. Especially since Tom would rather have died than seen a psychiatrist. It was too risky. He knew it would invite Peter's ire, but if Peter hated him already, did it make much of a difference anymore? The singing and laughter disappeared and was replaced with crying. Peter's crying. Crying that Tom caused. Tom clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his skin until he decided to not even try sleeping.
Tom spent the remainder of the night staring at the floor above, hoping that the trip to Palermo would be enough to get him out of Herbert Greenleaf's hair long enough to clear his name. He was no stranger to new locations, after all. He hoped Jack Baker would be accommodating without being cloying.
Night became morning and he reluctantly wandered above deck, politely nodding and greeting the odd passenger but avoiding any conversation beyond basic pleasantries. A kindly older woman asked if Tom was okay and he assured her that he was, and as soon as the arrival announcement was made, he was primed and ready to make a beeline to Jack Baker's house. When given the all clear, he stepped off the boat and took a deep breath.
He wanted desperately to take in the sights: the Churches of Martorana and San Cataldo, Teatro Massimo, Pretoria Square, and Mount Pelligrino, but he hadn't a moment to waste. He took a bus to the Piazza Pretoria until he came across an old stucco building that seemed quite bleak amongst all the splendor. He rang the doorbell and a short, slight man with sandy colored hair and a pensive expression opened the door.
"Hello, you must be Tom. I'm Jack. I hope your trip went well. Let me take your bags."
Jack was surprisingly strong for his petite stature and he walked Tom up the stairs to what would be his room.
"I'm sorry if I disappear on you. I'm working a lot these days. The piazza's got some prime real estate and it's my job to convince people to buy it. I wish I had the money my potential buyers did. Help yourself to any food or drinks. Here's a spare key so you can come and go as you please."
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Tom had a momentary flashback to his key conversation with Peter and involuntarily shuttered.
"Hey, you okay?" asked Jack.
"I'm fine. Thank you for being so accommodating. I appreciate it."
"Of course. Mr. Greenleaf tells me you got into a mix-up. Must be stressful. Can I get you a drink? I have some gin and vermouth. I could whip up a few makeshift martinis."
"That'd be great, thank you."
Jack smiled. This man had all the charm of Dickie with the decorum of Peter, and he was movie star handsome. Tom couldn't help but feel a bit enamored immediately. However, that dark room was reserved for one man, and he wasn't about to open up the door again. He shoved away his attraction and drank. He pretended to enjoy it, although he secretly hated gin.
"Do you want to take a quick tour around the piazza, or would you rather just stay in and rest for the evening?"
"Probably rest. Thank you, though."
"I'm up early but I'll try to be quiet when I leave for work. Would you like me to leave you be for the night? I can hang by in the living room and see what's on the television."
"I don't want to be rude, but that would probably be best right now."
"It's not rude at all! You're under a lot of stress. Don't worry about a thing, Tom. You're not an imposition. You're a guest. Anything you need, just ask."
