I DIDN’T KNOW WHO WAS more excited, me or Daisy, when I strolled out of the bedroom ready for my first day at work. I knew she was excited, because she had a healthy breakfast and not-so-healthy cappuccino ready for me, and immediately started chirping. “I know you have to talk to the lawyer this morning so I’m sending a car when you’re ready. Hopefully tomorrow we can go in on the bus together, but today, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll be fine,” I told her as she sailed out the front door. “Thanks, Mom!”
Her response was to fire some weird Italian gesture back at me that I’m pretty sure didn’t mean you’re welcome . . .
The phone call with my attorney didn’t exactly go as I had hoped. I had hoped, pie in the sky perhaps, but hoped nonetheless that once Daniel had some time to think about what had happened, what he had done, he would have come to the same decision I had, and agree that ending the marriage was the smartest thing we could do. In fact, I also thought once he had time to get used to the idea that he’d actually relish the idea of no longer being tied down, no longer having anyone to answer to, and he could troll through Boston with his pants down.
He’d committed adultery, not me. Theoretically, it seemed clear that he’d be thrilled to be out of this marriage and back onto the scene, free and clear, single and ready to mingle. But in reality, he wanted to make this difficult.
It was clear cut for me. It hadn’t been an easy decision and I still had so many conflicting feelings I felt like a yo-yo half the time, but I had to admit that once I stepped off that plane and arrived in Rome, I was seeing things much clearer. So I was letting my attorney fight the battle back home while I got to know Rome.
And frankly, I was enjoying the hell out of the freedom of owing nothing to anyone. I went where I wanted, I ate what I wanted, I drank what I wanted, and no one cared! I’d put on five pounds already, and no one had made any snarky comments! So if Daniel wanted to drag this out, so be it. I wasn’t in a rush to return to Boston.
Plus, and this was the part I had never expected, I had a job to start and vases to repair and a . . . life to live?
After I hung up with the lawyer, I took my time getting dressed. Nothing too fancy because, hello, old vases and plaster, but I didn’t want to look like a schlump, either.
Why are you so concerned about looking like a schlump?
Officially, it was because I was volunteering at my best friend’s workplace for a job that she had helped me get and I didn’t want to reflect badly on her.
Unofficially, oh please. There was one very particular reason to look good today. And he stood about six feet tall and rolled his eyes and his R’s when he was pissed at me. A pretty dress couldn’t hurt, could it?
Before I knew it the driver was knocking on my door and the flutter in my belly was on overdrive. I checked and rechecked my purse, tote, and my little lunch bag that Daisy had prepared and was out the door and into the Roman sunshine for my first day on the job.
The architectural firm that Daisy and Marcello worked for was in the San Lorenzo district. A mix of residential and commercial buildings, the neighborhood was grittier than some of the others I’d been in. Fewer fountains and more graffiti, but there was kind of a pulse, a creative buzz in the air. Being that it was near the university, fliers were stapled to every surface imaginable, announcing exhibits and gallery shows, concerts and readings, free classes for those wanting to bone up on their Chinese, and a get-together next week of the Transcendentalism through Pasta Society, where they’d be focusing on changing the political climate while mastering the art of ravioli.
It was a vibrant part of town, young and hip, and felt very of the moment. I could instantly see why an architectural firm that focused on green energy and restoration would have its offices here. Making my way to Daisy’s building on the corner, I headed inside and gave my name to the woman behind the reception desk. While I waited for Daisy to come down, I checked out the directory on the wall, astonished at how many people the firm employed. Daisy’s name was listed along with the other architects, and it thrilled me to see her name there. She had made her own way in this field, and risen to the top with extreme dedication and hard work.
Of course, I also felt a little thrill to see Marcello’s name. I marveled over how this enormous world had somehow become quite small, both of them working together across the ocean from me in Boston, not knowing these very important people knew each other, but had no idea I knew them both.
“There’s my girl!” Daisy was coming down the stairs, fresh as a . . . well. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Nope, just got here.” I spun around, taking in the spacious feel, the modern furnishings, the whole island of glam in a sea of semiseedy. “Very cool.”
“Come on, I’ll give you the five-cent tour before I show you the vase.” She walked me up to her office, passing aisles of cubicles artfully arranged into pods rather than long, boring rows. There were plants everywhere, a yoga studio in one corner, a guy on a balance ball in the other, and I spied at least four dogs hanging out with their owners while they worked at their desks.
It was what I imagined Google looked like. A smaller, Italian Google.
After making our way past some of the enclosed offices and conference rooms, she led me into her office.
“Corner?”
“Hell yes.” She preened, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water out of her little fridge and pouring us each a glass. “I’d say I’m doing okay.”
“Okay? This looks more like killing it.” Sinking into one of the plush leather chairs opposite her desk, I grinned. “Can I say something without sounding cheesy?”
“You can sure try.” Her eyes twinkled.
“I’m really proud of you.”
She looked surprised, but pleased. “Is this the part where I say aw shucks?”
“You can sure try.” I winked.
We avoided the fifth floor altogether. I didn’t know if Daisy was doing that for my benefit, Marcello’s, or both. Knowing her as well as I did, I decided it was for both.
Tour over, we headed back downstairs. The studio was back on the first floor, just around the corner from reception, taking up the entire rest of the floor. A spacious, open-concept room that appeared to have every conservationist tool imaginable. Solvents, clamps, sprayers, the specialized lightbulbs to ensure that the artificial light didn’t damage the pieces more than they already were.
There was a time in my life where I lived in a studio just like this, where I dreamed of a life after college making my living in a studio like this.
“You okay? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I squeezed her arm and smiled. “I might.”
Beneath a large glass dome sat the vase. It was beautifully preserved and unfortunately, the conservator was right, not in nearly as bad a shape as I hoped.
Hoped as in, I hoped it was in a terrible mess and would not only take me forever to restore it—thus giving me more time in the same building with Marcello in the hopes that I could make him not so much hate me anymore—but show off some of my restoration skills.
The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Here it is!” she pronounced, uncovering a table with a single vase, in way better condition than I was expecting. It needed work, don’t get me wrong, but thoughts of working endless hours, late into the night, stopping only to take a quick break to eat the tortellini that Marcello brought because he knew how hard I was working . . . yeah, no.
Men’s voices carried through the glass walls, and my heart raced. My face must have shown what I was thinking, because she gave me a knowing look. “He’s not here. Probably not all week. And before you think it has something to do with you, it doesn’t. He had a few days already scheduled off. Something about his parents and going back to—”
“Pienza,” I finished, pushing away my disappointment. “That’s where he’s from. And it’s fine actually, it’s probably best that he’s not here. It might make me more nervous if both of you were watching me work.”
“Honey, I’m not watching you. Maria is, she’s the main conservator,” she said, pointing over my shoulder. I turned to see the tiniest person with the most enormous hair I’d ever seen who was looking at me like I had absolutely no business being here. “Maria Salvatore consults with us on a lot of our restoration work. She technically works for the Montmartini Museum, but anytime we’re working with a historical site—which is always, here—we bring in someone who can make sure we’re doing it the right way. I’m heading back over to the site, tons of work to do to get ready for the opening this weekend. Have fun!”
“Bye,” I whispered, nervous now that I was alone. With Maria. And a vase.
“So, you are Avery,” she said, walking in a circle around me, something I’d only ever seen in movies or on bad CW shows.
“I am. You’re Maria, right? So glad to meet you. I can’t tell you how thrilled that I—”
“Have you worked on pottery from this time period before?”
I gulped. “Eighteenth century? I have. It’s been awhile, but—”
“And this piece here, see how the neck has been broken? How would you repair?” She eyed me carefully. I took my time examining the vase, inspecting the entirety. It had snapped along the stem, but it looked to be a fairly clean break. The vase itself was beautiful. Wide bottom, long tapered neck, graceful and sturdy. A household piece, put to good use. It could have held water, but based on the faded but still discernable greenish-brown leaf patterns along the base, I’d guess it’d held olive oil.
“Has it been inspected yet for old glue?”
“Old glue?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded, gesturing to a hairline crack just below the current break. “This was mended before.”
“That was also my assessment,” she agreed. “The glue has been removed; what would your next step be?”
“Sand it, prepare it for cement. I’d use a two-part heavy-duty epoxy, archival clear of course, then polish and prime it. Looks like you haven’t lost much in terms of color saturation, so I’d likely leave that alone, except for color matching along the seam, which will be small to minimize additional coloring.”
These were words and phrases I hadn’t spoken in years, and yet they were as familiar to my tongue as unleaded, please and Coke with no ice.
I held my breath as she studied me once more, no doubt weighing what I’d said with her instinct. Finally, she nodded.
“Then by all means, Ms. Bardot, let’s get to work.”
It wasn’t until I stopped for a lunch break that I realized that I hadn’t corrected her when she’d used my maiden name.
MY GOODNESS WAS THAT FUN. I wished desperately that there had been more to work on, more smashed bits of pottery dug up from beneath that bank they were all working so hard on, but by the end of the day I’d finished the vase. Oh sure, I’d stop by the next day to make sure the paint I’d used dried correctly, that there weren’t any last little bits of sanding to finish it off, but it was done. Maria checked in many, many, many times to make sure I wasn’t breaking her ancient vase, but in the end she seemed pleased with my work. I think. It was hard to say, based on the fact that she didn’t smile or frown, just nodded and said that’ll do.
And I never even saw Marcello. But no matter, I was seeing Rome.
Those first few days after the job was done, armed with my backpack and my trusty guidebook, I explored the little nooks and crannies of my new neighborhood and even a bit beyond, getting lost in this beautiful city. Literally and figuratively. And after Daisy came home from work she’d freshen up and we’d head out for the evening ritual, the passeggiata.
Between five and seven each night, Romans paraded around their neighborhoods for everyone to see. Couples, families, friends, everyone would stroll in twos and threes. They were dressed in their finest, to see and be seen as was the custom. The streets were alive after the heat of the day had passed, filled with friendly faces and chatter. People greeted each other as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, catching up on the day’s activities, making impromptu dinner plans, and deciding what they might do that weekend.
While people typically strolled in their own neighborhoods, Daisy used our nightly passeggiata as a way to show me more of this enchanting city. With Daisy by my side, we used the Metro to zig and zag across the city, turning it from a labyrinth of muddled streets into a walkable town.
Excuse me, a struttable town. Because on our evening strolls through the Trastevere, the Tridente, the Prati, I realized that Italians are strutters. They’re proud of their city, of their neighborhoods, as they should be. Not to mention any woman who can navigate those cobblestones in four-inch Bionda Castanas has earned the lifelong right to strut.
What I loved most about these nightly walks were the stuzzichini, or snacks, that were laid out in the tiny bars and restaurants, free for the taking as long as you purchased a drink or two. We’d stroll for a bit, then pop into a bar and devour olives, pickles, little bites of fresh cheese and crispy fried vegetables, whatever was in season. We’d munch on cured salami, tiny pizzas, little rounds of pâté, even pastries and sweets. We typically had only one drink apiece before resuming our stroll; then the monumental task of deciding where to have dinner. There was no shortage of incredible restaurants and we enjoyed beautiful food every night.
And it was during these passeggiatas that I got to know Daisy again, as a grown-up. Though we’d been friends forever, there were things I’d missed as we’d pursued our opposite-direction lifestyles, and I was really enjoying spending time with my friend again.
The following Wednesday afternoon, I was napping on the couch. A habit I’d fallen into after traipsing across the city all day, it was my new favorite pastime. The phone woke me and I scrambled to answer it. In my sleep haze I never stopped to think whether I should be answering someone else’s phone.
It was a good thing I answered it.
“Hello?” I said, rolling over to check the clock. Whoops, later than I’d thought.
“There is this man. He makes incredible pizza,” a voice said. I knew that voice.
I sat straight up, bonking my head on the overhead lamp. “Okay? Ow!” I rubbed my head. Unbelievable.
“I am hungry.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, chuckling to myself. My body responded to Marcello’s voice, little shockwaves at war with my determination to play this cool. I imagined him in his office, coffee in hand, and a smile on his face. “Wait, are you asking me out for pizza?”
“It is very good pizza,” he replied, his tone giving away nothing.
“You know, it’s awfully late in the day. You’re assuming I don’t already have plans,” I teased. Wait, was I flirting? And yet . . .
Daisy was out tonight and I was only going to flip a coin again and see where it would lead me.
The new sense of freedom was intoxicating. Not having to constantly be running from one country club meeting to the next was a treat. It was nice not to have to pretend that I enjoyed spending my time with Junior Leaguers. All those women with the same pearls and the same cardigans, and the same knowing and sympathetic glances . . . It made me wonder how many of them knew what my husband was up to. Or if any of them were involved with him.
But as a ray of late-afternoon sunshine broke through the window and my thoughts of home, I realized that none of those women had what I had. What I might have.
An evening with Marcello. And all that might entail.
Decision made, I grinned. “I can be ready in twenty.”
“I’m outside.”
“Wait, what?” I cried, jumping off the couch and running to the front door. Peering out the side window, there he was on the stoop with the phone up to his ear.
“I see you.” He waved.
“Gimme ten minutes,” I huffed, hanging up and quickly stepping away from the window. I ran to the bedroom, ripped off my shirt, and tore through the dresser looking for a top that didn’t need to be ironed.
I skidded through the hallway and stopped at the antique oval mirror. “Fuck,” I groaned, and tried to smooth down my hair. I had showered and then napped, not taking the time to dry my hair.
For anyone with naturally curly hair, that’s a disastrous combination. It was everywhere, wild and untamed. And of course Daisy’s apartment had eaten every hair tie I’d brought. I looked around wildly for a hat. A fedora or hell, I’d even wear a knit cap in this humidity. There was a silk scarf hanging from the coat rack and I grabbed it just as he knocked at the door.
“Just a minute!” I called out, whipping the scarf around my head and trying to stuff my hair behind it.
“Can I at least come in?” he called.
“No!” I shouted, and frowned in the mirror. I’d tied it back as best I could, hiding the bulk of it underneath the scarf, sixties style. I hated not feeling pulled together. Daniel never saw me with a hair out of place. A button was never missed, a shoe was never unpolished, and lordy knows the occasional pimple never left the house uncovered.
“Hi,” I said, swinging the door open when I finished tying the scarf’s bow.
Once again, in the country where every male was always presentable and pretty damn good looking, he was stunning. The sun from the courtyard lit him up from behind, making him appear angelic and devilish at the same time—beautiful.
“Your shirt is outside inside,” he said when I stepped onto the porch, the door closing behind me with a quiet click.
I looked down. Sure enough, it was not just inside out, but backward, too. What was it Daisy said? Dio mio.
“Turn around.”
“Che?”
“Turn around so I can fix my shirt,” I said seriously, starting to pull my arms through.
He chuckled softly, disbelieving, but turned. “You know I have seen you. All of you. Many times.”
Oh my.
“That was college-age Avery. Before things started shifting and sinking like your Colosseum,” I explained, tucking the shirt back into the front of my yellow capris. “Okay, I’m decent.”
Marcello began descending the steps before he turned, smiling up at me.
“You look . . .” he began.
The scarf had come loose. One end was caught in my hair but the rest was flying behind me in the breeze. Along with my hair.
“That bad, huh?” I asked, self-consciously rubbing a hand over the wayward curls.
“No, now you look how I remember.”
All I could do was grin. Silly, toothy, hopeless.
Until I got downstairs and until he swung his leg over a— “Scooter? You expect me to ride around town on that?”
He blinked back at me, confused. “Yes?”
“Have you seen how crazy people are on these, these, tootabouts?”
“What is tootabout?”
“You know: toot toot! And then you all drive into traffic like a bat out of hell, all over town! I’m not getting on that thing.” I crossed my arms. I’d been involved in several near misses by some nutty Roman on a Vespa, and I didn’t wish to experience the madness from behind easy-to-crumple handlebars.
Marcello got up, closing the distance between us once more. “What city are you in?”
I rolled my eyes. “Rome.”
“Exactly. And what is that phrase? When in Rome . . .”
“Marcello, that’s not the point. The point is dead—which is what I will be if I climb on that thing.”
I stood with my weight on one hip, tapping one foot, frowning with arms crossed. Wild hair blowing in the breeze. He just started to laugh.
“What?”
“Mannaggia,” he sighed.
“What?”
“I say nothing changes,” he repeated, but this time with a mischievous smile.
“I don’t get it.”
“How puffed up you get when you’re afraid of something. You are like that little fish who blows up when it feels threatened. You did the same thing when we went on that tour boat.”
“And I was right about that! We ended up half drowned!”
He shook his head, his eyes warming to the memory. “Half drowned is not drowned, is it? We got back in the boat and continued with our trip, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “Soaking wet, though.”
He took another step. “My favorite part,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “I could see right through your blouse.”
“Pervert.” I smiled in spite of myself.
“Do you trust me?”
“Completely,” I said without hesitation.
He looked over my shoulder at the Vespa. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
“You promise you won’t go too fast?”
His eyes danced. “I promise.”
For the record, never trust an Italian’s version of what constitutes as too fast.
We zipped through Trastevere, around the Vatican—not a short distance by the way, in less than fifteen minutes. In traffic. Right before I had climbed on and wrapped my arms tightly around Marcello’s body—which is an entirely different story and one I’d likely come back to when I was slipping off to dreamland later—I’d mentally calmed down by reminding myself that scooters weren’t cars and therefore not capable of going very fast. More of a putt-putt than a vroom-vroom.
Couldn’t be further from the effing truth. We vroomed our way around town, zipping in and out of traffic, taking off like a shot several times fast enough that I was sure my hair was going to blow off. The horn on a Vespa shouldn’t be so weenie. It should be a giant foghorn, something more representative of its ferocity.
All I could do was bury my face against Marcello’s back, my lips pressed tightly together to squelch the tirade of swearing, and hang on.
Oh, to hang on. My hands, which had been wrapped around his waist from the second we took off, were clenched against him. Twice, when stopped at a light, he reached down and slid his hand across mine, soothing . . . or just touching?
My face was buried against his back, and sweet merciful lord did he smell good. Sense memory, what a tricky thing. He no longer wore the cologne I’d been used to when we were together before, but he still had the same scent, that clean soapy smell that some men have. Earthy and pleasant and all Marcello.
These little things I picked up and noticed only in the nanoseconds between stops and starts. The rest of the time I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and prayed to whatever holy spirit seemed to be hanging over this city at all times to let me off this thing.
“Oh you sorry, sorry, son of a bitch,” I wheezed, climbing down from behind him when we finally stopped and I stood up on wobbly legs. “That was too fast.”
“How can it be too fast? We were the same speed as everyone else—”
“Shush.” Acting on instinct alone, I rose up on my tiptoes and pressed one finger to his lips, my hair flying wild all around me. “Give me pizza and I’ll forgive you.”
And because he was Marcello, he kissed that finger, bit that finger, then gave me a wolfish grin. “Pizza.” He caught my hand, and pulled me inside the restaurant.
He caught my hand. I don’t even know if he knew he was doing it, it was so instinctual. My hand in his snapped me right back to the past, where I hardly went anywhere without my hand in his. Squeezing tightly while exploring the tide pools in Cadaques, or linked lazily while he explored my tummy with his tongue, it seemed to me now that our entire time together could be summed up by a simple hand holding.
Daniel never took my hand. And to be fair, I never took his, either. It never felt natural, holding hands with my husband. And how telling was that?
So into the chaos of Pizzarium Bonci I went, holding Marcello’s hand without a second thought, each finger knowing exactly where to go, comfortable and yet thrilling enough to make a stupid smile spread over my face.
Pizzarium Bonci was so small it could barely be called a restaurant. But I was beginning to learn that the tiniest spots in Rome tended to have the best food. This little pizza shop had three stools crowded around one little table, a stand-up bar on the window wall, and barely room for two people at the counter.
I’d never seen pizza like this before. Trays and trays of long, rectangular pizza, cut sideways almost like a French tartine, but thick and piled high with the most delicious-looking toppings. Traditional, with fresh mozzarella and basil and what looked like an incredible tomato sauce. Nontraditional, with figs and prosciutto and . . . was that mint? Foie gras, salsiccia, cherries, feta, cured black olives, capers, ricotta, Serrano ham, anything and everything that could be described as delicious was scattered across these beautiful pizzas in carefully paired concoctions.
But this was no quiet romantic spot; it was chaos. Cooks shouting from the kitchen, the guys behind the counter shouting to the customers in line, and the customers shouting back their orders to be heard over the din. It was loud, crazy, and wonderful.
Marcello was trying to ask me a question, but I could barely hear him.
“What did you say?” I asked, leaning closer to him with an expectant look on my face.
He laughed and tried again. “What . . . good . . . okay . . . me . . . decide?”
I shook my head with a laugh, gesturing around to indicate how hard it was to hear him.
He rolled his eyes, but leaned closer. And as he put his mouth right next to my ear, bringing us impossibly close once more, I shivered in spite of the overheated restaurant. “What looks good to you?”
Mmm, was that a loaded question, especially when accented by the puff of air from those beautiful lips on my suddenly frantic skin. I closed my eyes to ground myself.
“Or is okay for me to decide?”
Yes, you decide. You decide it all: the how, the when, the where, the how many times, and the how loud I’ll scream.
Careful, Avery . . .
Not trusting my voice, I nodded, pointing to what looked good, and he shouted it out, gesturing wildly along with the guy behind the counter. They went back and forth a few times, finally deciding on four pieces, all different kinds. He carried the slices wrapped in grease-dotted paper while I grabbed a couple of drinks from the cooler, and we headed out to the street where it was less chaotic, snagging a tiny table just outside the front door.
He handed me a piece. “Start with this, very traditional. Ricotta, zucchini flower, fresh mozzarella. You will love.”
I bit into it, gooey, stringy cheese pulling back on itself while I chewed away. I moaned. “Thif eh suh goo.”
Marcello nodded, taking his own monster bite. As he chewed, his eyes closed in an expression I knew very well. He was satisfied.
“What kind is that?”
“Spicy ham, fried onions, and a small bit of apple.”
I was surprised. “Apple?”
He lifted his slice to my mouth. “Bite.”
I did, and of course it was fabulous. I licked my lips slowly and sighed a little in appreciation. His eyes watched as my tongue darted out to catch a little spot of tomato sauce just below my bottom lip.
“Madonna mia,” he mumbled, leaning against the side of the building. It was nice to know I could still make him rock back on his heels.
“So, have you been in Rome since you finished up in Barcelona?” I asked, digging into another piece. Cherries, foie gras, and fresh basil. Heaven.
He chewed slowly and methodically; possibly weighing his options? He finally swallowed and said, “I stayed in Barcelona for another year.”
He nodded, then arched an eyebrow. “Not just working.”
“Oh.” Oh . . .
Well you didn’t think he just pined away for nine years, did you?
I bit into my pizza, chewing furiously now. “Where’d you go then?”
Amused by my reaction, he smiled. “I worked in Dubai for eighteen months, new construction mostly. Spent almost a year in Jerusalem, where I started getting more into the green technology, upcycling original materials when we could, then spent a few months in New York—”
He was in New York? He’d been that close to me and hadn’t . . . How could he have gotten in touch with you? And better still, why would he have gotten in touch with you?
“—and then got a line on a job back in Rome.”
All the places he’d been. All the things he must have seen. Once more I felt that little pang that reminded me of how one could live a life when they grabbed it by the balls and just went for it.
“And now you’re here,” I said, still amazed at everything he’d accomplished.
“And now you’re here.” His eyes met mine, searching, wondering.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask. In those nine years, who’d been alongside him on these great adventures? Was it one woman? Two women? Several? Many? Who had shared his bed and his life all these years, someone special or just someone? I wasn’t sure which I was more interested in.
And just how special was this Simone he’d been all over the other night?
I could have sat there for hours and just asked him questions with my eyeballs, but the pizza place was hopping and there were people circling our table like sharks.
Finished, I got up and tossed our wrappers into the recycle bin at the street corner. I felt his eyes follow me with each step.
My phone buzzed as I was walking back to the table. It was the lawyer emailing to tell me that Daniel’s attorneys (yes plural) had requested another meeting, and it wasn’t looking good.
“Ah shit,” I muttered, stabbing at my phone and shoving it back into my purse.
“Everything okay?” he asked, touching my elbow. I blinked up at him, the worry eating away at the happiness I was feeling from being with him again. “We can go?”
“No, everything is fine.”
He seemed satisfied with my answer until he saw me rereading the email again on the way to the Vespa. The crowded street had gotten even crazier with the line of people outside of the pizza shop tripling in size.
“If you are in need of a friend to talk to, you can talk to me,” he said, throwing one leg over the scooter and offering me his hand to help me on.
“Is that what we are? Friends?” I asked, taking his hand but making no move to get on behind him. Not yet.
He pondered, searching my eyes for something. Answers? Hesitation? Second thoughts? “I think I’d like to be.”
I saw something in his expression change then. Guarded, yes, they’d likely be for a while. But something was breaking down, changing, smoothing out where it concerned me. Tonight was proof of that. I could feel an enormous weight lift right off and float away into the air, hanging somewhere over the pizza place. “Okay.” I nodded. “Friends.”
And with that I climbed onto the Vespa without a second thought, happy to once again slip my hands around his waist and hang on so very tightly. I caught his eye in the side mirror, and he grinned, pleased that I was becoming more comfortable riding with him.
When we pulled up in front of Daisy’s I let him help me off, wanting to keep him close. Now that I’d been wrapped around him once more, my body was reluctant to let him go.
I did let him go, but as he walked me up the stairs and to Daisy’s door, I noticed that the distance between us was shrinking. In all ways. This made me happy. In all ways.
“The pizza, you liked it, Avery?”
God I loved the way he said my name. At the door, I turned back to him, dreamy eyed.
“I loved it. Thank you.” I held out my hand to him.
He looked down, then at me and grinned. “What am I to do with this?”
“Shake it? Hold it? Kiss it?” It might be too soon for inside, but I could good night flirt with the best of them.
Taking my hand, and in the most excruciatingly slow way, he raised it to his lips and pressed them to my knuckles. He kept his eyes on mine the entire time, burning through me with one light kiss, then another, and finally a third. Bringing the other hand up, he repeated it, kissing my knuckles with three sweet pecks. With my hands in his, he brought his lips back to them together and held them there.
I exhaled a shaky breath. When he murmured, “Buona sera, Avery,” his breath puffed out across my heated skin.
He tugged playfully on the end of my scarf, headed back downstairs, and sped off into the night, tossing a ciao back over his shoulder. I giggled a little at the sight of this powerfully sexy man riding a tiny scooter. I hated to admit it, but it was pretty fun tooling around town on the back of one of those things. Would it become a habit?
Maybe. Possibly. We could all use a little vroom-vroom in our day-to-day lives.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT I was back out on the town with Daisy, our nightly passeggiata taking us to the Monti neighborhood. And after checking out the scene and making sure we were also la bella figura, or cutting a beautiful figure, we settled in for dinner at a lovely little bistro with outdoor tables set up to take in the scene, as well as view the Madonna dei Monti just as the nighttime lights were beginning to twinkle on.
I drank it all in, along with a perfectly chilled glass of prosecco.
“What’s with the sigh?”
“Hmm?” I asked Daisy, tearing my gaze away from the fountain.
“You just sighed into your sparkly. What’s up with that?”
“It was a happy sigh—don’t worry about it.”
“Girl, I finally stopped worrying about you the day you got off the plane from Boston.” She snorted, digging into her purse for her ringing phone. “And speaking of worrying . . . Ciao, Marcello, what’s going on?”
I smiled into my prosecco, shamelessly listening in on her conversation.
“What? No! No, they can’t do that! Who would use duct tape on a fourteenth-century wall covering? What? Oh man, okay, you tell them that for every inch of duct tape I have to scrape off, we’ll charge them another five hundred euros. That seems fair, right?”
She put her hand over the phone and whispered to me, “Who in the world would think it was okay to hang a Happy Birthday sign on a six-hundred-year-old tapestry?”
Then she returned to her phone. “Okay, let me know if I need to come down there. You know how much I love a good ass kicking. No, I’m in Monti—at that little place with the truffles and cheese? Yeah, she’s here. Mm-hmm, I will. Sure, sure, I’ll ask.”
I was embarrassed to admit how fast my heart started beating when I knew he was asking about me. I might also be embarrassed to admit how hard it is to drink prosecco while grinning. I cleaned myself up with my napkin while she finished her call.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Until he stops screaming. Okay, ciao.” She put her phone back into her bag, crossed her legs, and sat back with her menu, casually flipping through it.
“So . . .” I said, prompting her to tell me about her phone call.
“So . . . I’m thinking about the tortellini with the artichokes and the porcini. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“And . . . ?”
“Hmm, I suppose I could have the grilled shrimp with the lemon and fava beans—that sounds really good. There’s this place over by the Trevi that has the best fava beans—”
“This is me, officially hating you,” I said, sitting back and flipping through my own menu aggressively. “This is what it looks like.”
“Oh stop, you’re so fricking cute when you’ve got a crush. One night out for pizza and you’re smitten all over again! Although, since you were involved before, is it technically a crush? Do you move past all of that when—”
“And this is me, officially getting ready to strangle you. This is what it looks like.”
“I got that, yes,” Daisy said with a laugh. “He asked about you, asked how you were doing. He wanted me to make sure that I told you well done on the vase.”
“Really?” I squealed, then hid behind my menu when several tables looked over. Likely wondering why the obviously American girl was so bouncy. “Really?” I asked again, in a much quieter voice.
“He also asked if you’d be coming to the opening of the new bank we’ve been restoring.”
“Oh. Really?” I tried so very hard to sound nonchalant and not at all interested. My best friend didn’t buy it for a second.
She snorted. “It’ll be filled with art people. Those old paintings and mosaics always bring out the art community in town, as well as someone from the antiquities ministry. They love to see all those old dusty pieces we unearthed during the renovation brought into the light and on display. But you know, you don’t really seem all that interested, so I’ll just tell him that it wasn’t your cup of tea, and that—”
“This is me, officially plotting your demise. This is what it looks—”
“And this is what you look like when you realize you’re going to get to spend an entire night with Marcello and a bunch of old frescoes and a vase that you had a hand in restoring.” She made a show of grinning like a crazy person, all moony and swoony. “In case you were wondering.”
“TELL ME AGAIN how you guys got this job?” I asked, tucking an arm in hers as we headed in the direction of the party at the bank.
She scrunched her face up, sidestepping a couple arguing on the sidewalk. “It was a mess. The firm we were going up against underbid us. We told them that it was a shady move and they’d be sorry because they weren’t as qualified as we were with dealing with frescoes that age and deterioration.”
“I’m guessing they didn’t listen?”
“Nope. They took the cheaper bid and a month later they came crawling back.”
We stopped in front of a crowd of people who had gathered near a man painting Girl with a Pearl Earring on the sidewalk in chalk. It was amazingly accurate for such rudimentary equipment and uneven concrete.
“So what did they do that was so terrible?”
“Someone gave Jesus Billy Idol blond hair.” She paused, snapping a pic of the artist’s work. “Frosted tips and all.”
I was laughing so hard, it took me a second to catch up with her.
“I have a Polaroid of it at the house. I’ll show you tonight.”
Ten minutes later we arrived at the party celebration for the restoration. It was so crowded that people had spilled out onto the street with their champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Plucking a drink from a tray, I sipped, praying that my nerves would settle before seeing Marcello again.
Something happens on a cellular level to your body when you sense someone near you. It’s amplified when it’s someone you’ve been intimate with. My skin felt like a current was running over it, zips and zaps sparking me to life.
I could see him in my periphery, sliding through the crowd with ease. There was an awareness about his movements that drew your eyes to him. Casually, he chatted, shook hands with men in suits, and gave hugs to the women whose hands lingered a bit too long. It flared up some long-hidden jealousy.
“What’s everyone surrounding?” I asked, standing on my tiptoes to check out a glass-covered pedestal table in the center of the room.
“That’s one of the mosaics we uncovered and preserved,” Daisy said, leading me over.
Marcello was explaining the piece’s history when we arrived, a captive audience of eight women who had dazzled looks in their eyes.
“This, ladies, is Daisy Miller; her team is responsible for this. Daisy, would you like to say a few words?”
Never one to shy away from the spotlight, Daisy greeted Marcello with two cheek kisses before taking his spot in front of the mosaic.
Unsure whether I wanted to listen to her talk about the piece or disappear into the shadows with him, I waited.
“You know what this reminds me of,” he said, sliding in behind me in the crowded space.
Spinning around slowly, I casually sipped my champagne, his eyes on the lipstick smudge on the crystal.
“Tell me.”
He angled us toward a semideserted corner. “Catalunya.”
It’s incredible how one word can evoke so many memories when said by the right person.
Hearing Marcello whisper it took on an entirely different meaning. “The museum. That was a magnificent structure. I remember the Romanesque frescoes well. Have you been back?”
I was going for casual but it sounded overeager—but with good reason. The Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya held so much significance for us. It was the spot of our first official date in Barcelona.
He shook his head. “Someday . . .” Let’s go now, I thought, mentally calculating the distance by train.
A waiter breezed by, bumping Marcello’s shoulder and pushing us together. His hand slipped to my side, his thumb smoothing the fabric of my skirt at my hip.
His eyes swept the length of me; maybe he paid special attention to the cut of my blouse. It was fitted, but not too come hither.
“I wonder,” he said, leaning back against the wall. What was he up to? “Would you like a tour?”
“A tour?”
He nodded. “See the work that we’ve done? That you’ve done?”
“The vase?”
“It is here,” he replied.
I looked around, seeing Daisy still caught up with patrons, playing the part of lead architect and project manager. I saw dozens of people milling about, sipping champagne, tasting tiny treats, enjoying the party. I looked over his shoulder, around the corner where he was now headed, looking back at me questioningly.
There was no party in the direction he was headed. Not another soul.
“Lead the way.”
“DAISY WAS THE LEAD on this,” Marcello explained as he headed down the narrow hallway, our steps leading down across the ever-sloping cobblestones, deeper into what was originally a monastery. The farther we went, the more narrow the corridor, the closer we got. “It is beautiful, yes?”
“Beautiful, yes,” I agreed. I was trying so very hard to look at impeccable woodwork, the pristine condition of the ancient stone walls, but all I could see were his fingers trailing along those walls and that woodwork. All I could think was what those hands would look like on my body, what they had looked like on my body, once upon a time. A nervous laugh bubbled up, and I pretended to cough. I couldn’t get my bearings around him.
I could feel his eyes on me. Moving over my face, skimming over my body, which was already beginning to show the effects of an entirely carb-based diet. Here, that didn’t matter. Here, men loved curves. I remembered how much Marcello had loved mine, my semester in Spain adding at least fifteen pounds. When I came home, Daniel had lightly suggested I start taking spin classes at the BU gym.
Marcello stepped closer, standing right in front of me. My heart beat harder.
“Do you want to see it?” He leaned in again, his body nearly flush with mine.
“What?” I sputtered, nearly choking on my champagne.
“Your vase. I will show you. Vieni qui. Follow me.”
“Right. Sure,” I mumbled, following blindly behind him, praying for a cool breeze.
We reached an ancient archway with painted vines that twisted and turned up the sides and across the plaster. Down here it was still old Rome. And now, in this space that was so ancient and so beautiful, I was finally in my element, and even the sight of Marcello couldn’t take my eyes from the beauty of all this . . . antiquity. To me, even old, cracked walls were masterpieces here. Who had crafted these, how long had it taken? What had they been thinking about when they built this hundreds of years ago, often with bare hands and limited tools? Those kinds of things had always fascinated me.
I could see how strongly Daisy’s team tried to preserve the original structure and design of the building while bringing in the new features. What was incredible was how they merged the old and new together so seamlessly. I had trouble spotting which was which.
I circled the room, taking in the colors, trying to decipher the story from the wall art. The old, musty smell filled me with memories of Barcelona, where the two of us had explored museums and churches and structures like this. Since seeing Marcello again, nearly everything was bringing up a memory.
Walking hand in hand down a Barcelona street as we laughed. Sitting in countless cafés as he patiently tried to teach me Italian. On my tiny bed, curled around each other with the sun slanting across our naked bodies.
I turned, looking for Marcello, and found him leaning casually against a wall, studying me. His arms were crossed over his broad chest and the knowing smirk was back, along with that sexy, knee-buckling grin that had me immediately scouting for available horizontal surfaces.
“What are you looking at?” I asked, feeling the blood fly to my cheeks.
“Nothing,” he said, pushing off the wall. “Everything.” He circled me like prey in the jungle. “You,” he said with an honesty so bare that my hand flew to my neck, where I knew my skin was now flushed.
I was aware of every step he took; I could feel him as he walked around me. Having seen, touched, and tasted every inch of this man, I knew what I was dealing with. His voice was dark, husky, and goddamn it washed over me in the best possible way.
Reaching out, he took my hand in his. “Come,” he said roughly. He cleared his throat and led the way out of the antechamber and into another small room that was blocked off with velvet queue ropes and a sign in Italian that I assumed meant barred entry, but that Marcello ignored.
He lifted a leg and hopped over the rope. Turning, he held a hand out for me.
I gestured down at the tight green silk wrapping around my hips and thighs. Bending down and slipping underneath it would result in either flashing him (bad), or splitting it up the back since it was so damn tight (very bad). “No way.”
Without a word, he reached around my waist and lifted me effortlessly over it. I slid down his body until my feet brushed the old floor. He could have let go. He should have let go—but he didn’t.
Marcello’s rough thumbs found the sliver of skin between my skirt and the tight top I was wearing. Sweeping it across, he rubbed the skin just so. Back and forth, searing into my skin.
His breath whooshed out, and I knew what would follow. The low rumble deep in his chest that I’d always heard just before he kissed me. My tongue slipped out, licking the last of the stickiness from my wine away. His eyes caught the movement and there it was. The deep resonant sound, the clenching of his fingers against my side as he tugged me the tiniest bit closer.
My breath caught. I was afraid to move, scared that whatever bubble we were in would pop and we’d realize we were out of our depth here.
His nose brushed mine, with his lips hovering close. He was almost there. It was so natural. I knew these lips. I knew what they felt like, how they moved over every inch of me . . . God, I wanted him! It was as if no time had passed, and the woman I am joined the girl I was then in wanting this to happen more than almost anything.
Because in that moment, there didn’t seem to be anything at all wrong with letting nature take over. Wanting so badly to take that final step, I brought my hand up to his hair, twisting a curl around my finger. The arm that circled my waist pulled me even tighter to his body.
I was always a girl who loved to be kissed. Sweet little pecks that said I love you quickly or deep, searching ones that you felt through your body like a live wire over your skin. It had been a long time since I’d felt someone’s lips against mine in such a needy way. It had been an even longer time since I felt a kiss that made my toes curl and that had me throwing caution to the wind.
Maybe because we were at a party filled with people he worked with and it happened to be in a building that used to be a monastery, but I was wild with desire and it was terrifying just how much I wanted this. But then I heard a tour group coming toward us and something changed, I changed. I didn’t think, I reacted and pushed him away.
I exhaled shakily, then took a much-needed breath. This was exactly what I didn’t plan to happen and I let it.
The twinkle in his eyes vanished and was replaced by that same hurt he had shown me that day at the café. “Marcello, I’m—”
“Sorry. I know.”
“Marcello, wait,” I called out, but he’d already taken off.
I searched the party for him, but much as I had that first dinner, he did everything he could to avoid me.
“What happened?” Daisy asked, pulling me over to the side.
“Things almost got out of hand. I have to apologize. Again.” I ran my hand through my hair, frustrated. “I feel like all I do with him is say I’m sorry.”