Chapter 4

Half a day later, Sarah disembarked in Rome, her legs stiff. The gangway from the plane was no different than any Sarah had experienced—creaky floorboards and scuffed walls. The bathroom, where Sarah took note of her grimy clothes and filmy teeth, was alike those in the States, too. But the allure of a new city and a fresh beginning beckoned.

After a quick swish of mouthwash and a wipe-down with wet paper towels in the ladies’ room, she tucked her purse under her elbow and made a beeline for immigration.

From behind a glass enclosure, a handsome young immigration officer spoke in a thick Italian accent, calling her forward.

As he flipped through her documents, Sarah scanned the room. The soaring ceilings, constructed of exposed metal, swallowed the sounds of the travelers corralled by ropes. The floors, ceilings, and walls were all white. The only bursts of color beamed from the hanging directional signs in shades of green and red—the colors of the Italian flag.

Even the people were different. The young immigration officer, the policeman at border control, and the attendant directing passengers were all tanned with dark hair. Their features were so dissimilar from Sarah’s pale skin and fair hair, and they all gestured flamboyantly as they spoke in Italian.

Wondering if she should pinch herself, Sarah smiled. She was in Rome, Italy!

“Long stay.” He looked up.

The immigration officer gave a gentle flip of his ‘l.’ Grinning, she nodded. Yes, her year-long trip was longer than a week-long stay of tourists passing through the city. Her trip was long enough to see all the city’s architectural feats, explore all the art museums, and—she eyed the man in front of her—enjoy the handsome Italian men who looked nothing like Philip.

“I’ll need documentation.” He furrowed his thick brows.

Sarah stared at the hard line of his brow. Her work VISA wasn’t enough documentation? Well, maybe she wouldn’t enjoy this man. She extended a slip of paper through the opening in the glass. “Of course. I have a job as an English grammar teacher at the Saint Theresa School in Balduina.”

His gaze stayed on the paper.

“If a problem exits,” she added, “I have a contact number here.” She offered him another sheet.

“Un momento.” He reached for the nearby phone.

His tone was curt. His movement was swift. Sarah inched her shoulders closer to her ears and tapped her fingers against the glass. Who was he calling? The US Embassy? The deportation office? She should have paid closer attention when the placement agency filled out the visa application. Maybe they’d forgotten the “h” at the end of her name. And the little card the airline attendant asked them to complete—would they ding her for writing one line in lower case?

As the man grumbled on the phone, he shot a glare at Sarah, flicking his gaze to her fingers on the glass.

Sarah flushed and pulled back her hands. She turned her back toward him and busied herself with her cell phone. She had no signal, but the home screen image of Amber giving Steven a noogie drew her back to her last visit. Meredith said nothing could go wrong. A loud smack sounded behind her. Sarah jumped and turned.

“All clear.” The officer lifted a metal stamping device from her passport and handed it through the glass. “Enjoy your stay.”

Sarah relaxed her pinched shoulders, placed her phone in her purse, and smoothed her palms against her legs. She took her passport, reveling at the first stamp in her book. Meredith was right. She had nothing to worry about.

An hour later, scanning the arrival hall, Sarah couldn’t help but admit she had a lot to worry about. For starters, her luggage was lost. Okay, her bags weren’t really “lost”—the airline knew where they were. Somehow, knowing her stuff landed in Dubai didn’t exactly make her feel any better. What if she never received her fuzzy, teddy-bear slippers or her volumizing shampoo? And her jeans! Her favorite jeans, special ordered in a size eight tall.

A man brushed past, knocking her purse strap off her shoulder. She gripped the strap—the contents of her purse were now the only belongings she had—and took a deep breath. She still had her passport, her money, and her toothbrush. She would get by.

Stepping into a room crowded with hired drivers holding little white signs, Sarah searched for her name. She didn’t find it. She made a second pass around and this time spotted a petite girl in a short skirt and a midriff top who was engrossed in her cell phone. Hanging at an awkward angle, shoved under the girl’s bare arm, was a sign reading “Ms. Miller.”

Ms. Miller. How could she have forgotten she’d applied in her maiden name? Sarah made her way through the crowd. The girl sported a boyish hairdo. Unfeminine spikes plastered her hair all over her head. If not for the skirt, Sarah might have passed her for a boy. She extended a hand to the girl, who chomped on gum. “I’m Sarah Miller.”

The girl stared for a hanging second, her agape mouth revealing a bright-pink piece of gum.

“Oh, um…” The girl must speak Italian. Why couldn’t she remember how to introduce herself? Mi cimo? Was that it? Apparently devoting her flight to studying basic Italian phrases had proved futile.

“Sorry.” The girl crammed her phone into her bra, and then squeezed Sarah’s hand. “You caught me off guard. I was expecting someone…well…” She released her hand and blew a bubble. “I’m Anna.”

Sarah opened her mouth to speak.

“Most girls”—Anna snapped her gum—“take these kinds of jobs right after college, you know. Veronica and I, we both came last year ’round this time. Only three months after our graduations.”

As Sarah fought the numbness in her lips, she struggled to form a reply.

“Veronica’s a nice girl.” Anna adjusted her bra, tugging at the strap to secure the phone tucked inside. “Up and eloped with a German guy she met on holiday. Happened about two months ago. But I guess you figured something like that, for the post to open up last minute and all.”

Sarah nodded. The taffy-jammed gears in her brain slowly processed Anna’s comment.

“So, where’s your stuff?” Anna asked.

“Huh?” Was thirty-three considered old these days?

“Your stuff.” Anna pointed at the empty space beside Sarah.

Sarah shifted her purse to the crossover position. They’d have to come back to the discussion of how old she actually looked. “A mix-up with my luggage occurred.”

“I get you.” Anna smirked. “Happened to a friend of mine who traveled to Amsterdam last year. They confiscated her stuff at immigration after the dogs got a—”

“No.” Sarah stiffened her shoulders. “That’s not what happened. My luggage was lost. They said I should have it in two days.”

“Don’t worry.” Anna winked. “I won’t tell Sister Maria.”

She could protest but the beginnings of jetlag took hold, and if she didn’t find a bed soon, she might fall asleep standing. “Fine,” she said through a deep exhale. “Can we go now?”

“Oh, right.”

Anna scurried toward the exit almost as quickly as she spoke. The outside air was thick like a hot, steamy shower, and the sun burned bright in the sky. Fanning herself, Sarah took a seat in the back of a white, four-door minivan.

Seated beside her, Anna poked her head between the driver and passenger headrests as she spoke in Italian.

Sarah only caught the words “Balduina” and “grazie.”

Leaning back in her seat, Anna picked up her cell phone and grinned as she used her thumbs to type. She turned to Sarah, her thumbs still tapping, but kept her gaze on Sarah. “Sorry I’m so jittery. Had three espressos before I came. I’m not used to getting up so early.”

Sarah checked her watch. Seven thirty p.m. Either Anna was a serious night owl or an honest-to-god vampire. Considering she thought Sarah was old, vampire was off the table. Sarah studied her new co-worker. Anna was like a young Meredith on steroids—or on three espressos. Sarah couldn’t recall Meredith ever taking three shots, but if she ever did, her behavior wouldn’t be pretty.

The taxi merged onto a highway ramp, and Sarah stared out the window. Buildings towered in the distance. Would they pass any sights along the way? The Coliseum? The Spanish Steps?

“So, you’ll be teaching grammar in the lower school?” Anna asked.

“Yes. You?” Sarah kept her gaze on the approaching buildings.

“I teach maths, as they call it here, in the upper school. You know, trig, calculus, and the like.”

The taxi hit a bump, and Sarah banged her head against the minivan’s roof. Rubbing her head, she reconsidered Anna. Maybe this tomboyish free spirit had more to her than Sarah had thought. “What brought you to the school?”

“Well, you know. I wanted an adventure after I finished at MIT.” Anna popped her gum. “I was bored.”

Bored? MIT? Sarah snapped up her dangling jaw. “Tell me, Anna. Did you know Italian before you came?”

Anna typed on her phone and shook her head.

Seeing Anna’s thumbs fly across the screen, Sarah could only imagine how fast the neurons were firing in her brain. “And how long did you take to learn the language?”

“Three weeks. Well, four if you count written fluency.”

Sarah opened her eyes so wide her lashes tickled her eyelids. Anna was no different from those quirky, disruptive kids in her classes—the ones who completed their worksheets faster than she could pass them out. Sarah marched those students straight to the gifted classroom. She narrowed her eyes at the spritely character across from her. “And did you find adventure here?” She silently estimated Anna’s IQ.

“Yup.” Anna looked up from her phone. “I’ve been all over. Not just Italy. Switzerland. Germany. Have my sights set on England this year.”

Excitement brewed in Anna’s black eyes, and a tingle rushed Sarah’s spine. Anna was exactly who she needed—a translator, a navigator, and most likely a walking encyclopedia of Italian history. “How do you find the time?”

“We’re done at school by four, and Thursday the school closes at one. We’re supposed to use the free time for planning, but I always take off.” She paused, snuck a peek at her phone, and grinned. “Just watch out for Sister Maria. She’s a real stickler for rules.”

During their brief telephone interview, Sarah hadn’t given much thought to the temperament of the nun and head of the school. As soon as she’d heard the words “Rome” and “living quarters provided,” she’d been sold. Sister Maria could have pronounced herself the satanic nun from a horror flick, and Sarah still would have accepted.

“Like the two nights a week you’re on duty,” Anna continued.

Sarah pressed her eyebrows together. “Duty?”

“You know…monitoring the dorms. Just make sure none of the girls get in trouble. Oh, and lights out at ten, eleven for us.”

“Wait.” Sarah held out a hand. “We have a curfew?”

Anna nodded. “Sister Maria says we should set a good example for the girls. But”—she grinned—“just because your light is out doesn’t mean you have to be in your bed.” She pulled a key from her pocket and dangled it in front of Sarah. “Teachers have a master key, and I make use of mine.”

Sarah slumped back into her seat and heaved a heavy breath. So much for catching an opera premier or stargazing from a quiet piazza. Anna’s phone rang to a hipster song Sarah didn’t recognize.

“Excuse me.” She answered her phone and started chatting away in half Italian, half English.

Leaving Anna to her strange gibberish of mixed languages, Sarah surveyed her surroundings. Meredith wouldn’t believe this. Hell, any American who hadn’t traveled out of the good, ole, barely two-hundred-year-old USA would. The city was a juxtaposition of old and new. Ruins—authentic, millennia-old, crumbling stone structures—stood next to modern, glass skyscrapers. Even the graffiti artists didn’t distinguish between the two. Spray-painted words, all indecipherable to Sarah, blemished new and old structures alike.

The cab made a sharp right and ascended a steep street. The graffiti drifted into the background, and a green road sign indicated they were approaching Balduina, a suburb northwest of Central Rome. Sarah shifted in her seat to see out the rear window. Rome’s skyline at last appeared. Domed roofs, bell towers, and steeples melted into the setting sun. Which dome was St. Peter’s Basilica? Which was the Pantheon? Her heart raced. Did it matter? Soon enough, she would explore them all.

At Via Massimi, the cab turned. A mix of residential and commercial buildings, as well as vast, green, hilly areas, obscured her view of the city. They were getting close. Sarah made a mental note of the local farmacia and supermacato. Seeing as she had no toiletries, she would need to visit soon.

The cab stopped in front of a grassy courtyard enclosed by a stone wall. Three buildings flanked the corner lot, one of which bore a wooden sign etched with the words “Scuola Della Santo Theresa.”

Anna spoke again with the driver in Italian. As she shoved her cell phone in her back pocket, she passed him some Euros. “Come on,” she said to Sarah. “I’ll show you your room.”

They entered a stone building resembling an old church, with double wooden doors so large, Sarah’s father wouldn’t even have to bend his six-foot-eight frame to enter. She gazed up at a spiral staircase that ascended three stories to a large dome plastered in white stucco. At each landing, two wings spanned to the left and right.

“One teacher is assigned to each floor.” Anna jutted her chin. “Veronica, the girl you’re replacing, had a room on the first floor.”

They walked through the foyer, turned right, and stopped at the first door on the right.

Anna used her key to unlock the door, and then removed a key from her pocket and handed it to Sarah. “Make sure you don’t lose this, okay? Sister Maria would have my head!”

Sarah clutched the key. What would the room serving as her only private quarters be like? Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she pushed open the door. Darkness obscured the room and its contents.

Anna bent her arm around the threshold and flicked on the light switch.

Inside, a twin bed, a dresser, and a desk sparsely furnished a room about the size of her former master bathroom. Only a thin cotton bedspread and two pillows outfitted the bed. The desk was so small it might have even been for a child. Beige walls, which smelled recently painted, stood bare except for a cross above the bed. Without a doubt, this accommodation was Sarah’s most pathetic since her college dorm room.

Sarah didn’t cross the threshold. Stale air burned her lungs, and a knot formed in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently willing that when she reopened them the room would change. But when she did, everything was the same. Sarah just kept staring.

“You must be tired,” Anna said.

Sarah nodded.

“My room is just above yours, so shout if you need anything.”

Shout? Sarah scanned the room. No phone. No jacks visible. She drooped her shoulders. Nope—this room was way worse than the college dorm. Sarah turned her back on the room. “Would you happen to have a change of clothes?”

Anna looked Sarah up and down. “Umm, I have a shirt you could sleep in. Be right back.”

The slap of Anna’s flip-flops echoed through the hall. Sarah hovered for a minute before creeping over the threshold, one foot, and then the other. Inch by inch, the lump in her throat swelling with each step, she waded into the room.

Swallowing hard, she dropped her purse on the desk, eased onto the edge of the bed, and did a rough estimation of the length. Was it her imagination or had twin-sized beds shrunk? Her feet would hang off for sure. She fingered the thin coverlet. Would the blanket even cover her?

She stood, the springs squeaking, and took the few steps to the bathroom. Lime green tiles screamed 1970s. A pedestal sink and bare walls gave no indication of any storage space. The windowsill would have to serve double duty.

Beads of sweat dampened her brow, and Sarah was suddenly aware of the stifling heat. She opened the window, which screeched as she nudged it up. But the air outside wasn’t any better. She stepped back into the bedroom and scanned the walls. The room contained no fan, no window AC, and no thermostat. Only a radiator sat below the window. Was she really expected to live in such antiquated conditions?

Above her, floorboards creaked. Anna.

“I told you I’ll be by later,” Anna said.

Her voice sounded through the ceiling as clearly as if she were in the same room.

“I’m just finishing things up here,” Anna continued.

Sarah sighed. She could cross privacy off the list of amenities, too. The noise of Anna’s footsteps and voice above ceased. A few moments later, Anna appeared in the doorway.

“Here you go.” Anna held out a fútbol jersey and a bar of soap. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the local shops, and you can pick up whatever else you might need.”

“Thanks.” Sarah took the items and clutched them to her chest.

“I’ll see you in the morning then.” Anna turned to leave but then stopped. “This place isn’t so bad. Once you start exploring the city, you won’t mind the shabby room.” She smiled. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Sarah closed the door. She washed her underwear and bra in the sink with the bar of soap and hung them to dry on the shower bar. Then she put on Anna’s shirt and slid into bed. The size XL jersey hung on her shoulders like her dad’s old flannel shirts and reeked of men’s aftershave, the bed’s metal coils poked her back, and her feet most definitely hung off the end. But she had a place to sleep, a nightshirt to wear, and a city, just steps away, that demanded to be explored. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she smiled. Tomorrow would be the beginning of a new Sarah.

****

9:00 a.m.—St. Peter’s Basilica

11:00 a.m.—Castel Sant’Angelo

12:30 p.m.—Piazza Navona

Sarah added the word “lunch” before Piazza Navona and picked up the guidebook from her desk. Now for her afternoon plans. Head east to the Pantheon or south to the Campo d’ Fiori? What did the travel guide recommend? She flipped through the book’s write-up on the Campo d’ Fiori.

Unease over her new surroundings had faded, not only because she’d almost mapped out a day of touring, but also because her suitcase had been delivered while she was out gathering necessities with Anna. She was now the proud owner of a pair of palazzo pants that fit her more like Bermuda shorts—she shoved those in the bottom of her dresser—an international cell phone, and even a quasi-acceptable tin of tea.

Anna had been quite tight-lipped throughout the morning shopping trip; perhaps she was hung over. But her disposition was a relief, as it meant she made no age comments or smarty-pants rebukes. She didn’t even snap her gum when Sarah fumbled to count out change. Who knew Italians didn’t use one-euro bills? Only coins.

Seated in her desk chair, Sarah dove into the guidebook, a smile tickling her lips. “The market at Campo d’ Fieri closes in the early afternoon.” The Pantheon it is! She added the landmark to her list. Four architectural feats in one day. If this excursion wasn’t enough to make up for the lack of AC, she didn’t know what would.

A floorboard squeaked above. Sarah looked upward. Cracks etched the stucco ceiling and plaster clung by a lifeline. What a miracle pieces of the dilapidation didn’t crumble under Anna’s footsteps. Anna was dainty—she also knew the city as well as a local. Should she invite Anna to tag along? No—the spunky brainiac would have to get up before lunch, and based on her zombie-like demeanor at half-past nine today, that awakening time seemed unlikely. So much for using her for travel assistance. But the tram couldn’t be too hard to figure out, could it?

She thumbed to the transportation section in the guidebook. Ticket types galore: standard tickets, twenty-four-hour tickets, even weekly. They seemed easy to get ahold of, too. She’d just need to stop by the newsstand on the corner or find a machine in the metro station—

On the desk, Sarah’s new smartphone jingled to let her know the battery was fully charged. Time to give the app Anna recommended for learning Italian a whirl. She dog-eared her page, swiped the phone’s screen, and scanned the home screen for the app. She hesitated opening it. Should she call Mom? She picked up the phone, rotating it in her hand. Want and should were totally different things, but if she put off calling Mom for another day, her mom might just board a plane and hunt her down.

She started to punch numbers. After a few tries, she figured out how to tap in the international number correctly. Apparently +39 was to dial into Italy, not out. But, at last, the phone rang—an unfamiliar, muffled, machine-gun fire of beeps. Sarah pulled the phone from her ear, crossed to the bed, and fished her slippers from underneath. The beeps stopped.

“Sarah! I was so worried.”

Mom’s tone was one of typical exasperation. “I’m fine, Mom. Long couple of days, but fine.” Sarah slipped on her fuzzy slippers and leaned back on the bed. But her feet still felt cold, and the bed was somehow even more uncomfortable than before.

“Well, you sound exhausted. I told you this trip wasn’t a good idea.”

“Mom.” Sarah shut her eyes and prepared herself for Mom’s haranguing, the constant, albeit well-intentioned, reminder of Sarah’s state of affairs.

“I mean to just up and leave in the middle of a divorce is absolutely unheard of.”

“Mother, please.” Sarah’s pulse quickened, and she tightened her hands around the thin coverlet’s edge. “Everything’s settled. We just have to sign the papers.”

Her mother’s snort crackled the receiver. “Settled? You should have taken that skirt-chaser to court.”

Stiffness bounded her jaw. She clenched her teeth. Just a few more minutes. I can get through this conversation. Sarah focused on the coverlet, grasping a loose thread and unraveling the hem. Destructive, yes, but at least the motion kept her from clicking off. Or worse, hurling the phone across the room.

“You deserve more than just an even split, honey.”

Sarah wound the thread around her fingers.

“You can still come home.”

Tighter.

“Take him to court.”

Tighter still.

“That Casanova deserves—”

And snap. “Enough!” Sarah’s voice echoed off the plaster walls. Her fingers throbbed. The hem of the blanket was unraveled.

Silence reverberated through the receiver.

Sarah rolled her lower lip under her teeth. She needed to change the subject—fast—before she further damaged their already strained relationship. Standing, she returned to the desk, and picked up the guidebook. “Why don’t you come and visit? You said yourself you always wanted to tour Italy.” Sarah spoke in a steady tone.

“I don’t know, Sarah. I haven’t traveled since your father passed.”

“I know, I know. But maybe now’s the time to start again.”

A sigh rushed the line. “Well, maybe.”

They chatted a few more minutes, the conversation sticking to non-confrontational topics: the weather in D.C., Amber and Steven, and the great deal Mom scored on a sundress from the department store. The usual stuff.

When at last Sarah clicked off, she was relieved the talk hadn’t veered back to Philip, or worse, Amanda. She returned to her tour planning. School started in a week, and if she had any hope of squeezing in sightseeing before she threw herself into preparations, tomorrow would have to be it. Hopefully, she’d find the tram stop. And, even more of a hope, she wouldn’t miss her stop—or worse, find herself lost amongst a throng of non-English speaking locals.

****

The gravity of Sarah’s offer didn’t hit until the next morning.

I asked Mom to visit? She choked on her tea, inciting a coughing fit, and clutched the edge of the counter in the kitchen she would share with the residential students and teachers. What had she done? If she could maintain a civil conversation with her mother, perhaps she wouldn’t have to resort to rash measures. But polite discourse was much easier when her past wasn’t constantly thrown in her face.

Sarah released her grip on the counter and sipped her Earl Grey. Things would be fine—Mom probably won’t come, anyway. The tickle in her throat subsiding, she took a seat at the empty table, and stared at her breakfast—high-fiber bread smothered in Choctella and purchases she’d made with Anna the previous day. She picked up the toast, sinking her teeth into the chocolate gooiness. Wow! No wonder they didn’t sell peanut butter in Italian grocery stores. Who would want that after tasting—mmm, she took another bite—Choctella?

She licked her fingers, restraining herself from gobbling the rest in one bite. She examined the nutritional contents of the jar instead. The language read as gibberish. Probably better she didn’t know. Undoubtedly, the spread had more sugar than the American standby, but the splurge was worth it, and she wasn’t about to search for an international foods store.

International foods. She smirked. Who would have thought she’d ever live somewhere where American food was sold in an international store? As she retrieved her carefully crafted list from her pocket, she resisted the urge to tap her feet. She checked the clock on the wall. Eight thirty. Just enough time to catch the tram to Vatican City.

“Buongiorno,” a voice chimed.

Sarah jumped, dropping the list on the floor. A petite, middle-aged woman in a habit stood in the doorway. “Buongiorno,” Sarah replied in her best Italian accent, which was total crap.

“I’m Sister Angelica,” the woman continued in English. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No.” Sarah bent and retrieved her list. “I was just finishing breakfast.” Sister Angelica gave a small smile, the white of her bandeau a stark contrast to her olive skin.

“Sister Maria sent me to get you.”

“Oh.” Sarah shoved the list back into her pocket. “Of course.”

With a bob in her step, Sister Angelica led Sarah out of the dormitory, across the courtyard, and into the main school. They weaved through the halls of the building, not so different from any other school Sarah ever taught in. White linoleum floors, offensive fluorescent lighting, and uniformly placed wooden doors decorated the building. At least this part wouldn’t be an adjustment.

A few turns later, they reached a door with a large metal plate that read, “Preside della Scuola.” President of the school? Principal? Sarah would have to search the Internet later.

Sister Angelica gave a perfunctory knock on the door, poked her head inside, and spoke in Italian to the preside.

But instead of Sister Maria appearing, a man well over six feet tall emerged from the office. His gaze hung on Sarah for a moment, before he turned his attention to Sister Angelica. He spoke in rapid-fire Italian, but Sarah made no effort to decipher his words. She was too busy studying his face: his tan skin, his narrow Greek nose, and his curly black hair, sprinkled with gray.

“Buongiorno, Signore Rossini,” Sister Angelica said.

He nodded to the nun, and then shifted his gaze to Sarah. “Buongiorno.”

The warmth in his voice matched that of his eyes. Sarah struggled to find her voice, and she was pretty sure her silence had nothing to do with her inferior Italian. “Buongiorno,” she croaked.

The man—Mr. Rossini—smiled back before striding down the hall.

His broad smile lifted his glasses right off his nose. His long legs moved in a steady gait. Something about him was oddly familiar.

Sister Angelica cleared her throat.

Sarah snapped her attention back.

“When you’re finished, please come to my office, and I’ll show you to your classroom.” She pointed to a door across from Sister Maria’s then gestured for Sarah to enter.

Sarah fought against the lump in her throat, swallowing hard. Please let Sister Maria be more tolerable than Mr. Rosen. Please.