Chapter 5

As Sarah took a step inside, the odd feeling that she’d seen Mr. Rossini before was replaced by an uneasiness in her gut. Maybe Choctella wasn’t best before noon? She smoothed her shirt. Were simple khaki pants and a yellow knit T-shirt acceptable in a Catholic school? If Sister Maria provided advance warning, she would have worn her “work clothes”—a solid-colored, A-line skirt and a button-up, cotton blouse. Better yet, she could have dressed in all black—then she’d at least have blended in.

The office was large, about twice the size of Sarah’s new living quarters. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the courtyard and the dormitory beyond. File cabinets, a plain wooden desk, and chairs filled the space. Sister Maria sat at the desk under a five-foot-tall cross. Her outfit was a bit different from Sister Angelica’s—a longer veil, with a rope belted at the waist. If Sarah had been raised Catholic, she would have understood the significance in the variation. Add that to the list for Internet searches.

Sister Maria lifted a hand and spoke in Italian.

A blur of muted t's and flipped r’s spilled from the nun's mouth. Sedia, chair. Phew. At least she'd caught one word. Sarah took a seat in the armchair on the right. “May we speak in English?”

“Very well.” With pursed lips, Sister Maria picked up the top file from the stack on her desk and opened it. “I see you come to us highly recommended. Perhaps this reference will make up for your shortcomings in our native language.”

Sarah bit her lip and nodded. She really needed to spend more time with that language app.

Sister Maria flipped through the file. “You have considerable experience in the classroom, and much more familiarity than most of our American teachers.” She looked up. “May I ask what prompted you to leave your post in the States?”

With the nun’s steely gaze on her, Sarah shifted in her seat. She might have been ignorant of many Roman Catholic practices, but everyone knew the church frowned upon divorce. Yet, how could she answer the question without bringing it up? “Some problems arose…” She chose her words. “Some issues in my personal affairs.”

“I see.”

Sister Maria cast her gray eyes over Sarah, and the silence in the room enveloped the two women. Sarah held the sister’s gaze and strained to keep her lips curved upward, but the nervous energy pulsing inside made her lower lip quiver.

“Would these issues have anything to do with your husband not being with you?”

The words lodged in Sarah’s throat, and she flushed. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Sister.”

Sister Maria stayed quiet, and her gaze bored into Sarah.

“My husband. He asked for a divorce.” Sarah dangled her hands like awkward appendages. She scrunched her fingers then released, but the nervousness remained. She scratched the fabric on her thighs but still found no relief. Finally, she felt for her list in her pocket, removed it, and wriggled the paper as she waited for Sister Maria’s response.

Sister Maria bowed her head in prayer.

She muttered a language Sarah didn’t understand. Latin? Italian? Sarah wasn’t sure. Was she praying for Sarah? For her marriage? A knot formed in her throat, and she wrung the paper.

Rosary clutched in her hand, Sister Maria crossed herself, and then raised her head. “Should you require any counsel, my door is always open.”

“Thank you.” The tightness in her throat eased, and she loosened her choke-hold on the paper. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Yes, well, I like to keep my staff under my care.” Sister Maria rose. “Now, if only I could keep that young Anna from prowling around in the night like a thief, then my conscience would be clear.”

Sarah couldn’t contain her smile. She stood as well and was surprised to find Sister Maria at eye level. Taciturn and tall. Perhaps Sarah would get on Sister Maria’s good side yet.

“My assistant, Sister Angelica, will help you get set up in your classroom.” Sister Maria opened the door.

Sarah nodded and walked out into the hall. Sister Maria closed the door behind her. Well, that meeting could have been worse. She found Sister Angelica across the hall. Her office was smaller than Sister Maria’s but otherwise similarly decorated—including a giant cross on the wall.

Without a word, Sister Angelica stood and guided Sarah through the quiet halls to a first-floor classroom at the front of the building. “The supply closet is next to my office.” Sister Angelica unlocked the door but didn’t open it. She smiled and started down the hall.

Reaching for the knob, she hesitated. She stiffened her fingers around the list in her hand. Today was supposed to be a free day—a whirlwind tour of Rome’s top sites—not a knee-deep-in-lesson-plans day. The rest of the week was reserved for work.

She sighed. A small peek at the room wouldn’t set her back more than a few minutes. She turned the knob.

The door swung open with little effort, and a musty scent drifted out. Sarah stepped inside and slid her hand up a cool wall until she found a light switch. The same bright fluorescent lights that outfitted the hallways illuminated the room. A large plain space, the room had a chalkboard on the front wall, bulletin boards on the others, and student desks arranged in neat rows. Two windows overlooking the residential building supplied natural light, but…

Sighing, she swiped a hand over a student desk, dust puffed up, tickling her nose. What exactly had the prior teacher—what was her name again? Vivian? Veronica?—considered a lively classroom? With no posters on the wall, no alphabet tape on the student desks, and no mobiles hanging from the ceiling, this room was about as lively as Sister Maria’s office minus the cross.

As she stared at the crumpled list in her hand, Sarah slumped her shoulders. She’d have to work non-stop to have this room ready for the start of school. And even then, achieving a cheerful classroom would be a small miracle.

She looked at her list, up at the classroom, and back at her list. The decision bobbed back and forth in her mind like a ping-pong ball. Each choice, prepare for the children or traipse around Rome, tugged at her heart. But only one had dozens of tiny minds at stake.

With a drawn-out sigh, Sarah wadded up the paper, tossed it in a trash bin by the door, and raced down the hall. “Sister Angelica.” She spied swooshing robes ahead. “Could you show me that closet?”

****

Sarah stapled the letter ‘E’ onto her bulletin board and took a step back to make sure the word LITERATURE was straight. The navy letters offset the bright yellow and red paper she’d chosen for the background. The board looked good. But she hadn’t gotten as far as she would have hoped in the last two days. With only one of the three boards finished, she had a to-do list longer than her bed. And she hadn’t ventured outside of Balduina.

“Charlotte’s Web. I love that book.”

Sarah jumped, dropping the stapler on the floor. She turned to find Anna beside her.

“The Boxcar Children. The Phantom Tollbooth.” Anna pointed to the book jackets pinned on display. “The kids’ll love these.”

“Thanks.” Sarah bent and swept the scattered staples into a cupped hand.

Anna sat on the edge of one of the student desks. “So, you seem pretty settled in.”

With staples in one hand and the stapler in the other, Sarah stood, and shrugged.

“Sorry we haven’t hung out. Guess we’re on opposite schedules.”

Still clutching the office supplies, Sarah grinned. They had passed each other in the evenings—Sarah on her way to bed and Anna headed out. Maybe nocturnal mathematicians were the latest millennial trend. “How will you manage when school starts?”

Anna yawned. “I’ll mostly go out on weekends then.”

“That works.”

With her hands, Anna spiked her hair. “I’m on the hunt for some gelato. Wanna come?”

Sarah perked up. “Around here?”

“Nah. In the city.”

A tingling coursed through Sarah, like someone dumped the glitter she applied to the decorations in her veins. The city—Rome. Sarah surveyed her classroom. The desks were clean, each with an alphabet taped to the top. One bulletin board was complete, and everything was cut and ready to be applied to the others. But if she would stay on schedule, she needed to get through another week of lesson plans and start another bulletin board today.

Anna nudged her elbow. “Come on. Have you even gone into the city yet?”

Sarah chewed her lower lip. Visiting Rome was the point of taking this job, right? She was here to enjoy Roman culture, to experience the art she’d only seen in photos, and to take a break from reality. They were talking about grabbing a gelato, after all—not a whole-day, sightseeing adventure.

“Well?” Anna prodded. “You gonna hide out in here all day or what?”

Releasing her lip from beneath her teeth, Sarah slapped the stapler on the desk. “No. I’m not.” She tossed the staples in the bin and grabbed her purse. “Well, are we going?” Anna gave her a mischievous grin.

“We’re going all right.” She drew a pair of sunglasses from her belt loop and slid them on.

Anna headed for the door at her typical warp-speed pace. Sarah paused at the threshold, her teeth grasping her lip again. Should she really be going out? And with this whippersnapper, no less?

“Bus isn’t gonna wait, ya know,” Anna yelled over her shoulder.

As Anna charged ahead, Sarah gave her classroom one last glance. She’d work later—finish another board and do another week of lesson plans, too. Gelato in the city—how could she pass up that offer? She flicked off the light and raced down the hall, hurrying to keep up. Hopefully Anna wasn’t taking her on a wild goose chase.

****

The public bus bumped through narrow streets crowded with parked cars. Mint-green trams bypassed them, their pantograph rollers hissing against catenary wires. Helmetless passengers on mopeds whizzed past, ignoring all traffic signals and crosswalks. Sarah clutched the plastic handle of the bus. These people trusted their rosaries too much.

In the distance, St. Peter’s Basilica dominated the skyline, its dome reminiscent of D.C.’s Capitol. Well, if the rosaries failed, at least the papacy watched over them.

A few stops later, Sarah followed Anna off the bus. She stayed by Anna’s side through streets lined with tall buildings, many with laundry hanging over balcony railings. Farther into the city, the buildings stood taller, blocking the sun like a covered archway. Sarah was about to ask Anna if they were lost, but her friend turned a corner, and the cramped street opened into an expansive square—the Piazza Navona.

The sun beat down on the city’s largest square, which was at least the size of a football field, and Sarah pulled out her sunglasses to take in the view. She strained against her bulging eyes as warmth tingled her fingertips.

Awning-covered storefronts lined the cobbled stone piazza. Rows of vendors selling trinkets, clothes, and prints abounded, and tourists flocked to them in droves. Fountains were scattered all around.

Anna headed toward the largest fountain.

At the center of the square, life-size carvings of cherubs and horses spouting water protected Neptune, the fountain’s centerpiece. The splash of water faded against the buzz of conversations amongst those seated around the fountain’s edge.

As Anna approached, she waved to a young man dangling his feet in the water. They instantly struck up a conversation in Italian.

With Anna busy, Sarah turned her attention to the street performers. A juggler tossed pins from head to hands and back. A man clad in bright silver spray paint stood as still as a statue, only moving when his audience was distracted. If Amber and Steven had been there, they would have insisted on dropping a coin in the performer’s upturned hat. Sarah removed three coins from her purse and added them to the shimmering pile—one for Amber, one for Steven, and one for herself.

The man switched positions, lifting his hand to blow a kiss, and froze mid-motion.

Sarah beamed and added another coin to his lot. Had she been wearing a skirt, she would have twirled, taking in the endless sights.

But Anna had finished her conversation and plunged ahead.

If Sarah didn’t hurry, she’d lose Anna in the crowd. She gave a brisk wave to the performer, tightened the laces on her sneakers, and scampered to keep up.

At the northern edge of the piazza, Anna veered onto Via Agonale. “Here.” She pointed to a door and pushed it open.

The large wooden door looked more like a garage entrance than the door to a shop. Anna heaved her petite body just to budge it. Sarah followed her inside.

The gelateria featured a glass display similar to those back home, except the gelato was in oblong metal trays, as opposed to cardboard tubs. The containers held a variety of exotic, brightly colored flavors, like passion fruit and mango. “What’s that?” Sarah pointed to a label she couldn’t pronounce.

“Stracciatella,” Anna said. “It’s the Italian equivalent of chocolate chip. The best.”

Sarah decided on the olive-green pistachio, handed the man behind the counter a two-euro coin, and accepted the spoon and striped plastic cup.

“Good choice,” Anna said. “You should try it with chocolate sometime.” She paid for her stracciatella.

Sarah licked her spoon. The smooth, cold treat melted on Sarah’s tongue—no chewing required. A mild sweetness and saltiness lingered in her mouth as she swallowed. My God, how did Italians live here and not weigh a thousand pounds? She tugged on the waist of her jeans. Still loose. Not as loose as when she had arrived, but what did she expect? Choctella-slathered bread for breakfast did have its drawbacks.

They exited the shop and strolled the pedestrian-filled streets as they ate.

“My boyfriend, Francisco, is almost as irresistible as gelato,” she said.

Smiling, Sarah scooped up drips of melted gelato on her tiny spoon. “Is that whose shirt you let me borrow?”

“Of course not. Francisco hates fútbol!”

Sarah discreetly licked the inside of her cup—as discreetly as one can, that is—then stifled a laugh.

They arrived at another square, much smaller than the Piazza Navona.

“I want to show you something.” Anna gestured toward a building.

Sarah gave a little gasp and nearly dropped her cup. The building contained an expansive rotunda with columns lining the front. “The Pantheon,” she squealed. She’d read about it in her tour guide about a gazillion times.

“Yep.” Anna entered. “One of the earliest domes built.”

Sarah hurried inside. Tourists filled the building. Some circled the perimeter, while others planted their feet in the center, necks craned to stare at the hole in the dome’s arch. Light streamed through like a spotlight.

“Do you know how much math was needed to build this thing?” Anna swept her hand toward the dome.

Shaking her head, she worried Anna might provide a complete lecture on the subject. But who cared about math? Sarah arched her back for a better view of the oculus. “Tell me about that feature.”

Anna looked up. “The oculus and the door we came through are the only sources of light in the building. Also helps keep the place cool.” She scraped the rest of her ice cream from the side of the cup with her finger then licked it off. “Mmm.” She pulled out her finger with a loud pop and looked up again. “When it rains—which is quite awesome to see, I might add—the oculus ventilates the place.”

“What happens to all the water?” She scanned the building.

“Aqueducts.” Anna tapped a foot on the stone floor. “Drainage system built right in.”

“Huh.”

“Yep. And check this.” Anna pointed to the spot on the wall where the light from the oculus shone. “You can use the position of the light to determine the time. Like a sundial.”

“That’s ingenious.” Anna’s explanation was much easier to decipher than the guidebook’s three-page thesis. Sarah might have to ask Anna for more tutorials. Like how many people were needed to build such a feat? Or worse, how many had died trying?

“You didn’t think I chose Rome for no good reason, did you?” Anna smirked.

A pang jabbed Sarah’s chest. What if Anna asked her reason for choosing Rome? What if she had to explain that she hadn’t chosen Rome at all—rather she had taken whatever post was available so she could leave the US.

Relax. They were discussing Roman architecture, not the meaning of life. The twinge in her back eased, and she ticked a brow. “I thought you chose it for the night life.”

“Well, the clubs, too.” Anna smiled. “But I have been thinking about going back to school.”

“Really? For what?”

“Math, of course.”

“Really? Whe—” Sarah stopped mid-sentence.

The boy from the fountain stood a few feet away. He locked his gaze on Sarah and tapped Anna’s shoulder.

Anna spun.

The boy’s Italian words drifted over Anna’s shoulder. Sarah sighed. As usual, the words were indecipherable.

Anna turned and grinned. “My friend wants to meet you.”

“What?” Sarah’s voice came out in a squeak. She stole a quick glance. The boy was about her height, with long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He buried his hands in the pockets of his shorts, and he darted his brown-eyed gaze between her and Anna.

He pulled out a hand from his pocket and waved. “Marco.”

His thick Italian accent sent a jolt through Sarah’s stomach. She lifted an arm to wave back but ended up giving him an awkward salute. Straining to wiggle her fingers, she creaked out a reply. “Sarah.”

“So-o—o, I’m meeting Francisco for dinner. You two wanna come along?”

“Sì.” Marco smiled.

“I don’t think so,” Sarah said simultaneously.

Anna glared then pulled her to the side. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered.

“Nothing, he’s just…” Sarah’s iron posture morphed into the jitters. She wrestled a stray hair behind her ear to keep her fingers occupied. “How old is he?”

“Who cares? He likes you.”

Warmth flushed Sarah’s cheeks. No one had hit on her for years, let alone someone who was most likely a decade younger.

“Come on,” Anna nudged her elbow. “It’ll be fun.”

Fun? To Anna, yes. Meredith perhaps, too. But an impromptu date with someone she hardly knew, someone she couldn’t even converse with, did not sound like fun. Besides, didn’t she have lesson plans to write? Bulletin boards to decorate? Sarah cleared her throat and kept her gaze fixed on Anna, even though she’d rather have looked back at Marco. “I can’t,” she said in a hush. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

She walked back to Marco and put a hand on his bony, broad shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I can’t join you this evening.”

Marco slumped his shoulders and cast his gaze to the floor. He didn’t respond.

A lump swelled in Sarah’s throat. “I can’t go because…” Her brain felt like melting gelato about to seep out of her ears. “Because I’m married.” The excuse popped out—or rather, it gushed out harder than the water from Neptune’s fountain.

Marco opened his eyes wide, his long lashes licking his lids.

Stepping back, Anna replaced her scowl with wrinkled brows.

Without waiting for either of them to respond, Sarah stormed out of the Pantheon, glancing over her shoulder, “Gotta run!” She traced her way back through winding streets, making full use of her sneakers’ capabilities. As she ran, the scene from the Pantheon played over and over in her mind. Married? What had she been thinking? Any other excuse would have been better. I don’t speak Italian. I have other plans. I have a boyfriend. But married? She stomped her feet harder against the pavement, heart racing and sweat moistening her forehead. Reaching the bus stop, she checked her phone and discovered a flood of texts from Anna.

—Married?—

—Where’s your husband?—

—You could have told me—

Sarah’s breath caught, and her heart thudded harder. She shoved her phone back in her pocket and took an empty seat in the air-conditioned bus. She positioned herself so the air blew directly on her face. It cooled her cheeks and dried her sweaty hair on her brow. Leaning back, she watched the basilica disappear in the distance.

As her pulse returned to normal, Sarah considered a response. Anna had been nothing but nice to her; she even shared information about her boyfriend and dreams of grad school. Sarah, on the other hand, had been less forthcoming. Biting her lower lip, she pulled out her phone and texted back.

—Getting a divorce. That’s why I took job—

The bus stopped, and a group of young Italians boarded.

Her gaze on the group, Sarah studied them as they made their way to their seats. With tanned skin, shiny brown hair, and leather-strapped sandals, they could have easily blended in with Marco. Except not one was nearly as attractive as him. Sarah returned her attention to the phone and typed,

—Sorry about Marco. Not ready to date yet—

As the group took their seats, the bus lurched into gear.

Sarah’s phone buzzed in her hand, and she picked it up. Anna. Another text.

—Sorry :( But not as sorry as Marco—

Sarah leaned back in her seat. Could she still draw the gaze of handsome, young men? If she ran into Marco again, she might find out.

****

Maybe the city allured her. Maybe the possibility of a chance encounter with Marco tempted her. Sarah wasn’t sure. But for whatever reason, she ventured into the city early the next day. She toured Rome until midday, when the sun shined at its brightest and many shops closed for siesta. Then she returned to the school and worked until evening, when she went out once more—this time for a stroll along the Tiber.

As the sun set, Sarah stopped along a bridge connecting the city center with the Castel Sant’Angelo. Golden rays of light glistened on the rolling water. The water rippled and splashed against the embankment. Shadows of flags danced on the fortress walls.

Most tourists knew the castle as a stronghold during Rome’s many sieges, but Sarah didn’t think of the fortress in that way. Neither would Meredith. Holding her phone at arm’s distance, Sarah snapped a selfie with the castle in the background. She added the label “Tosca” and clicked send. Meredith would be ecstatic. She’d taken her first official selfie—not one of the Rome Opera House, but close enough.

Sarah leaned on her elbows and enjoyed the cool breeze blowing off the river. In the dim light of dusk, her silhouette shadowed the waterway below. A lone shadow. A shiver crept down Sarah’s arms, and her heart ached. The breeze picked up, and the wind tickled her bare arms, prickling her flesh with goosepimples.

If Meredith were here, they’d have seen half the city by now. Back home, Meredith was probably busy shuttling Amber and Steven to the pool, preparing them lunches, and making pretend forts with sheets and chairs—although undoubtedly, Meredith would rather be in Rome. But where would I rather be?

Again, Sarah stared up at the castle, and Meredith’s voice echoed in her mind—not her recent voice, but the bell-like soprano tone that had brought audiences to their feet at Meredith’s senior recital.

“Vissi d’arte. Vissi d’amore.”

The opening lines to Tosca’s aria were forever imprinted in Sarah’s mind. I lived for art. I lived for love. How fitting that Sarah now stood where Puccini’s heroine met her tragic end, taking her life after losing her love. Tosca’s lover had been ripped from her, just like Philip had been torn from Sarah.

Sarah dropped her gaze to the Tiber, Tosca’s tomb. In a way, she had lost more than Tosca—not just a husband, but her family and her baby. But if she was honest with herself, that life had been taken from her long before Philip. Her own biology was set against her. Tears dampened her eyes, and Sarah lowered her head. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her exposed arms.

But deep within warmth bloomed, over her chest and through her belly. The sensation pulsed to a familiar song. Tosca’s melody. Meredith’s voice vibrated through her. Sarah lifted her gaze toward the castle. “Vissi d’arte.” She stepped away from the edge of the bridge, closer to the castle.

When was the last time she’d sat at an easel or drawn on a sketchpad? Wasn’t art what she had lived for—to mix colors on her palette or bring a scene to life with gentle brushstrokes? “Vissi d’arte,” she repeated. Warmth replaced the chill on her arms and smoothed her prickled flesh. Sarah picked up her smartphone. “Where’s the nearest art supplies store?” she said into the mic.

Ditta G. Poggi, her search engine informed her, was half a mile away and closed in an hour. Sarah stepped off the bridge onto the street and paused. She stared at the directions on her phone, her hands shaking.

Could she focus on art instead of her past? Could she push away the memories and create new ones—with her hands?