Roman Crazy (10 page)

Then his phone pinged, and now he was the one rolling his eyes. “Daisy is wondering where we are and she . . .
oh
. . . she wants to know what I am planning to do with you.”

I waited a beat or two, willing my heart to stop racing. Would he say nice to see you again, have a good life? Would he enfold me in his enormously powerful arms and crush me to his chest and whisper the words I was longing to hear, that he was sorry and that he had missed me and that thank God I was back?

“One more coffee?” he suggested.

Best line ever! It was innocent enough for anyone else, but for us—with the complicated history that we had—it spoke volumes. Neither one of us looked away. For the briefest moment he seemed sad, so very sad, but then the tiniest of smiles crept back in when he texted her back.

I wanted to ask what he said.

But for now, I was just grateful to have another few moments with Marcello, sitting for another coffee and getting to ask a few of my own questions, if he'd let me.

“So how long have you been working with Daisy?”

He seemed taken aback by the switch in topic. “It is, let's see . . . four years now. We have worked on several projects together since she joined the firm, and we are just finishing one up.”

“Yes, she told me about that. An old bank. Lots of frescoes, mosaics, right?”

His face lit up with excitement. Marcello had always been passionate about his career.

“Yes, it's been a bank for almost 150 years, but it had been a monastery since the fourteenth century. The bank modernized it in the 1870s, and then again in the 1950s—they made some terrible changes then. We worked with them to develop several
new spaces this time, strengthening the integrity of the original shell.”

When Marcello spoke about work his accent became a bit more generalized, more
of the world
rather than
of a small town in Tuscany
. I could easily see him presenting his plans in a boardroom, in some beautifully restored space filled with like-minded professionals. This was Grown-Up Marcello . . . and it was something to see.

“Sounds amazing. Maybe I'll get to see it while I'm here,” I murmured. I knew I'd see the vase at the office, but the bank itself, that may be too much for either of us to handle.

“And how long is that?” he asked quietly.

I exhaled on a long sigh. “That's the million-dollar question.”

“What does a million dollars have to do with you staying in Italia?” He looked puzzled.

“It's just an expression. I have no idea how long I'm staying. Could be a couple of weeks, could be a month, could be . . .” I let my voice trail off, not wanting reason and logic to get ahold here just yet.

His phone pinged again. Looking at it, he drew in a breath and held it, lips sealing together in a flat line. His eyes moved over the text a few more times before he looked at me. “Sorry, work.” He seemed distracted.

“Oh, do you need to go?”

Why did you give him an out? Keep him talking!

“No, it's Daisy, something about she found the perfect volunteer.”

Keep him talking about anything but that!

“It's just some vases,” I blurted.

Brilliant work, Avery.

“What is?” he asked, setting the phone down next to his cup.

When the waitress stopped back to see if we wanted something besides coffee, I was grateful for the distraction. It gave me time to think about how to tell him that we may or may not be working in the office together. It was a distraction until she left two dinner menus on the edge of the table.

Depending on how this conversation went, I wondered if we would be making it through the coffee, let alone dinner.

“What Daisy has to talk to you about is the vases.”

“I don't understand.”

I nodded, draining my coffee. “You lost a volunteer. The bank job you guys are working on?”

“Yes.” He nodded slowly, confused. “Anna. She is pregnant.”

“So you need someone to pick up where she left off. With the Romanesque vases.”

“Yes.”

“I know how to do it.”

“So.”

“You need a volunteer.”

“And . . . ?”

“I told Daisy that I would do it.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it quickly with a snap. By the third time he did it, a small sound came out, but nothing more.

“They're just vases, Marcello.”

“They are not just vases, Avery. You know it is not.”

“It is what we decide it is. Nobody has to define it. Vases, just vases.”

“What if they take you a week, a month?”

“Then they take a week or a month.”

“And there is no one waiting for you at home?” he asked, his voice sounding casual, but his eyes told me otherwise.

“That's complicated.”

And it was. It certainly wasn't a lie.

A lie by omission is still a lie,
Daniel would say. Ironic. I wondered how many
omissions
he omitted telling me about.

“I see.” His eyes narrowed. “Home is still Boston, yes?”

Huh. He was on a fact-finding mission. I nodded. “Yes. And Rome is home for you now? How far are we from where your family grew up? I know you grew up fairly close to here.”

I could fact find, too.

“You remembered,” he replied, allowing a small smile to escape before putting his business face back on.

Of course I'd remembered. I remembered everything.

And just like that I was thrown back to Barcelona, to him, to the lazy days and frenzied nights. To the carefree and the unhurried, when not one thing was tedious or monotonous.

For years I'd kept myself from thinking about him, hating myself for what I did. For what I didn't say. Mainly for how I let things unravel. Because if I had thought about or contacted him after months or years of silence, there'd be no way I could get through my monotonous, routine life. And now here he was, and the floodgates were open, and I was experiencing everything again like it was the first time.

These were dangerous waters.

“Your hair, it is different, no?” he said, changing the subject once again.

“Not really. It's the same curly mess it always was,” I said, smoothing it back.

“Why do you tuck it away?”

“My hair plus this humidity? Nightmare.”

“Hmm,” he replied, but didn't elaborate. “So, you are still in Boston, where someone may or may not wait for you—”

“Yes.”

“—and you are here in Rome. For a while. We don't know how long.” He studied me for a moment. “And the museum is okay with this?”

“Museum?”

“Or gallery—I assume you're working for one or the other. Or perhaps you are teaching? I always thought you would make an excellent teacher.”

Pay dirt. He'd unraveled me in less than five minutes. Suddenly I didn't want to play this game anymore.

“I'm not teaching. Or working, for that matter.”

“So you are . . .”

“So I am. There's not much to it,” I said, frustrated that I had nothing to show for my life so far. It was the same feeling I got when Daisy asked about sketching.

“And now you are in Rome,” he said, glancing up at me, waiting. “And my newest volunteer.”

“Am I?” I tried to keep the giddiness out of my voice, the smile off my face, and the twinkle out of my eye, but it just wasn't possible. “You're okay with it?”

Nodding once, he stood and motioned for the check. “Like you said, they're just vases.”

WALKING ME BACK TO DAISY'S,
he weaved us in and out of side streets that we hadn't taken the first time. This path had far less tourist signage to help me along the way. Usually, every corner building had a street sign on it and a stack of signs shaped like arrows pointing every which way to send you toward the landmarks.

This was more of a tour through pocket-sized neighborhoods
that seemed to exist on the outskirts of the larger section of Trastevere.

Throughout the entire walk, it was agonizingly quiet. Not a cold quiet like it was on the way to the coffee shop, but a thoughtful quiet. His hands were tucked into his khaki shorts and his long legs ate up the sidewalk with purpose.

“Do you know where you're going?” I asked, unable to take the silence anymore.

He harrumphed. “Of course. It is only your second day, yes? I take you a different way so you see more.”

“Oh,” I whispered, taken aback by the thoughtfulness of it. “Thank you.”

We had just turned a corner that I recognized as near the Metro stop I arrived at my first day. Had I been paying attention that day, I would have seen the enormous Poggi art store across the street. I stopped, but Marcello carried on not realizing that I wasn't behind him. The iron gates were down but the interior lights were lit enough that I could see that the store looked well stocked.

“What it is?” Marcello asked, coming to stand beside me.

Our shoulders brushed lightly, but it was enough that we both noticed and stepped away from the other.

“It's nothing. I was just going to snap a picture so I remembered where this was.” If I was correct, this was just about two blocks away from Daisy's. And this was definitely a place I wanted to come back to.

He crossed the street and looked in the glass door before bending down to read the sign.

“Chiuso il lunedi eh, they are closed Mondays,” he explained. “Tomorrow they open at nine.” He handed me a business card he'd picked up from a holder on the door.

I smiled in thanks and tucked it into my purse.

By the time we reached Daisy's, it had started to drizzle. I looked up at the late-afternoon sky, blinking through the drops and loving the coolness it brought to my skin. Even though today was mentally exhausting, I felt like I came out of it stronger, wiser even, and most certainly in a better place with someone who was once so important to me. We could even end up as friends at the end of this . . .
whatever this was.

When I looked back to Marcello, he was watching me intently, and his features had softened the tiniest bit.

“Did you want to come in?” I choked, and quickly explained, “I meant out of the rain.”

“I'll be fine. Go inside, Avery.”

Climbing the stairs, I turned to where he waited. “Bye, Marcello. And thanks for today.”

“
Ciao,
” he called, waving once before returning his hand to his pocket. “I guess I will be seeing you soon.”

It wasn't until he disappeared around the corner that I let myself in the front door. Leaning against it, my head thudded against the wood and I counted to ten. Then to fifty, and finally, when I reached seventy-five, I felt solid enough to walk up the stairs to the apartment.

I
W
OKE TO BUSTLING NOISES
in the kitchen that seemed much louder than usual. Clatter. Clatter clatter. Coffee beans grinding. Clatter clatter. Grind grind grind. I'm all for a good cuppa joe, but this was ridiculous. Finally, silence reigned and I scrunched up the pillow, trying to nestle back in. Closing my eyes I tried to drift back to sleep, a sleep enhanced by the dream I'd been having about two giant men named Romulus and Remus kicking Daniel square in the—

Two more clatters, then a pronounced banging that sounded like someone repeatedly opening and closing the fridge. Giving up, I shrugged into a robe and padded out to the kitchen.

“Oh! Sorry, did I wake you?” Daisy asked, blinking at me as innocent as a kitten.

“I'm sure that someday, someone somewhere will fall for your bullshit.” I yawned and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. “But today is not that day.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” She grinned, knowing full well she'd been caught and not giving the tiniest of a damn. “But now that you're up . . .”

“I'll tell you all about yesterday? Which I could have told you about last night. Where were you? I finally went to bed at eleven.”

“Sorry about that. You got my note, right? I'm telling you this bank job is a killer. I'll be glad when it's done. Then it's on to the next one. But not right now; right now I require Marcello details. As soon as the coffee's done—I feel like this is going to be the kind of story that's told over coffee.” She headed over to the Signor coffee machine, I joined her, and the two of us watched it drip.

“Didn't we do this twenty-four hours ago?” I asked.

“We did. What does that tell you?”

“That you need a new television show to obsess over?”

“Bite me, Bardot. Tell me what the hell happened—”

I grinned in a way that made her sigh with delight. “Yes!” she exclaimed.

“No, no. Don't get too excited. We just had coffee,” I confirmed. “And we talked. And I apologized. And he growled a bit, in that Marcello stubborny way he has; you must have seen it before.”