Italian for Beginners (19 page)

“Of course.” I scooted over a bit. He sat down beside me, and despite myself, his proximity in the bed made me flush. “Look,”
I said after I’d taken a first sip of the thick, dark espresso. He gazed at me intently with his pale green eyes as I went
on. “I’m so sorry about last night. I really am.”

Marco stirred his coffee. “It’s nothing,” he said with a shrug.

“How can I repay you?” I asked.

Marco looked up in surprise. “That is not necessary. I couldn’t just leave you there.” He paused and stirred his coffee again
thoughtfully. “But perhaps you can come see me sometime at work, okay? And we can meet properly? You know, when I’m not strolling
the streets of Rome picking up lost tourists, I work in a little café not far from where I found you. It’s called Pinocchio.”

I nodded. “I’d love to come.”

“Good. It is settled.” He stood up from the edge of the bed. “I must leave for work. Would you like to take a quick shower
first? I’d offer to draw a bath for you, like in the movie, but there really isn’t time.”

Marco seemed to enjoy playing a one-sided game of
Roman Holiday
without me.

Twenty minutes later, I had showered, changed back into my outfit from last night, and used what little I had in my purse—a
powder compact, mascara, and lipstick—to make myself somewhat presentable.

Marco took a quick shower after me, and he emerged from the bathroom already wearing what I presumed was his work uniform:
a crisp white shirt and black pants. His hair was still a little wet, and the strands glistened in the light.

“Ready?” he asked, grinning at me.

I nodded, and together we left his apartment. He said hello to a few neighbors, who gazed curiously at me. I wondered what
they must have thought. Marco didn’t seem fazed.

Marco asked if I minded walking; the transportation strike was still in effect. I told him to go ahead without me; I could
find my way on my own back to the café where Karina worked.

But he refused. “Oh, no,” he said. “I am not letting you roam the streets again by yourself.”

I felt foolish having him walk me back to the café where I’d met Karina, but he assured me it was, more or less, on the way
to his job, anyhow.

Marco made small talk along the way, chatting about how much he’d liked America and how much he wanted to go back there someday
soon, especially now that the euro was strong against the dollar. I responded pleasantly to his questions about the States,
how I liked New York, and which restaurants I’d recommend in New York. But I was feeling more and more foolish by the moment,
and it was hard to carry on much of a conversation while I felt that way.

I parted with Marco just down the block from Karina’s restaurant. It was nearly ten; I figured she probably wouldn’t be there
yet. But I could certainly sit outside and wait. On the outside chance that she
was
, in fact, already there, I certainly didn’t need her glaring at me for showing up with a strange man after going missing
all night.

“You sure you’re okay?” Marco asked as he leaned down to give me a platonic peck on the cheek.

I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks again.”

“And you’ll come see me at work? At Pinocchio?”

I nodded again. “I promise,” I said.

Marco shifted from foot to foot and jammed his hands in his pockets. “You are sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

I smiled. “I’m sure. Really.”

He studied me for a moment and nodded, seeming to have made up his mind. “Okay then.” He paused, and the corners of his lips
curled upward into a smile. “And you don’t need me to lend you any money?”

I stared at him. “No, thank you. Why would I need money?”

Then I noticed that his eyes were twinkling in amusement. “Just one final Joe Bradley gesture,” he said. He laughed. “Very
well. I will go. It was very nice to meet you, Cat Connelly.”

It wasn’t until he had vanished down the street, with me staring after him, that I realized he’d finally addressed me by name
instead of calling me Princess Ann.

K
arina was already at work sponging off the outside tables when I arrived in front of the café. Her back was to me, and she
was working quickly. I noticed she was missing swipes of dirt here and there. She seemed distracted.

I stood behind her for a moment before loudly clearing my throat.

Karina whipped immediately around, and her eyes widened.

“Dio mio!”
she exclaimed right away. She dropped her sponge and, to my surprise, rushed forward to embrace me tightly. Shocked, I let
her hug me, but I didn’t hug back. “Where have you been?” she demanded into my shoulder, squeezing me so tightly that it felt
for a moment like I couldn’t breathe. “I was so worried, Cat! What happened to you last night? Where were you? Are you all
right?”

I pulled away, extricating myself from the bone-crushing hug. “I’m fine,” I said stiffly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But where did you sleep?” she demanded.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped. I didn’t want to admit to Karina just how pathetic I’d been—or that I’d gone home
with a complete stranger who kept bizarrely referencing
Roman Holiday
. So instead, I said coldly, “If I can just get my rent back, minus the one day, I’ll be on my way. I’m sure I can find another
place.”

The truth was, I doubted that was possible. But she didn’t need to know that. It got in the way of my haughtiness.

Karina’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear Cat!” she exclaimed. “Why would you say such a thing? I am so sorry that I
argued with you. It was all my fault. It will never happen again. I promise! You can’t leave!”

I stared in disbelief. “Karina, I think it’s pretty obvious that you don’t want me here,” I said coldly. “After all, you—”

But I never had a chance to finish my sentence, because Karina cut me off with a strange expression on her face. “An American,”
she said simply.

“What?”

“An American,” she repeated. She took a deep breath and gestured for me to sit down.

I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice icy.

“Please, sit,” Karina said. She pulled out a chair and sat down. She cleared her throat. “Please. I must explain.”

I stared for a moment, considering her words. Then, slowly, reluctantly, I sank into the chair opposite hers. “Explain what?”
I asked.

Karina was quiet for a moment. She looked at her lap silently, and I almost got up to leave. But then, she looked up with
eyes that appeared to be a little watery.

“An American,” she repeated. “Nico’s father, Massimo, ran off with an American woman six and a half years ago, when I was
eight months pregnant with Nico. He has never even seen his son. He does not care.”

She paused and looked down at her lap. I stared at her.

“It is why I do not like American women,” she said a moment later, still looking down. “I told you that you could stay here
because I needed the money. And because you know Michael Evangelisti, so you cannot be all that bad.”

I looked away, trying not to consider the irony that it was my affiliation with a cheating man that made Karina feel comfortable
with me.

“But you,” she said softly, “maybe you are okay. Maybe I misjudged you. Maybe it is not fair to judge all American women based
on one.”

The words hung in the air between us. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but I had the sense she was trying the best way she knew
how.

She looked up after a moment, and as her eyes met mine, I was struck by how nervous she looked. I’d only seen her before when
she had it completely together, when she was happy or angry or self-righteous. Nervous didn’t quite seem to fit with her strong-featured
face, her enormous, eyelinered eyes, her overall aura of self-possession.

“Please say something,” she said after a moment.

I sighed. “I don’t know what to say,” I said. “You can’t blame Nico’s father’s leaving on
me
. And you can’t treat me like I’m responsible.”

The words, coming from my own mouth, surprised me. I’d never been particularly good at standing up for myself. In fact, when
your mother leaves, your father falls apart, and your little sister needs some consistency, you learn to take whatever blame
is laid at your feet without even thinking about it. That’s who I’d grown up to be, and it felt strange to stand up to a woman
I barely knew.

Karina looked embarrassed. “I know,” she said. “I made a mistake. And I am asking you to give me another chance. I think you
are not so bad.”

“And you need the rent money,” I muttered.

She turned a little pink. “Yes, I do,” she said. “But I also want you to stay. I think it would be good.” She paused and added
softly, “For both of us.”

I thought about it for a moment. It had seemed like a good idea to storm in here and angrily demand my money back from this
temperamental woman. But I hadn’t really thought it through. Where else would I go? I had already decided I wasn’t going home.
Not just because of the potential shame involved, but because I had realized just how much I loved it here. And I hated to
admit it, but I was almost looking forward to visiting Marco at Pinocchio.

Besides, although I’d never say it to her, I could understand where Karina was coming from. I’d been hurt by men too many
times to count, but nothing I’d gone through could compare to being left by a man you thought loved you when you were eight
months pregnant with his child.

I cleared my throat. “I’ll consider staying,” I said. “As long as you can point me back to the apartment.”

Karina exhaled loudly, visibly relieved. “That is wonderful,” she said. “Wonderful! Let me just tell my boss I’ll be gone
for a few minutes, and I will walk you home, okay?”

A few minutes later, chattering nervously, Karina walked me back to her building. This time, I made sure to note the names
of the streets and the route we took.

Karina hugged me tightly at the doorway. “I am glad you are staying,” she said sincerely. “Now go upstairs. Get some sleep.
You look exhausted.”

I rolled my eyes. Talk about the understatement of the year.

“I will be home after the lunch shift,” Karina continued. “And then, if you like, you will meet my son, Nico.”

Late that afternoon, after I’d slept for nearly six hours, I awoke to an insistent knocking. I dragged myself out of bed,
rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and opened the door.

Karina stood there, looking a little sheepish. “I woke you,” she said.

I shrugged. “I needed to get up, anyhow,” I said. “Besides, it was much better to wake up to a knock on the door than to a
crazy Italian woman sitting on top of me.”

Karina looked at me for a minute, as though she wasn’t sure whether I was kidding or not. Then she broke into a grin. “You
are funny, Miss America,” she said. “Now. Would you like to go with me to pick up Nico from my mother’s apartment?”

I hesitated and nodded. What else did I have to do?

Karina waited in the hall while I splashed some water on my face, put on a bit of makeup, pulled my hair back into a ponytail,
and changed into capris and a striped T-shirt. Karina regarded me with amusement when I emerged from the bathroom.

“What?” I demanded.

She laughed. “You look a little like a gondolier.”

I felt myself flush. “I do not!”

“Yes, you do.”

I stared at her for a moment. She just shrugged helplessly, as if she couldn’t be held responsible for simply stating the
facts. Grumbling, I went back into the tiny kitchen, picked out a yellow sundress, and changed quickly into it. “Better?”
I asked when I emerged.

“
Sì
,” she said. “Much.”

Together, we set off on a brisk walk through another series of winding alleys and side streets. But this time, Karina walked
at a normal pace, which allowed me to keep up.

“You will like my son,” she said. There was something different about her face now. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she’d
decided she could trust me or because we were on our way to see the child she loved, but she didn’t look hard, sarcastic,
and defensive anymore. “How do you know Michael?” she asked after a moment.

I sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t like I couldn’t have anticipated the question. “He’s an acquaintance from New York,”
I said tightly. She glanced at me, and I added, “My sister’s wedding reception was at his restaurant. I know him through that.”

“Ah, yes,” Karina said. “I have heard that his restaurant is beautiful. It is?”

I nodded. “It is,” I admitted. “How do you know him?”

“He spent summers here in Roma when he was a boy,” she said. “He was several years older than me, so we were never really
that close. But he was always kind to me. I remember he used to teach me English words when I was a little girl. My father,
before he died, worked with Michael’s uncle. They worked in a restaurant together before Michael’s uncle owned his own restaurant.”

I held my breath for a moment and asked a question I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to.