Roman Crazy (28 page)

R
EALLY GREAT WORK, AVERY,”
Maria commented, checking off items on her list. “The organic microemulsion solution you used was brilliant.”

I beamed, rocking back and forth on my heels. “Thank you, that means a lot. But I can't take all the credit. Baglioni created it. I just adopted it to get rid of that awful polymer that someone in the sixties slapped over it.”

She laughed, making a final check before moving on to speak with the supervisor about the other aspects of my working there.

While she was preoccupied with his conversation, I took one more admiring lap around the home. There were still a few laborers on the premises, but most had filed out to make room for the interior designers and the landscapers.

Fabrics were draped over the ornately carved wooden banisters, rugs were piled high on the slate floor, in an effort to find the perfect shade of basil to highlight the owner's office color.

Maria found me admiring the tumbled tile bathroom. “I must say, Avery. Finding you couldn't have come at a better time.”

My cheeks pinked from the praise. “Thank you. This was a tremendous leap of faith on your part, and I can't thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“Tell me something,” she began, sifting through her satchel. “How long do you plan on staying in Italy?”

“It's open-ended; I haven't set any date.”

“What if I told you I had another job for you?” She held up a sheet of paper. “It's strictly volunteer again, but the experience would be above and beyond any salary we could give you. I'll leave this plan with you and you can let me know on Monday. Does that sound all right?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, quickly reading over the project info.

“Great, I'll talk to you then,” she said.

“I mean yes, I'll take it! I don't need time to think.”

“Wonderful! Stop by Monday and we'll figure out the paperwork.”

We shook hands and after she left, I couldn't turn off the smile or figure out how to make my legs move. I sat at the edge of the tub, staring out into the city, and sighed the happiest sigh I could.

I called Marcello, but it went straight to voice mail. Same with Daisy. Leaving the villa, I said good-bye to those I wouldn't likely see on the next project and headed home, floating on air.

WHEN I ARRIVED AT HOME,
the postman was just dropping off the mail. With a smile, he handed me a stack of tiny white envelopes that were dwarfed by the giant manila one on the bottom. Without even checking the return address label, I knew what it was.

Since his visit to Rome, Daniel had been surprisingly as anxious as I was to get the divorce handled quickly. Which I appreciated. But while I wanted it done, I wasn't going to rush through the division of assets.

I was conflicted. I had barely worked outside the home since we'd been married, but I'd worked my ass off to support his career. I didn't want tons, but I wanted my due. Enough to not have to worry for a while, and to continue taking volunteer jobs to pad my newly resurrected résumé. Enough to make sure that I could make smart choices about the way I wanted to live my life . . . and
where
I wanted to live it. His way of life could be greatly attributed to my ensuring the smooth veneer of the happiest of couples, where dinner parties went swimmingly, the wallpaper was interesting but not intrusive, and my nether regions never sported more than a half-inch-wide landing strip, all other hair banished from the kingdom.

Things had certainly changed in that area, too; Marcello liked things a bit more . . . au naturel. I couldn't help laughing out loud.

Daisy's bedroom door swung open, and there she was. “You're cackling to yourself? What the hell happened to you while I was in Amsterdam?”

“I finally lost it,” I shouted.

“You lost it in college, I remember. Daniel walked around campus with an enormous grin for a week,” she shot back.

“I remember. I couldn't knock that smile off his face.”

“So you sat on it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Heavens no, he never liked that.”

Placing her hand upon her chest, she mimed a cardiac episode. “Thank God you're divorcing him.”

“You just said a mouthful.”

“Speaking of a mouthful, I assume Marcello is the kind of guy who likes to—”

“Can I welcome you home before you start asking me about whether or not he likes to anything?” I laughed. “If you'd shut up for thirty seconds, I could hug you.”

She held open her arms. “Jesus, it's like a Disney movie. Can you feel the love?”

“Oh shush, welcome home! When did you get in?” I asked, setting my tote down and heading into the kitchen. She followed along.

“An hour or so ago. The place looks really great, though suspiciously clean.” She raised her eyebrow when I turned back to smile.

“You said Clorox. I obeyed. Tell me about Amsterdam.”

“Later, tell me everything that's been going on here—and don't you dare leave out a detail.”

She's very bossy, my best friend. But I told her about Lake Como, Daniel's visit, how I reacted afterward—everything.

“And now there's an envelope,” she said, motioning to it. “Is it bad?”

“It's just the papers from the lawyers to get the ball rolling. I won't know for a little bit yet.”

And she was supportive, as always. “You're doing the right thing. You're getting a second chance here; how many people would kill for a second chance? Don't waste it.”

Sound advice.

MARCELLO CALLED BACK
while I was explaining to Daisy which surfaces in her home we defiled. She would never look at her kitchen island the same way again.

“You have good news?” he asked before I even had the chance to say hello.

“I do.”

“Are you going to share it with me?” He laughed, and I heard it coming from just outside the apartment.

I jumped off the couch and ran to the front door, swinging it wide open. “What a nice surprise!”

He pushed the phone into his back pocket and stepped inside, eyes hungrily moving over me. Capturing my lips quickly, he pushed us up against the door, giving the pedestrians outside a bit of a show.

They hooted and hollered, but Marcello wasn't deterred. Until a bucket of ice water named Daisy breezed into the living room, dousing us thoroughly.

“Please do me a favor next time you sexually maul my best friend. Close the door so the neighborhood kids aren't scarred for life,” she teased, whacking him on the rear with her clutch.

He looked just the tiniest bit embarrassed but snapped out of it quickly. Following up a quick kiss with a pat on my ass, he pulled me over to the chair, where he sat and indicated for me to drop into his lap.

“Now, tell me your news,” he said, rubbing small circles on my back.

Daisy was watching us curiously. Though she knew the details about us, knowing and seeing were totally different things.

Overcome with the urge to kiss him, I held his face and laid one on him that had Daisy whistling. I couldn't help it. I was bursting with joy. Hope, love, everything in that moment, thanks to the new job offer.

And being able to stay in Italy longer. With him.

“Wow, you two, get a room. Wait until Fiona gets a load of this,” she said, dropping that little nugget.

“Fiona? What about her?”

“Have you checked your phone at all?”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sighed. I'd disabled texting to avoid the roaming charges. “Three hundred texts? What the
hell
?”

I'd missed an entire conversation with Daisy and Fiona Bradford, our friend from Boston College who flew circles around Daisy with her crazy travel schedule. I wasn't sure if she actually had a mailing address outside her office anymore. A field producer with the Travel Channel, she explored the world in a way that I could only dream of. Time zones were a bitch for us normally, but now with Daisy and me sharing one and her God knows where, we never actually got to talk in real time all that often. “Summarize your
War and Peace–
size text conversation for me, please.”

“You first. Tell us your news.”

With Daisy holding my hand and Marcello's arm wrapped my middle, I had the most comforting sense of being anchored. That tether that I was looking for was present and I couldn't wait to see where this could lead.

“I'm glad that you're both here for me to tell you this. Maria unexpectedly came by the villa today. She wanted to check out my work, and praise the hell out of my mad skills, of course.”

“Of course,” Daisy echoed.

“She thanked me again for coming on board, and then . . . she offered me another restoration job here in Rome!”

Daisy vaulted off the couch onto my lap, making us a Daisy,
Avery, Marcello sandwich. She kissed both of my cheeks and held them, her green eyes sparkling.

“I am so fucking proud of you! Goddamn, girl, good for you! Hell, good for
us,
right, Marcello?” she joked, slapping him on the arm.

Marcello moved, making Daisy slide unceremoniously off his lap and onto the floor.

“Hey!” She laughed. “You could have just said, ‘Daisy, move. I need to ravish my woman.' ” She walked off into her bedroom singing, “Avery and Marcello, kissing in a tree . . .”

And kiss me he did. He dipped me, leaning me back over the arm of the chair, and kissed me like I was a nurse and he was back from war. Soundly, thoroughly, and enough to make me forget that Daisy was twenty feet away.

“I guess you're happy I'm staying a bit longer,” I gasped, holding on to his hair while his lips moved to my neck.

“So much that I can barely wait to show you. For hours.”

W
ITH DAISY BACK IN TOWN,
I didn't feel right about having Marcello stay over. I felt a little strange about just putting it right under her nose, so to speak. Not to mention, I could get a little loud when the things and the parts and the sighs and the . . . yeah, I could get a little loud. So with an overnight bag packed, Marcello and I headed out to his place.

On the Vespa. I was
so
Rome.

It felt right, zipping through the night streets behind him on the scooter, arms wrapped around him tightly, cheek pressed firmly against his back, breathing in the scents of the city and Marcello.

We headed toward Via del Corso, where the street was impossibly even more narrow, the buildings pressing in on all sides. Clothing hung on lines stretched between windows, balconies were piled high with flower pots and tiny herb gardens, and everyone was out on the street after dinner, enjoying a gelato, a grappa, a chat. We zipped quickly into a spot, Marcello taking my hand to help me down and not letting it go as he led me through the walkways thick with people. Turning down a side
street, he tucked me into his side, slipping my bag over his shoulder as he cuddled me close.

“So this is your street,” I said. His fingers played with my hair as we walked, twisting it around one finger then the next. “How long have you lived here?”

“Let's see . . . about four years? The last place I lived was over by the office, much smaller place. I would have been embarrassed to bring you there. It was very much a, what do you call it? A bachelor's digs?”

“Bachelor pad,” I corrected, loving the feel of his fingers in my hair. It was never the big grand gestures that got me, it was the little things. That's what made me over the moon for this guy.

“Yes, bachelor pad. It was tiny. Bed in one corner, stove in the other, barely enough room to move around. If I stretched, I could be stirring something on the stove top, open the front door, and have one foot on the mattress.”

I smiled to myself, thinking about his in-between years. Where he'd been, what he'd been up to in the years since Barcelona. Dubai, Jerusalem, even New York. All those years.

We arrived at his building, a four-story stone structure with a small balcony on each floor.

Pushing open a heavy oak door, we walked through a small entryway and out into a beautiful courtyard that had a fat tree with deep green leaves dotted with tiny orange fruit.

“What kind of tree is this?” I asked, leaning closer. They were oval shaped, almost the size of a thumb, and unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

“Kumquat. Have you ever tasted one?” He plucked a few fruits from the stems, holding them in his hand. “They are a little tart, a little sweet, a little citrusy—very good.”

White lights strung through the tree shone down, casting a
golden glow in the night-dark courtyard. Bicycles were parked along one side, and potted tomato plants covered the opposite wall. A spiral staircase wound up to each floor, the individual apartments accessed by a shared exterior walkway, with maybe three doors on each floor. We climbed up and up, all the way to the top, where he led me to his door.