“Can’t you just hire someone else?”
“You’d think, right? But since everything here is historical, everyone who’s qualified to do that kind of work is always booked up.”
“Everyone is booked up!” came a voice from the doorway. “Joe is tied up at the Lateran job, and Constance is already running back and forth between the little convent in Naples and the house in the Mont Sacro. Philippa is working at Palazzo Doria. And Franco! If I could count how many wives, mothers, and girlfriends that sciupafemmine has had while doing a restoration job for us, I’d run out of hairs on my head! And he’s booked anyway. I’ve got him working on a tapestry at a monastery at Santa Lucia, so he’s ready to burst!”
She suddenly realized there was someone else in the room. “Sorry, so sorry, he’s a wonderful restoration artist, but honestly, he can’t keep his paintbrush out of everyone’s palette.”
“I’ve got an almost-ex-husband who has the same problem.” I laughed. I laughed? Huh.
“So, until I can track down a replacement for him, or find someone to run the department while I take on the project myself, then your villa and your frescoes will have to wait,” she told Daisy. Ask me. Ask me. Ask me.
Daisy shook her head. “Waiting isn’t really an option right now.” Ask me. Ask me. Ask me.
“Well, it’s the only option we have. I’m not using one of the interns on a project of that magnitude. Those frescoes are eighteenth century, very delicate and—”
“Have you stabilized the plaster yet?” I chimed in.
“Stabilized?” Maria shared a glance with Daisy, who was silent, listening.
“With lime. Has it already been injected?”
“No, we haven’t even begun the restoration yet.”
My mind was racing. “Is it water damage? Humidity change?”
“Leaking roof,” she answered.
“And the colors—flaking or just dull?”
“Both. Have you worked on frescoes before?”
“Art history major, minor in conservatorship. I did my senior year in Barcelona, working in the catacombs, restoring the murals in the central court.” I raised an eyebrow. “Eighteenth century.”
* * *
I LITERALLY DANCED DOWN the hall in the direction of Marcello’s office. Daisy had some loose ends to tie up with Maria, so I took my bad-ass self on a mission to find Mr. Architect and tell him my good news as “Walking on Sunshine” played in my head.
A job, an actual job, helping to restore a mural in Italy! This would easily last longer than a day. I just happened to be in Daisy’s office at the exact moment that there was a mural crisis, a crisis that would require the specific methodology that I had happened to study in college, using a protocol that I was uniquely qualified to perform. Though I was a bit rusty, formulas and techniques were already flooding my brain, my fingers already itching for the tools I’d need, my hands already remembering what it would feel like to hold them once more.
Hey, Universe? Mad props!
I danced the last few steps to Marcello’s office sporting an ear-to-ear grin, feeling the overwhelming urge to grab him and kiss him as I told him my good news. And maybe grab his tight bum a little bit.
I saw him through his glass door, seated behind a massive desk, piles of paperwork all around, and architectural models arranged on every work surface imaginable. He was on the phone, speaking quickly, eyebrows furrowed, mouth frowning when he wasn’t firing back at whoever was on the other end of the line. I knew that expression, and I knew that tone of voice: frustration bordering on anger.
But when he was fired up, he was lethally sexy. There were times in Barcelona when I’d deliberately pick a fight, just to get fucked wild.
“Angry Italian words!” That’s what I heard anyway. He slammed the phone down, muttering under his breath as he ran his hands through his hair.
“Bad timing?” I asked, peeking my head around the corner, along with one artfully curved leg.
There is nothing in the world better than being the reason that someone’s entire face changes. His eyes lightened, then brightened. His lips bowed, and then arched upward. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes dipping down to my ankle turned out just so in my kitten heels, drifting up along my calf, my knee, the bit of thigh peeking out of my little black dress.
“Avery.” He tilted his head, curious. “What are you up to?”
“I’m visiting,” I said, walking slowly toward his desk. “I have a lunch date with Daisy.”
“Ah, a date.”
I smirked. “Yes, we’re very serious.” Emboldened by the day I was having, I perched just on the edge of his desk and crossed my legs. Marcello leaned back in his chair, tugging at his tie a bit, a slow grin beginning to creep across his face. “I’ve got news.”
“News?” he asked my knee, unable to keep his eyes from wandering.
“Mmm-hmm.” I crossed my legs again.
“Let’s hear this news.” This was directed at the freckle three fingers above my left knee.
Ask me how I know it’s three fingers.
“I got a job.”
I know it’s three fingers because when he used to tug me to the edge of the bed and lift my leg high over his shoulder, his strong fingers were wrapped around the back of my knee. And the span of skin between my kneecap and my freckle was exactly three fingers.
“You got a job, here?”
“Well, technically, I’m volunteering again. Since you know, no work visa. That villa your firm is working on in Grottaferrata. Maria needed someone to help out with a mural that needs some detail work done, and it’s exactly what I used to do in—”
“—the catacombs,” he finished.
Having someone be able to finish my sentences, especially with a word like catacombs? Priceless.
I clapped my hands, unable to contain my squeal any longer. “I got another job!”
Without a backward glance, I jumped off the desk and right onto his lap. His arms immediately came around me, cuddling me close, sharing this moment with me. It didn’t matter that he knew very little of the particulars of my life since we’d separated, he didn’t know the details of how lost I’d really been all these years. All he knew was that I was excited to work on something like this again, and he was thrilled because I was thrilled.
And he was clearly proud.
“Does this mean you will be staying longer?” he asked, running his hands up and down my back. Now that his hands were on my body, they were restless.
“Yes, I’m staying longer,” I answered, shifting on his lap when I heard the voices carrying down the hallway. Glancing back toward the glass door, I began to pull back but he held firm.
“No one will disturb us,” he assured me, tipping my chin up. “I like this . . . longer.”
“Think you can handle it?”
He didn’t answer. Because his lips were now on mine. He kissed one side of my mouth, and then the other, barely brushing my skin. I hummed into his skin, flying high from his touch now, along with my news.
He kissed me again and again, his hands sliding lower, running one down my leg where I kicked it up, pointing my toes and giggling. His lips tickled at the corner of my jaw, and just as his hand began a path back up my leg, back up to somewhere not even close to being decent in the workplace, I heard Daisy’s laugh.
We quickly scrambled to put ourselves right, so that when she came sailing through the door saying, “Did you hear the good news? Avery is the new Franco!” all she saw were two people sitting with a desk between them and innocent smiles on their faces.
I WAS NERVOUS, but my giddiness was defeating the butterflies. I had a job!
It wasn’t glamorous, exciting, or paid, but it was mine. Earned by merit, education, and perhaps a wee bit of nepotism since I was best friends with the boss, but it felt good.
I floated home like I was starring in my own Disney movie. I held doors for strangers, bought a sandwich for a homeless man on the corner—who turned o
ut not to be homeless but a hipster—and sang my way to Daisy’s.
My home for the foreseeable future.
I needed to Skype my parents to tell them I was staying longer than I thought . . .
After two quick rings, my father’s forehead greeted me.
“Dad move the laptop a bit,” I instructed.
As he adjusted it, he said, “I miss the days when you just called someone on the phone; none of these bells and whistles.”
My mother came in behind him, waving daintily at the screen. “Avery, how good to see you! You look outstanding,” she cheered, sitting gracefully on the arm of his leather desk chair. “Italy suits you.”
Dad nodded in agreement.
They both looked happy. He beamed when she rested her hand on his shoulder. She blushed when he lifted her hand to kiss it.
I thought this virtual catchup would be strained, awkward between us. At least it felt that way, given the nature of their emails since I’d arrived. Tone could be hard to decipher, especially when your mother was using absolutely zero punctuation.
“So tell me.” Mom was fiddling with her diamond anniversary watch, something she did when she was anxious. “How is everything going?”
Dad chimed in, “Have you been sightseeing? Are you being safe? Is Daisy keeping an eye on you? I’d hate to have to speak with her father,” he teased.
“Everything is fine, Mr. Bardot!” Daisy chirped from the kitchen. “Did you tell them yet?” she asked, squeezing into the laptop’s frame. “Aren’t you excited!”
“Shhh.” I pushed her away playfully.
“Tell us what?” they asked together, both now leaning too far forward into the screen.
Daisy headed back into the kitchen, while I was left to face the foreheads.
I sighed. I wanted to build up to it. Ease them into the idea that I was contemplating staying here. For a while. The more I thought about what was in Boston, or what wasn’t in Boston, the less thrilled I was to return. Them, I would miss. The rest, well couldn’t I have that here?
Marcello aside, I needed something for me. A tether that kept me grounded. Happy.
Maybe that’d be him, or maybe this was just another flash that would burn hot. Either way, I had an opportunity that I didn’t have before and I didn’t know if I could let it go. If I should let it go.
“Things here are great,” I started. “It’s every bit as beautiful as I’d imagined.”
“Spoken like a true artist,” my father said.
“Funny you should mention that.” I cleared my throat again. “You know that Daisy’s an architect and she’s pretty high up with her firm.”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“Well, I was there visiting today, and a position for someone with my qualifications came up. It’s volunteer, but it’s perfect for me. Right place at the right time, and all that.”
“Working in Rome?” Mom asked, fiddling with her watch again.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“It must feel good, being offered it. We know you’ve been missing that,” Dad said, patting Mom’s hand.
I nodded again, elation ballooning in my chest. “I did a little bit of work for them already while I was here. It was a vase.” That turned out to not be just a vase. “Something else came up, more time consuming. Difficult. Really specialized.”
Then Mom said, “You’re not taking it are you? What would you do? Live there? For how long?”
“Well, I was thinking that I could—”
“I’m all for finding yourself after divorcing, especially after what Daniel did to you. But, sweetie, your home is here. In Boston.”
“Of course it is, Mom. That’s not what I’m saying—”
“I knew this would happen if you went to Rome, I just knew it! What’s next? Traipsing all over the world like Daisy does? What kind of life is that?”
“Actually, Mom, her life is pretty great and—”
“What about meeting someone else? Getting married again someday, hmm? Something less . . . rushed this time. What about starting another”—her voice got weaker—“a family?”
“Whoa, hang on, Mom; I’m not even divorced yet! Getting married again is not even on my radar, and the rest, well the rest . . . I want to work as an artist. I miss the rush of adrenaline I got from finishing a sketch or creating a new piece. Remember how I would float home from class and couldn’t stop smiling? And Dad used to say I was all dreamy? There’s a lot of smiling and floating and dreaming here.”
My parents exchanged a look.
“I need to get Avery Bardot back. I don’t want to just be someone’s wife out of obligation. And if the rest comes, well, then it comes.”
Mom huffed, “What’s wrong with being a wife and a mother?”
She looked hurt, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Damn it.
“Absolutely nothing, Mom. I just need to figure out what I want first this time and really let myself have it. And this is a great shot at that.”
Dad patted her hand. “She needs this, dear. You know it and I know it. Besides, we can always visit. Right, Avery?”
I breathed a grateful sigh of relief. Of course they both wanted the best for me. “I can’t wait for you to visit! I’ll make a list of places for you to check out online. You’ll lose your minds over the food, the landscapes, and the shopping.” I dangled the final carrot for my mom to focus on.
“I just worry about you, Avery,” she said, putting on a brave face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
* * *
MY FIRST DAY OF WORK felt like my first day of kindergarten. Would they like me? Would I make friends? Would I destroy the eighteenth-century frescoes and be deported?
It was a very advanced kindergarten class . . .
I bought a bewildering array of bus maps, highlighted the best and fastest route out to Grottaferrata, and bought my weekly ticket from the tobacco shop down the street. It felt official. I was ready for work. Something I hadn’t done in almost a decade.
Nine years is a long time to be away from something. To be missing that passion that you felt every day when you really loved what you did. I was ready. More than ready, and I couldn’t help but feel that this was my second chance. My new start, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it.
With a tote filled with a sketchbook, pencils, and some other necessities, I was off and waiting at the bus stop. I even packed myself a lunch. My journey to work wasn’t without a slight mix-up, of course. I was lost in my thoughts, doodling an image of Marcello’s shoulders in the book on my lap, and I almost missed my stop.
Maria was there waiting for me when I arrived. “As I said, we didn’t do any of the tests yet. This is a big job, Avery. I need a detailed plan from you first, your list of recommendations, and your best estimation on the time needed. We’ll discuss it with the office. For today, cleaning tests are really the only thing that you have time for.”
The area had already been taped up with the plastic covering, the scaffolding was still in place, and tall stands topped with work lights were spaced out around the area. I wondered what was in store for me behind the curtain. I saw from the project schedule she’d given me that we were already a few days behind with the delays over finding a restorer.
I set up shop in my little corner of the villa. Tools, brushes, long Q-tips, pails, and clean rags were spread out. My chair was puffy and padded for when I needed it, but for now, I sat on the floor and stared up at the wall.
What was under there? I wondered. Pulling out my notebook, I began my list. Overpainting dominated most of the wall. It looked like someone tried to remove it themselves, leaving some damaged areas. Taking pictures of the spots in question, I kept a record of them for reference. They’d need more time, care, and delicate touches.
With pastel, I drew a section over my testing area in five quadrants to show the levels of overpaint and damage.
I detailed my report, including the cleaning process and how it would involve swel
ling the top layers of paint and then lifting them away from the wall. Layer by layer in what was sure to be painstakingly time-consuming work, we would finally get to the last layer of paint that would have to be dissolved with natural solvents as to not further damage the painting beneath it.
After that, we’d varnish and touch up any spots that needed it before a final sealer was applied. Given the size of the wall and the length and width of the mural on it, we were looking at what was at least two weeks’ worth of work.
* * *
WHEN MARCELLO CALLED AROUND MIDDAY, I was bursting with pride.
“I love everything about this job.”
“I want to hear it all.” It was hard to hear him; I’d forgotten he was at a construction site today. Loud Italian screaming mixed with loud Italian noise didn’t make it easy for me to explain my morning. But I gave it a shot, gushing on and on about the people I’d met, the detailed frescoes I was working on, and how I’d already found three new restaurants I was dying to try in the neighborhood.
He chuckled, shouting something at a worker before what sounded like a door closing. “I’m proud of you. You are like a true Roman. Now, if I could only get you to use a Vespa.”
“Nope, no way, no how. Riding on one of those is one thing, driving is something completely different.”
“Just think of how much faster you’d get there,” he explained, while I popped biscotti into my mouth.
“No way,” I mumbled, thinking about me zipping in and out of traffic with a little red helmet on.
I looked out the arched windows onto the courtyard below and counted fifteen scooters. Clearly I was the only person here with a problem with the zippy little bastards.
“Are you busy?”
“Not now. I’m taking a break and reading up a bit on this villa. The family had documents from previous owners lying around that are fascinating.”
“Like what?”
I tucked the phone closer to my mouth and whispered, “Did you know someone was murdered here? A few someones, apparently, but the bodies were never found!”