Setting my tools down and stretching my back, I took a step back and regarded my work. Three quarters of the frescoes had been recovered and restored, and looked damn fine if I did say so myself. I was covered in drippy lime, fingers aching, skin cracked from the wet plaster drying repeatedly and taking every ounce of moisture from my hands along with it, and I couldn’t remember a finer day.
“Why haven’t you been doing this longer?”
Startled, I whirled around, finding Maria standing next to me and regarding my frescoes with a confused look on her face. I tugged the earbuds out, asking her to repeat what she’d said.
“I say, why haven’t you been doing this longer? Or rather, all along?”
“Oh,” I said, hitting pause on my music and scrunching up my nose. “Um, well, I took some time off after college and, well, got married, and I always planned to go back to work but there just never seemed to be a good time to go back and then—”
“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, stepping away from me and toward the work I’d been doing today. She scrutinized the colors, the depth, where I’d had to embellish and where I’d had to re-create almost entirely. She leaned close to the plaster, closer, so close I was afraid she’d come away with a coat of green on the tip of her nose.
It’d match the one I was sporting. I also liked to lean in.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said once more, mostly to herself. I wanted to rock on my heels. I wanted to chew on my braid. But instead I stood up straight and waited for her critique.
“Very good, Avery.” She nodded, casting me a sideways smile. “Very good.”
I beamed! I’d come to realize that a good from Maria was the equivalent of an American awesome! A very good? I’d kicked some serious fresco ass today . . .
She began to walk away, but then turned just before she left. “You get married again if you want, but you don’t stop doing this.” She gestured to the wall. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I answered, butterflies springing to life inside my belly. But right now wasn’t the time to celebrate, it was time to get back to work . . .
* * *
“. . . AND THEN SHE SAID, ‘Very good, Avery,’ in that quiet, stern way she has; you know how she can sound.”
“I do. A very good is high praise from her,” Marcello said, echoing my thoughts from earlier.
“I know!” I chattered, threading my arm through his as we walked down the street outside the concert. People were already lined up, mostly couples, but a few families here and there, and some tourists.
Tourists. I could spot them now.
“She told me I should keep on doing what I’m doing.”
“And will you?”
I pondered this as he led me into the courtyard. “I don’t know; I mean, I’d like to. I don’t know if I can.” He steered us toward the ticket line, but I patted my pocket. “Don’t need to stand in line there, mister, I’ve got it covered.”
“Covered?”
“Yep,” I said, pulling the tickets out of my pocket. “I stopped by earlier this week and picked them up. I didn’t want us to have to wait in line.”
“You bought the tickets, yes?”
“I did,” I answered, nodding toward an attendant who was tearing them and showing people to their seats. “Anyway, if the opportunity came up to do some more restoration work I would definitely be interested, but we’ll have to wait and see what she says afterward. If she’d recommend me for another job.” We arrived down toward the front, and I was pleased to see our seats were in the third row, pretty much right in the center. “Wow, I got us great seats, huh?”
“Great seats. Huh,” Marcello echoed, pausing to brush them both off before allowing me to sit down. I knew that huh.
“What’s the matter with the seats?” I asked him in a low voice, leaning close.
“There is nothing the matter with the seats,” he replied, not taking his eyes from the stage. “I was planning on buying the tickets. I would also have gotten great seats.”
“But I already bought them,” I said, confused.
He huh’d again. “You bought the tickets.”
“Why do I feel like there’s something I’m missing?”
“You invited me to this concert, you should have let me buy the tickets.”
“Wait, you’re pissed because I paid?”
His jaw clenched. That meant I was right.
“Holy 1952, women are allowed to purchase concert tickets, they’re even allowed to purchase tickets for their fella.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“A little bit.” I placed my hand on his knee, patting it. “It’s not a big deal. I bought the tickets not to supplant your masculinity, but because I didn’t want to stand in that line, that line that’s still as long as it was when we first got here, mind you, so look who had a great idea about buying tickets early?”
He frowned, finally looking down at me. “I would prefer to pay for things, for us, when we are out.”
I shook my head. “I appreciate that, Marcello, and I’m sure that’s the way things are done here, but if I want to do something nice for you, for us, even if that means shelling out a little cash here and there, I’ll do it.”
“But—”
I placed my finger over his lips. “I know you’re used to getting your own way, and you likely still will, most of the time. But let this one go, okay? Let’s just enjoy the music.”
I watched his face as he listened to me, really listened to me and let my words sink in. My Italian man was old school, even more so than I realized sometimes. And I loved being taken care of by him, I’d never deny it. But I’d also been taken care of by someone for a very long time, and it was something that eventually made me feel small, weak, unable to make decisions for myself.
Did me paying for tickets to a Gershwin concert equal letting an entire marriage go by where I let my husband handle every single dollar that came into the house? No. No way. Not even close.
But it was a tiny foothold that I’d gained tonight, without even knowing it. I wasn’t going to apologize for paying for something. And I’d make sure however old school Marcello was that he knew where I stood on things like this.
I’d take a tiny foothold.
The lights dimmed, the music began, and I kept my hand on his knee throughout the concert. Sometime around “They Can’t Take That Away from Me,” his hand covered mine, weaving his fingertips in between mine and holding tight. I grinned into the darkness.
* * *
WHAT DOES ONE WEAR to learn how to make homemade pasta? I asked my closet, rejecting dress after dress. I finally settled on an outfit, got dressed, and waited for Marcello to arrive. I sat, then stood, then sat again. Wait, was I pacing? I was pacing now, why was I pacing?
What was I feeling? It wasn’t nerves exactly, but something close to nerves. Excited? Yes. Antsy? Definitely. I had the lovely thrill running through me, a thrill that ran faster whenever I thought of his face, his eyes, his lips. His laugh.
Mmm . . . I got it.
Anticipation.
What we were doing, here, now, in Rome, was something new. We were trying something new.
Dating.
It was something we’d skipped the first time, although not on purpose. We went from zero to naked in no time flat. Back then, we couldn’t help ourselves. Our hormones were not our own, and they ran the show. But this time, on our reunion tour? Consciously or unconsciously, we both wanted to savor this, experience this together like an actual couple.
I wanted to be more of a proper girlfriend and cook dinner for us, something local and luscious, but even though I’d taken classes in the art of French cooking, I was missing something in my repertoire. An authentic Italian meal.
There were flyers all over town catering to expatriates, those studying abroad, or long-term vacationers. Italian Home Cooking was by and large the most highly recommended on TripAdvisor.
I was banking on extra points from the teacher since I was bringing my own T
uscan son. Marcello wasn’t sure at first. He insisted he could teach me how to make pasta, gnocchi, and that incredible thick, crusty Italian bread I’d been served at every meal since arriving in Rome, but he’d yet to actually teach me a thing. In the kitchen that is.
A text came in from Marcello, letting me know he was late leaving the office and he’d meet me at the studio. A quick walk through Trastevere lead me to a bright, spacious building. The layout was perfect—every utensil I needed, piles of veggies that could rival the farmers’ markets, and a crush of eager students all sipping wine were scattered around the room.
At the center was a long banquet table set with glasses, plates, and baskets waiting for us to complete our meal and enjoy the feast we would make together. Exactly the kind of atmosphere I’d been hoping for when I signed us up.
Photos of previous happy classes dominated one wall. Students posing with their wine, their dinners, or with the chef. He reminded me a bit of Marcello, with a genuine smile in every picture. Our menu was written on a chalkboard in the kitchen. Pasta Bolognese, chicken cacciatore, Italian broccoli, roasted potatoes, and tiramisu for dessert. My stomach growled in anticipation.
Marcello strolled in, turning heads as he moved toward me. “You want to learn to cook like an Italian, why am I not just teaching you? I am Italian, no?” he said, kissing my cheeks quickly.
“Will I end up naked before we make dinner?” I whispered, pouring him a glass of wine from the nearby table.
“I cannot guarantee that,” he told me, taking a sip and winking over the glass.
I laughed and kissed him soundly, loving the sweet wine on his lips.
The instructor, looking every bit the Italian chef, came out from the back of the room and welcomed all of us to class His assistant handed out aprons along with a small instruction card, followed by a tour of the kitchens, which were pristine.
And now it was time to get to work. We were going to rotate through stations so that everyone got to have a hand in the preparation instead of one group getting to do one thing beginning to end.
To his credit, Marcello paid attention, even offering to chop parsley when the chef asked for volunteers. “Remember, you eat with your eyes first,” Chef Andrea said, explaining that we needed to be careful and take pride in our work. “We don’t want any ugly food. These may be rustic dishes, but you want them to look appetizing.”
“You look appetizing,” Marcello whispered, his breath smelling faintly like the wine and basil he was chewing on.
“Stop,” I admonished, trying to concentrate on my very glamorous task of chopping garlic.
“Good, good. Remember, celery, carrots, and onions for the Bolognese. No garlic. No matter what anyone say, garlic is not in everything.” Chef Andrea laughed, repeating the veggie list. “Just most things,” he added, scooping up a handful of garlic and lifting it to his nose.
The groups worked quietly, sipping wine, laughing here and there, but everyone paying very close attention to detail. A videographer bounced around documenting the class for the local American college, hoping to bring in new students. He caught me dipping my finger in the tiramisu filling and feeding it to Marcello.
“Avery, good job. You two move to the pasta next,” the assistant said, pointing to the stainless steel tables with an old-fashioned crank pasta machine.
We peeled potatoes, slathering them with olive oil and rosemary before lining a baking sheet with them. We pureed sauce, cut pasta, rolled gnocchi down tiny lined wooden boards, and stuffed chickens with lemons, garlic, and onions.
The class wasn’t just about learning how to do each step but about the food. Why the garlic is good for your heart. What makes a traditional Bolognese versus a knockoff version. Why some recipes differed by region. The chef took every question and answered it as if it was the most important thing he’d ever heard.
My apron was covered in semolina and Marcello had a smudge of tomato sauce on his cheek, but we got off easy. Some students had nicks from the ultrasharp knives and sported bandages on their thumbs. Others had imbibed a bit too much wine and had to sit out and wait for dinner.
In the end, we had perfectly al dente gnocchi that we scooped from the boiling water just as they started to float, freshly shaved pecorino in bowls for sprinkling over our hearty pappardelle Bolognese. The potatoes were steaming in a ceramic bowl, the rosemary perfuming the room. Silver platters held the chicken, peppers, and cacciatore sauce.
We sat along the table, sipping wine and digging into the food eagerly. Five hours we spent together, and in many ways, we came out of it with new friends. Marcello even signed us up for another class.
We tumbled into bed that night still smelling faintly of rosemary, too stuffed with wonderful food to do anything more exciting than cuddle and whisper into the night.
I WAFFLED ABOUT ALL MORNING. There was coffee and frittata at the counter with a copy of La Repubblica, an Italian daily newspaper. I couldn’t read a lot of it but I was working on that. I moved into the living room to continue tinkering with a sketch I’d started the day before of the Bramante Staircase. It was probably the most difficult landmark I’d worked on while in Italy, but I was hell-bent on getting the shading right. The lights hit the highlight in such a way that the spiral staircase turns into an optical illusion. Another trip to the Vatican Museum might be necessary.
But no matter where I was in the house or what I was doing, one eye was always on the clock, counting each tick until it inched close enough to eleven that I felt justified in throwing on clothes and surprising Marcello at the office.
I breezed inside, carrying two bags of pastries that would make American donuts weep with inferiority.
Of course I had a cornetto for me.
“Ciao, buongiorno,” I told the secretary, dropping the still-warm bag of goodness on her desk. “Is Marcello free?”
She waved me back before happily digging into the bag.
His office was empty. His jacket was on the back of his chair and his cell was tossed on the seat, but no Marcello. I was about to leave him a note with the bag when I felt his hands circle my waist. His lips touched the skin between my shoulder and my neck, and he bit down slightly.
“I smell maritozzi. Is that for me?” he said, nibbling as if I were the pastry.
“Yes.” I gulped, turning around to face him. “I stopped at that little place just up the street that we love. It’s all yours.”
“Mmm, grazie. Are you staying to share it? I can feed it to you,” he offered, opening the bag and inhaling deeply.
I was quickly becoming addicted to the way he savored food. You’d think living in Rome, growing up with the magnificence that is Italian cuisine, you wouldn’t go full food orgasm over everything, but he did. Goddamn was I grateful for it.
“I can stay. Maria said they didn’t need me today so I thought I’d visit and then go exploring,” I explained, taking the small piece he offered.
“I wish I could join you. Where are you headed?” he asked, biting down, his eyes rolling back.
My mind went blank as I watched his lips close over the sweet pastry.
“Nowhere specific,” I said, patting my tote. “I have free time on a gorgeous Roman day and figured I’d wander around and stop when inspiration struck.”
I’d been doing it quite often when I had a spare moment. Sometimes I would hop on the Metro or the bus and just get off at a random stop. You saw so much of the city that way. Each individual neighborhood had its own vibe, eclectic restaurants, and its own stamp on history. It was a great way for me to learn the city.
Marcello got my attention with a sticky finger rubbing my bare knee. “I have some news,” he said between bites. He lifted the puff pastry up to my mouth again, rubbing the powdered sugar over my lips. “I wish my office wasn’t full of windows.”
He leaned forward, and I felt exactly why he wished for more privacy.
“Tonight, I’m all yours. I’ll buy more pastry and you can see where else that po
wdered sugar can go. Tell me your news.”
He laughed, kissing the stickiness from my knee. “I almost forgot. You have me so distracted.” I licked the sugar from my lips, earning a groan. “You don’t play fair, Avery.”
Shaking my head, I sat at the edge of his desk and waited while he pulled up an email on his computer.
The subject read “Como Villa?”
“There’s a client we have. I did him a favor—”
“Ooh, favors. What did you do?”
“Nothing like that,” he insisted, pulling up the email and the images of a gorgeous villa. Scratch that. It was a castle on the water that looked like a stone hotel in heaven. “This is the payment for the favor. A weekend. Here.”
“This is Lake Como, right? The Lake Como?” I chirped. “Like George Clooney’s Lake Como?” I was drooling over the pictures.
He gave me the side-eye. “Clooney does not actually own the lake; you know that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah sure. So, a weekend here? How big is your luggage? Will I fit? I’m flexible.”
His hand moved to my thigh, rubbing small circles against it. Higher, then higher still until his fingers danced along the hem of my shorts. “Oh, I know how flexible you are.”
“Now who’s not playing fair, Marcello?”
“Touché.”
My eyes went back to the villa photos. It was stunning: light-colored brick, climbing with ivy. Window boxes spilling over with every color flower. Your eyes were drawn to the villa’s reflection in the lake. Shimmering like jewels over the water, it practically jumped off the screen.
“Are you interested?”