Roman Crazy

  A conversation that I was eager to get over with.

  Earlier I had been holed up in Marcello’s office, enjoying his very handsy company and trying to fill out the paperwork for my work visa.

  “Stop it,” I ordered, slapping away a roving finger. “My handwriting is terrible to begin with, and with your, ah . . . ah. Oh, that’s nice . . . Wait!”

  An email had just arrived from my mother, asking if everything was okay. Her freaky intuition and a keen knack for timing had me spelling my name wrong, and I had to fill out the damn paperwork all over again.

  It was as if she and my father knew something was up. It was time to break it to them.

  Pulling up the chair, I opened the laptop and waited for the beeps that they were calling me. I busied myself with opening the envelope from Maria and the board at Museo di Roma in Trastevere. I beamed, clutching it to my chest. Running my hand over the emblem embossed into the letterhead, I sighed.

  When Maria had called me into her office, I was nervous. I walked in to find not only her but her boss and her boss’s boss, and I panicked. I thought back to my work on the villa I’d just completed and prayed that I hadn’t screwed something up.

  I left barely able to contain my excitement.

  When the Skype bloop bloop noises rang out, I gulped, gently setting the letter off to the side of the desk.

  “Deep breaths, Avery,” I said, clicking the green icon.

  “There she is!” Dad’s forehead said.

  “Move it down a bit, Dad.” I laughed.

  “Damn it, why doesn’t anyone just use phones anymore . . .” He futzed with the “thingamajig.”

  “That’s better,” I said once I could see them both.

  They looked exactly the same as before. I, on the other hand, looked decidedly different. I could see them taking in the new European me.

  My curly hair was left natural, pulled up on the sides. I wore no makeup save the burnt sienna paint I’d missed on my chin. My T-shirt was covered in similar splatters, and I prayed that the hickey from this afternoon hadn’t yet fully formed.

  My father spoke first. “I must say, sweetheart, you look—”

  “Perfect,” my mother finished, beaming.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I took a breath, then went on with the small talk. “So, how’re things back in Boston?”

  We chatted for a while, getting caught up on the gossip, the wrist my father had sprained playing tennis, the new flower bulbs my mother had ordered for the beds out by the pool, the usual. But while I enjoyed the conversation, they could tell something was up. I waited until I felt it was time. I took a deep breath.

  “So, I’ve decided to—”

  “Stay,” my father finished, his voice gentle and knowing.

  I nodded, taking another deep breath. “I am.”

  My mother daintily dabbed at her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief.

  I picked up the letter with shaky hands and held it in front of the camera. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I—”

  “Research conservator?” Dad said proudly. “I’m sure it’s impressive, but what is it?”

  I laughed, and dropped the paper to the side. “Less field work and more office time, but that’s okay. Eventually I could get back out there if I wanted, but I think I’ll like this. I’ll be working with a team at the museum that works closely with firms all over Rome. When they uncover antiques, either in businesses or pieces that would be sent for display in a museum, we come in and create the plan to restore and conserve them. Lots of science and math and oh my God, I’m so happy.”

  “We’re proud of you, sweetheart,” Dad said, his eyes watery.

  “We thought it might happen. Daniel said you seemed very happy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  They explained that they’d seen him—and a guest—and his parents at the club one night, and he’d stopped to talk with them. I was pleasantly surprised and grateful to Daniel for taking the high road after everything.

  “He also said that he felt that there might be someone you’d been seeing in Rome . . .” My mother let her voice trail off, hoping that I might pick up that little nugget and run with it.

  I smiled.

  As did she. “I see. And does your staying have anything to do with him?” She nudged my father.

  I sighed. “I’d be lying if I said no—”

  “We’re happy if you’re happy,” my father finished, smiling the way a father does when he knows his little girl is in love.

  I felt that balloon swell up inside my chest. “His name is Marcello. He works at the same firm as Daisy. He’s an architect, handsome and Italian.”

  My mother made a show of fanning herself.

  “You’ll meet him when you visit—which I hope is soon.”

  “Well check the calendar and send you some dates that might work. We don’t want to cut into your busy Roman life, but expect us for at least two weeks.”

  “Months,” my mother corrected.

  “Looks like it’ll be months,” Daddy said, with a pat on her hand. “Maybe we’ll zoom around the countryside by ourselves for a few days.” He gave her the smile that as a kid I’d rolled my eyes at, but secretly loved that he still looked at her that way.

  Her cheeks pinked. “Four weeks,” she said.

  Before we signed off, I promised my mother that I’d call more often.

  * * *

  A FEW NIGHTS LATER I got to Marcello’s a bit late, staying after a new art class I’d joined to finish up a piece I was working on. Trying to capture the rich tones of a Roman sunset over the Colosseum was difficult with colored pencils, yet it was still incredible. I zoomed up the stairs quickly, hating that I had kept him waiting when he was cooking me dinner. My God, that man could cook . . .

  I opened the door and was greeted by the scent of basil, oregano, garlic, and something a little spicy. Candles glittered on the table and were scattered on the kitchen counter and above the fireplace.

  Marcello, whose back was to me, was concentrating on the dinner he was preparing, and I let out a whistle of appreciation. “Looks like someone is getting seduced tonight,” I teased.

  He started, then turned slowly. “Tesoro, I did not hear you come in.” His grin lit up the room, even more than all the candles. “And a seduction?” The grin changed to a cheeky smirk. “That was going to happen as soon as I asked you to dinner . . . and you said yes.”

  “You’re feeling a bit full of yourself tonight.” I chuckled, setting down my bag and shrugging out of my jacket. He caught me up around the waist, surprising me while my arms were still stuck in their sleeves.

  “You will be feeling a bit full of me, too, later on, no?” He bumped his hips into mine, in case his meaning was in anyway unclear. I loved it when he was like this, so cocksure and charming.

  “If you play your cards right,” I teased. “So what’s for dinner?”

  “Osso bucco, with a lobster risotto and roasted brussels sprouts. And to start with, of course, a pasta.”

  “Good lord, all of that in one sitting?”

  “Ah yes, we are celebrating tonight. This requires something a little special.” Before I could ask what we were celebrating, he kissed me, slow, long, and deep.

  When he released me, I struggled to catch my breath. He flashed me a smirk and swatted me on my behind as he headed back into the kitchen.

  “What in the world has gotten into you tonight?” My legs were a bit shaky from his kisses, and I sat down on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. I’d learned not to get in his way when he was cooking. I could make coffee and help with dishes, but when it came to meal prep, the man was a machine.

  I leaned over and snuck an artichoke heart from the platter when he wasn’t looking.

  “You think I did not see that?” He laughed, looking over his shoulder at me and crooking an eyebrow. “You stole my heart.”

  “Oh boy, you are pouring it on thick tonight. We must be celebrating something big.” T
here was definitely something in the air tonight. Marcello was practically vibrating with excitement as he moved around, tossing this into a pan and that into another pot. A handful of thick fresh pappardelle went into the pasta pot, and a pan positively shimmered with olive oil, garlic, and . . . holy cannoli, was that a white truffle?

  As he shaved the tiniest of slivers into the pan, I was instantly hit with the rich, heady aroma of sizzling truffle. “Forget your news—just put that in my mouth right now.”

  “What is that American saying: that is what she said?”

  “I literally couldn’t love you more.” I laughed as his ears pinked up. He tossed the pan around a bit, letting the garlic and olive oil coat the truffles.

  “So, remember the proposal I was working on, for the job in Rio de Janeiro?” He expertly flipped the food into the air and caught it, not spilling even one drop.

  “Sure—the new opera house built within the old one, right?”

  “That is the one,” he said, lifting forkfuls of the wide ribbons of pappardelle from the pot. He tossed it into the hot oil and garlic, using tongs to stir it around. He looked up at me through a haze of yummy steam. “We got the bid.”

  “You did! Oh that’s wonderful!” I cried, clapping my hands. He beamed; this was a job he’d really wanted. “So you’ll probably have to take a trip there soon, yes?”

  “Yes.” He nodded, gently sliding the contents of the pan onto a platter. Picking up a big wedge of Parmesan, he began to shave thin slices over the top. The aroma was divine; I couldn’t wait to dig in. “I will be going down there next week, starting to put the team together.”

  “Wow. That works out well, actually. I’m starting work on a plan for a mosaic the power company stumbled upon over near the Borghese gardens. The Galleria has plans for it to be unveiled next year, and from what I can tell, it’s going to be a bitch! I can get a bunch of it done while you’re gone. You’re awfully distracting, you know,” I teased, giving his bottom a squeeze as he walked toward the table with the pasta. And the fish. And the veal, rice, veggies, my God. I would be rolling out of here. “I’m so proud of you.”

  This was a huge feather in his cap. He did amazing work, and he was being rewarded for it. “How much time do you think you’ll have to spend down there?” I leaned over to smell the pasta.

  “That is what I wanted to talk to you about. They want me to move to Brazil.”

  “This pasta looks incredi— What did you say?”

  “The firm asked me to move to Brazil.”

  “To Brazil.”

  “Yes.”

  “South America.”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  He shrugged. “Eighteen months, two years at the most.”

  Eighteen months. Two years. At the most.

  I lifted enormous forkfuls of pasta onto my plate, swirling a huge bite onto my fork and spoon like an American, and stuffing it into my mouth.

  Eighteen months. Two years. At the most.

  “When they asked you to move to Brazil, you told them yes.”

  He propped his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “This isn’t really the kind of thing you say no to. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

  I swallowed hard past a sudden lump in my throat. “I know it is.” I looked down at the table, the wood grain seeming to swim before my eyes.

  “It could be incredible for you, too,” he said softly, and my head snapped up.

  “What?”

  “I want you to come with me. To Brazil.”

  “Come with you?” I repeated, stunned.

  “Yes, of course. I want you to come with me.” He came around the table, sat next to me, and took my hand. “I’ll head down there first, find us a place to live, then come back for you. We can move there together.”

  “Come back for me.” I sounded like a parrot. “But what about my job? That I just got. And my work visa—it hasn’t even come through yet. And I just started my classes again. And I just heard about a volunteer program where Americans living in Rome give tours of local museums to tourists. I was thinking about looking into that, and—”

  “We will work it all out, Avery. You’ll see,” he soothed, pulling me onto his lap. “That will all be waiting for you when we come back.”

  “In eighteen months. Two years, at the most,” I said, feeling a twinge of irritation.

  “Exactly!” he said, excited. He looked at the array of food on the table and chuckled. “I went a little overboard here, yes?”

  “A little,” I chirped. He nodded, assuming I was agreeing with him about the food and not the overall concept here. “Marcello, I need some time to think about this.”

  “I know, it is a lot to take in. But there is plenty of time to figure this all out. Wait until you see Rio de Janeiro—you will fall in love.”

  There were so many things I wanted to say, so many questions I needed to ask. But first I needed time to think, time to get my head on straight.

  So I celebrated this wonderful news with him, and I let him love me like only he could. But inside?

  I was unsettled.

  I STAYED AWAKE ALL NIGHT, while Marcello slept soundly. After the love, I’d tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, unable to shut my brain off from the hurricane of thoughts.

  Move to Brazil?

  Leave Rome behind?

  Follow Marcello?

  Leave my new job behind?

  Follow Marcello?

  It was that last part that was giving me the most trouble.

  I watched him sleeping. When he slept deeply he went full flop, one arm thrown over his head, the other out to the side, one leg thrust in my direction, the other hanging over the side of the bed.

  The sheet was draped perfectly around him, low on his hips, exposing the happiest of trails . . . He looked styled for a cologne ad. Perfection.

  How could I even think of not sleeping next to him every night?

  I couldn’t think about it—not while he was right here in all his glory. With sleep wood, which was always impressive . . .

  I slipped out of the room and went up to the rooftop terrace, shrugging into a big oversized cardigan on the way. Here, where the air was clear and fresh, maybe I could think about this calmly, and rationally.

  I sank into one of the big overstuffed chairs, staring up into the night sky. The city was quiet this late at night. And I needed that to help me sort out the thought that came into my brain whenever I thought about leaving Rome.

  I didn’t want to leave Rome.

  And the part that I felt guilty about was . . . I didn’t want to leave it even for Marcello.

  When I graduated from Boston College, I’d more than the one offer. There was Manhattan, strictly entry level, practically no pay, but an opportunity a twenty-two-year-old rarely gets. SFMOMA in San Francisco wanted me to apprentice in their art conservator program and learn from the masters in my field how to best preserve these priceless works of art and then I was accepted into the master’s program for art conservatorship at Washington University in Saint Louis—an incredibly difficult to get into program and a huge honor for me.

  This was different, though. None of those paths would have included Marcello. This had to be different.

  But could I give up who I was, again, just because he was my One?

  I stayed up all night, watched the sun rise, and knew that I had to tell him the truth.

  * * *

  STILL WEARING HIS SWEATER, I was sitting in the chair on his side of the bed. I couldn’t be in bed with him when I told him this.

  “I can’t go with you to Brazil.”

  As hurt filled his eyes, I said, “But before you say anything, please hear me out.”

  He nodded.

  “I love being here. It’s so busy and boisterous; there’s so much energy and so many people. I never know what’s going to happen next here, and I love that. I don’t know where I’m going to live, I don’t know how long I’m going to
be able to keep a job if the work visa falls through. My life is upside down and inside out, and it’s exciting and scary as hell—but I love it.”

  He said nothing.

  I smiled at him. “And I love you. I love you so much, and I feel so lucky not only to have found you again, but to actually be with you.”

  Stand firm, Avery.

  “Then you give me this incredible news about this job, which is wonderful, and I am so very proud of you. But I can’t uproot my life to follow you halfway across the world. I’ve just started growing roots, Marcello. They’re barely in the ground.”

  He sat quietly, taking it all in. When he finally spoke, he sounded confused. “Then I would think this would be the best time for a move like this—no?”

  I sighed. “That could be true—except for one thing. After everything that happened with losing the baby, I put someone else’s career, happiness, and choices ahead of my own and I buried myself. If I go with you to Brazil, I’d be doing it all over again. Even though I’d be with the man I love this time, I can’t do that to myself.”

  He was silent. Listening. Comprehending.

  I climbed out of the chair and onto his lap, wrapping my arms around him. “Marcello, I love you more than anyone on this planet. And I will wait for you here. I’ll come to visit, I’ll call you every day, I’ll Skype you and dirty text you and send you naked pictures, and I’ll do everything I can do to make this work. But I can’t live someone else’s life. Not again.”

  “You are not going with me to Brazil.”

  I shook my head, trying to hold back the tears that were already falling. “I love you so much,” I whispered, kissing his sweet, sad face all over, eyelids, cheekbones, eyebrows, tip of his nose and all along his lips. “But I can’t.”

  He kissed me back, but said nothing.

  * * *

  I SPENT THE NEXT FEW weeks second guessing, third guessing, fourth guessing, and yes, fifth guessing my decision.

  Pros for Going to Brazil

  The food is incredible

  The beaches are supposed to be great

  Carnivale