I WOKE TO BUSTLING NOISES in the kitchen that seemed much louder than usual. Clatter. Clatter clatter. Coffee beans grinding. Clatter clatter. Grind grind grind. I’m all for a good cuppa joe, but this was ridiculous. Finally, silence reigned and I scrunched up the pillow, trying to nestle back in. Closing my eyes I tried to drift back to sleep, a sleep enhanced by the dream I’d been having about two giant men named Romulus and Remus kicking Daniel square in the—
Two more clatters, then a pronounced banging that sounded like someone repeatedly opening and closing the fridge. Giving up, I shrugged into a robe and padded out to the kitchen.
“Oh! Sorry, did I wake you?” Daisy asked, blinking at me as innocent as a kitten.
“I’m sure that someday, someone somewhere will fall for your bullshit.” I yawned and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. “But today is not that day.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She grinned, knowing full well she’d been caught and not giving the tiniest of a damn. “But now that you’re up . . .”
“I’ll tell you all about yesterday? Which I could have told you about last night. Where were you? I finally went to bed at eleven.”
“Sorry about that. You got my note, right? I’m telling you this bank job is a killer. I’ll be glad when it’s done. Then it’s on to the next one. But not right now; right now I require Marcello details. As soon as the coffee’s done—I feel like this is going to be the kind of story that’s told over coffee.” She headed over to the Signor coffee machine, I joined her, and the two of us watched it drip.
“Didn’t we do this twenty-four hours ago?” I asked.
“We did. What does that tell you?”
“That you need a new television show to obsess over?”
“Bite me, Bardot. Tell me what the hell happened—”
I grinned in a way that made her sigh with delight. “Yes!” she exclaimed.
“No, no. Don’t get too excited. We just had coffee,” I confirmed. “And we talked. And I apologized. And he growled a bit, in that Marcello stubborny way he has; you must have seen it before.”
“He has a bit of a temper, it’s true,” she agreed.
“But to be fair, rightfully so. Although frankly if it hadn’t been directed at me, it would have been something to see him hot and angry. But it was at me, and while things aren’t great, they’re not awful, either.”
“Not awful is good, Avery. Great, even. It’s a start,” she said, emptying the dishwasher.
“Then I came home.”
“And then you came home,” she repeated, looking at me incredulously. “And that’s it?”
“Yes?”
She stopped with the dishwasher and started pacing around the kitchen, looking in drawers.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Pliers, to pry more than two words from your lips before I’m late for work.”
“There’s no dirt to dish—honestly. We just had coffee, I apologized for how I left things, we walked home, and then he . . .” I didn’t need a mirror to know that my eyes went starry.
“He . . . he what?”
“Nothing, he did nothing, really it was just a look, and I’m not going to be that girl who reads into it,” I insisted, but kept the vision of him staring up at me in the rain in my mind. “It’s all very confusing, and I really don’t have much to tell you.” All of that was the truth. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. It’s a lot to try and compartmentalize.”
Where to put Marcello into my already-overflowing box of feelings was the question of the day for sure.
“Maybe you shouldn’t? Compartmentalize it, I mean. You’ve got to stop bottling everything up, sister. Let yourself feel bad for hurting him. Or confused for whatever is happening. You can’t keep ignoring your feelings.”
“I can’t?” I asked, pulling at a string on my sleep shirt. I already knew the answer, but I tended to stuff things away, forget about them, deal with them tomorrow.
She sighed and pulled a stool up in front of me. “I’m not going to sit here and tell you what I think you should do. Because I’d probably be halfway to his house already, naked under a trench coat and ready for Avery and Marcello 2.0, the Italian Adventure.”
“Wow.” I gave her the biggest pie eyes I could.
“Which is why I’m not telling you what to do,” she said with a snort. “I’ll just say this—”
“I don’t even own a trench coat.”
She ignored my comment. “Put yourself first. Do what you want.”
“And that’s it?”
“Honey, that’s enough. Trust me, I’m a master at putting myself first,” she said, lightly slapping my leg. “Now, anything else happen? Any other little tidbits you want to tell me about?”
“He walked me home, a different way than he took me to coffee.” A faint smile crossed my lips when I remembered why. “Marcello wanted me to see more of the neighborhood.”
Daisy nodded knowingly.
“Oh, and I found an art shop! They were closed but Marcello got a card for me with their hours on it. I’m going to drop in today.”
My excitement was not lost on Miss Daisy, who was driving herself crazy. “Marcello walked you home. Marcello showed you the neighborhood. Marcello made sure you knew when the art shop was open next. Hmmm. Sounds like a great day to me.”
I blushed, sipping at my coffee as an excuse not to say any more. It had been a great day.
“But are you seeing him again? You must be seeing him again, right?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll see him again. Like at the office.” I paused for effect.
Her eyes went wide and she hopped from foot to foot. “I was hoping you’d tell him. Hence my perfectly timed text message. How’d that go?”
“Yeah, thanks for that. A little warning might’ve been good. I thought you were going to talk to him.”
“I did. I texted! Sounds like you did the rest. How’d it go? What did you say? What did he say? Is he going to be okay with you working in the office?”
“Hard to say; we spoke a lot in metaphors.”
She looked confused. “Metaphors?”
I nodded, pulling out a fruit salad from the fridge and scooping us each a bowl. “He said a vase is not just a vase. And I agree, but damn, I think I just want it to be a vase.”
“You do?” She looked surprised, and bit into a giant strawberry.
“Weren’t you just telling me to put myself first?”
“Yeah, but I thought you doing that would mean doing him.” She munched on a banana slice. “Okay, so. A vase is just a vase. A sigh is just a sigh. You’re sure about this?”
I thought about second chances. I guess looking at it it’d seem that the second chance here was clearly a second chance at love, with Marcello. But maybe it was getting a second chance at life, with myself, for myself, doing something that I loved.
Put. Yourself. First.
“Yes,” I mumbled, but then I repeated it louder. “Yes, I’m sure. I just— I have to get my head on straight. Everything with Daniel has really put things into perspective. What I gave up, how really unhappy we were—or at least how unhappy I was. How I’m now realizing that there was an emptiness to my life in Boston. So actually, when you think about it, maybe the vase isn’t just a vase.”
Daisy nodded sagely, biting into a blueberry, watching me work my way around all of this.
“Marcello suddenly being back in my life, maybe, possibly complicates things. But the vase, this project and what it means—that’s for me. I know it’s not much but it’s mine. Just because it involves Marcello doesn’t mean that something is going to happen again there. I’d like to focus on me for a change.”
“Then there’s your answer. Just make it your goddamn vase,” she said, setting her bowl into the sink.
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER I’d finished my breakfast, said good-bye to Daisy, who was in fact late for work, and was working on my second cup of coffee.
br /> What would I do today?
It was Tuesday. Back home that meant garden club at ten thirty, lunch with my mother after her garden club, then over to Acquitaine Boston for my Art of French Cooking class. With just enough time to zip home, drink a couple of glasses of chardonnay while staring at the television until six thirty, then throw together a salad to go with whatever fabulousness I’d made in class that day.
Sleep?
Great idea. I could sleep all day if I wanted to. After all, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on vacation? I mean, going through a divorce? Relax. Cocoon.
Hide?
Shhh.
I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over my head, like they did in every rom-com when the woman is going through something depressing. The longer I lay there, the antsier I got. I didn’t want to sleep anymore, or sulk, or dwell on what was happening at home. Then I remembered what was in my purse. I hopped out of bed and rummaged around until I pulled out the card.
Poggi Art Store was open and only a few blocks away. And thanks to Marcello, I knew exactly how to get there.
And thanks to Daniel, I had an Amex that hadn’t been canceled yet.
Looks like someone was replenishing her art supplies . . .
* * *
I GRABBED MY LEATHER BACKPACK and threw in a few snacks, a bottle of water, my wallet, and I was ready to go for a day out and about in Rome.
A guidebook with a map was the last thing I tossed inside the pack before pulling it onto my back and heading out to the art store. Would I get charcoals or pencils? Pastels? Or maybe I’d try my hand at painting again. It didn’t matter. I could have picked up finger paints from a kids’ store and I still would’ve been blissfully happy.
The walk there wasn’t quite the same as it was last night. Not just the obvious fact of Marcello not being there, but because my mood had changed, lightened. Entering Poggi, I had a spring in my step.
When was the last time I’d walked into an art store? I couldn’t remember. But this store was like entering Mecca. Every kind of medium you could dream of was there. And the sketch pads alone made me ache to take them all home.
There’s something really special about an art store. Here you have colors and blank paper of every size and every color, every saturation and every combination at your fingertips. Everyone walks out of the store with essentially the same thing. But it’s what happens after it all leaves the store . . . the possibilities are endless. I couldn’t possibly count the amount of times that just being in an art store had inspired a new piece, or changed my direction on a current project.
I honest-to-God breathed a sigh of relief just being in this store. How in the world had I ever been gone from this world for so long?
Does anyone truly know the beauty of a brand-new box of perfectly sharpened, never-been-used colored pencils? Can anyone ever really appreciate the curve of a brand-new sable paintbrush, edge never before dipped into a vibrant cerulean acrylic and swirled across a virgin canvas?
Simply put, it’s something I’d never take for granted again.
The stores, no matter the country, were set up mostly the same. Different media grouped together to make it easier for you to browse. And browse I did. With a basket and a smile, I carried myself through the store, carefully selecting a small set of pastels, a handful of pencils, and a large spiral sketch pad. I could have gone crazy in there, but I had other plans for the day, and lugging a giant bag with me wasn’t practical.
After I paid, I left and decided to walk until I hit water, no matter where it took me. I rummaged through my knapsack for a euro and held it in the palm of my hand. When I had free time in Barcelona, if I wasn’t with Marcello, I would flip a coin to see which direction I’d go.
It was my first full day alone in Rome and I had an idea of what I wanted to do, but I was letting fate decide. I closed my eyes and flipped the coin. It came up heads. Heads was west. I pulled out the map to see what I might run into going west as the universe had dictated.
Ooh, Campo de’ Fiori. It sounded familiar. Daisy had mentioned it, hadn’t she?
I quickly consulted my guidebook.
Ooh, an outdoor market.
I bounded down to the corner and headed west.
* * *
THE WALK TO THE CAMPO de’ Fiori took a bit longer than I’d intended. The street signs were plentiful, but so was the graffiti sprayed across them to throw you off.
But with some patience, a few surreptitious peeks at my map, and a little luck, I made it! When I entered the Campo de’ Fiori square, all the air left my lungs, rendering me light-headed and in awe.
It was bustling, alive, colorfully explosive, magnetic, and I felt charged just walking through it. It was like the farmers’ markets at home but so much more. These vegetable stands boasted tomatoes the size of a dinner plate. Royal purple eggplants, luscious green zucchini, and plump, hearty mushrooms. They were being gently placed into baskets across the front of one of the tables. Another stand had fruit just as colorful and lush. Cheese in wheels, some was shredded, while others were ground into a Parmesan pillow.
And pasta—lord have mercy. Maybe it was the years of carb watching, but I nearly burst into happy tears at the sight of bags and bags of pasta just waiting for me to buy them.
Maybe I could cook dinner for him? I meant Daisy. Yes, Daisy.
As if on cue, my stomach growled. Loudly. A young man carrying a basket of vegetables chuckled and pointed to a little pastry shop just outside of the square.
Food first, people watching later. Armed with another cornetto alla crema (they were quickly turning into my favorite breakfast) and a coffee, I moved through the crowd that milled about with their baskets.
I heard the water trickling before I saw the giant, ancient fountain that it was pouring from. Noticing the inscription, I tried out my Italian. “Fa del ben e lassa dire,” I mumbled to myself.
An elderly woman was sliding over on the ledge, freeing up a seat for me to enjoy my breakfast, and clearly overheard me puzzling out the meaning. She smiled, looking for all the world like a sweet jack-o’-lantern with missing teeth and sparkling eyes.
“It mean, ‘Do the good and let them talk,’ ” she explained, and pinched my cheek before hobbling away, leaning on her umbrella as a cane.
Huh. A strange woman had just pinched my cheek, and it didn’t feel at all weird. I freakin’ loved this town.
Scrambling up, I had a perfect view of the outlying city while being enveloped in the heart of the square. I rolled over the quote in my head while I ate, trying not to take it as some Italian sign about Marcello. Marcello was good. Very good. Was he the good I should be doing? Was this a sign to do him again? Hmmm.
An image of myself stumbling through the streets of Rome, clad only in a borrowed trench coat came to mind, and I immediately shook my head.
With a mental slap to get my mind out of the gutter, I focused on the market. To my left were white tented tables filled with everything from fresh seafood to the most vibrant flowers I’d ever seen. There were a few restaurants with outdoor seating and red-checkered cloths. If I could choose a postcard image to represent Italy, Campo de’ Fiori would be it.
I sat cross-legged on the edge of the fountain and pulled out the sketchpad. It was wrapped in plastic and I was like a kid on Christmas tearing into a present. I lifted the cover and ran my fingers down the blank page. It was pristine white and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Digging through the bag, I pulled out the pastels and eyed a fruit stand that had a tower of apples. Still life was never my favorite subject, but this was back to basics.
I’d scratched out a few drawings with Daisy, but I wasn’t thinking about what I was drawing; I’d just been doodling. Here, I was putting so much behind it my fingers froze around the pastel. Pressure was always something that I succumbed to too easily.
Along the square’s border I saw a group of people setting up easels, stools, and canvases, and my heart b
egan racing and my fingers started twitching. They were clearly an organized class. Could I join them? Soon . . . baby steps.
Once they were arranged, they sat and began painting the landscape just beyond the square.
I was lost within moments, watching them work. My fingers gripped the pastel, and with one stroke down the page, I smiled. From there it wasn’t smooth sailing, but it was a start.
Before I realized it, I had lost thirty minutes. Shaking my head, I stood, stretching my limbs and knocking off the dust that had collected on my lap.
It wasn’t my finest work, but I was damn proud of it. The colors of the apples were captured, the farmer’s charming, weathered face and hands were rough, but I was cutting myself some slack. This was the first effort, but definitely not the last.
Tucking everything back into the bag, I wandered over to the group and eyed each canvas. They were good, but they all looked the same: a beautiful Roman landscape. The only varying details were how many flowers they used or the steadiness of their hands on the fine line details.
Except one. An older gentleman toward the end of the line hadn’t filled his landscape with the traditional reds, oranges, and yellows of Tuscany. He had painted the night sky. It was rich and haunting with the navy-gray base and stunning charcoal accents. The only swipe of brightness came from a building with a single lit window. Inside, a sultry-shaped silhouette gazed out over Rome.
I watched him finish it before he packed up his things and walked away, leaving the painting on the easel.
“Sir?” I called out after him.
One of the painters tapped me on the shoulder. “He comes every week,” she explained in broken English. “He always leave them.” She gently picked up the painting and held it out to me. “You take.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, watching the others pack up their things.
“Yes, enjoy. You come next week, yes?” she said, pointing to the pastel chalk dust on my clothing. She smiled, pushing the canvas toward me. “Next week.”
With a parting wave, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with the painting.