I carried it home, staring at it most of the way.
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE WE’RE NOT late? We’re not going to be stuck eating leftovers or just dessert, right?”
“As if that would be so bad. Have you had an Italian dessert? And I don’t mean those paltry knockoffs they serve in the States. Besides, I’m there once a week. Trust me.” Daisy laughed, handing me a small paper bag with bright red paper poking out of the top as we hurried down the street to dinner.
“What’s this?”
“Tools to make life easier,” she explained, pulling the paper out to reveal a tiny book of maps and a common phrases book. “I saw the one in your backpack. It’s a bit dated. This will help.”
“You didn’t have to do this!” I exclaimed, flipping through the translations for something good. “Grazie.”
“Well, I did it so that I felt better about you wandering around the city by yourself,” she began, slipping her purse across her body. “Unless Marcello plans on wandering with you—”
This was a notion that sunk its teeth in and didn’t let go. “I won’t rule it out. Is that awful of me? I know I’ll see him at your office, but . . . We could be friends.”
Daisy wrapped a thin, vibrantly colored scarf around her neck. “I’d think you were insane to not want to see and do him while you’re here, but friends works, too.”
It was my turn to laugh. We took one last corner, then arrived at our restaurant.
Dozens of people, including families, were waiting on the sidewalk outside the strip of restaurants, chatting among themselves.
I checked my watch. “It’s eight o’clock on a Tuesday, and these people are just starting dinner? What about getting ready for work and school the next day? My God, Daniel would be on the couch watching a game at this time.”
I sounded like a stick in the mud waiting for her AARP card to come in the mail.
“Have you heard from him?”
“If you call him sending me a text hearing from him,” I snipped, pulling out the phone to show her.
Avie, I need to know where you take my dry cleaning.
Daisy frowned and patted my hand. “Wine. We need wine.”
She knew the hostess, so we were whisked away within minutes, tucked away at one of the outdoor tables lit with small tea-light candles. I was beginning to realize my friend had this town wired. I’d checked out everyone else’s table on the way in, looking to see what people were eating, and I may have inadvertently moaned out loud.
When the server arrived, Daisy waved off the menus and asked, “Do you mind if I order for us?”
“Go ahead.” I was about three seconds away from sprinkling fresh Parmesan on the table and gnawing off a corner.
“Excellent. We’ll start with the bufala mozzarella with the warm plum tomatoes and basil pesto, and the baccalà croquettes. Then the black ink tagliolini with the shrimp and scallions, the oxtail ravioli, and after that we’ll split the veal and polenta with the summer truffles. Bene, grazie.”
“How many people are joining us for dinner?” I laughed, breaking off a hunk of warm, crusty bread.
She laughed. “The portions aren’t that big. Besides, everything is slowed down here. You sit, you drink, you laugh and drink some more—and above all else, you enjoy life. One night, dinner here lasted four and a half hours.”
I gave her a searching look, and she added, “There was a lot of wine.”
“While that sounds incredibly relaxing, I’ve got a phone call with my lawyer in the morning. I need to be sharp.”
“I think you need something sharp. Pointed at his balls.”
I shook my head, annoyed. “I just can’t believe that the only contact I’ve had from him since I’ve been here has been about his shirts.”
“He’s probably still laying into the secretary.” When I winced, she apologized. “Too soon? Sorry.”
“No, you’re probably right. That’s not even what’s bothering me. Which seems insane, I know, but I think what I really hate about all of this is the lying. And if he was lying about this, who knows what else he was lying about. How many women? How many years has this been going on?”
She nodded, handing me another piece of bread.
I talked as I chewed. “And it’s like, here’s this guy, this guy you’ve known since you were nineteen, this guy you thought you knew better than anyone on the planet, and then poof. One day you find out he’s got a secret life.”
“Well, his penis had a secret life.” Daisy groaned, and I laughed in spite of myself. I dabbed my eyes with the napkin, wondering if I could pass off my tears as ones of laughter. “I’m sorry I brought it up,” Daisy said, reaching across the table and patting my hand, not at all fooled.
I gave a watery sigh, then dabbed my eyes a final time. “I don’t want to waste a beautiful Italian night or an incredible dinner with thoughts of him. Not now at least. After I talk to the lawyer, I’ll need that wine.”
“Want to know what is exciting to talk about on a beautiful Italian night over an incredible dinner?”
“What?”
“Your first day of work!” She smiled big and goofy. “We finally moved all the vases to the studio. Are you excited?”
“I am. I so, so am. Tomorrow, after the lawyer wine, we’re having celebratory vase wine.”
“Deal. Now tell me about that portrait you brought home.”
“Home?”
She shrugged. “It’s where the art is.”
I explained the line of novice artists at the market; how they were all similar save for the one. “I just couldn’t leave it to end up in the trash. When she said for me to take it, I just did. I don’t even really know why.”
Daisy examined me, the candlelight reflecting in her green eyes. “You have a new map now, and we’ll get your phone set up with an international plan. Your next order of business is an art shop.” She held up her hand when I started to interrupt. “No excuses, Avery. If I knew what you needed I’d buy it myself, but I know how particular you are.”
“I’m not that particular,” I protested, smothering a smile. “Besides, I was trying to tell you that I went shopping today. You should have seen me when I got home, covered in pastel chalk, but I digress.”
She beamed, holding up her water glass. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Me, too. I have you to thank for the idea to come here.”
“To us,” we said, and clinked.
The server brought the first wave of food, along with a bottle of wine, compliments of the owner. Daisy was clearly a regular.
My eyes closed and I sighed dreamily when the mozzarella melted against my tongue; when the basil pesto hit my taste buds, I heard angels singing. “Jesu—Jesuit Christmas,” I choked, correcting myself when a woman at the next table raised her eyebrow in my direction. Right. Catholic town.
“Right? It’s impossible to have a bad meal here. And you walk so much, you don’t gain weight. It’s like Disney World for foodies.”
By the time dessert was ordered, it was nearly ten o’clock and I had to unbutton my pants.
“You’ve had American-made tiramisu, right?” I nodded. “Order it here. You’ll never look at it the same way again. Sinful doesn’t even cut it.”
I ordered for us when she got a text and smiled broadly. I’d been so focused on Daniel, me, and seeing Marcello, that I hadn’t asked Daisy about her life.
“Someone special?”
“Huh? Uh, no, this is work.” She was unconvincing.
The waiter returned with heaven on a plate. A shareable portion of tiramisu that he garnished with freshly shaved chocolate. “Doesn’t seem like work,” I countered, dipping my fingertip into the creamy topping of the tiramisu.
She tried to hide her secretive smile, and failed miserably at it. “Oh it is. All work. All the time with him.”
“Details, please.”
She laughed, tossing her phone back into her purse. “Later. Right now, I need this chocol
ate to help me forget about spreadsheets and budgets.”
I DIDN’T KNOW WHO WAS more excited, me or Daisy, when I strolled out of the bedroom ready for my first day at work. I knew she was excited, because she had a healthy breakfast and not-so-healthy cappuccino ready for me, and immediately started chirping. “I know you have to talk to the lawyer this morning so I’m sending a car when you’re ready. Hopefully tomorrow we can go in on the bus together, but today, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll be fine,” I told her as she sailed out the front door. “Thanks, Mom!”
Her response was to fire some weird Italian gesture back at me that I’m pretty sure didn’t mean you’re welcome . . .
The phone call with my attorney didn’t exactly go as I had hoped. I had hoped, pie in the sky perhaps, but hoped nonetheless that once Daniel had some time to think about what had happened, what he had done, he would have come to the same decision I had, and agree that ending the marriage was the smartest thing we could do. In fact, I also thought once he had time to get used to the idea that he’d actually relish the idea of no longer being tied down, no longer having anyone to answer to, and he could troll through Boston with his pants down.
He’d committed adultery, not me. Theoretically, it seemed clear that he’d be thrilled to be out of this marriage and back onto the scene, free and clear, single and ready to mingle. But in reality, he wanted to make this difficult.
It was clear cut for me. It hadn’t been an easy decision and I still had so many conflicting feelings I felt like a yo-yo half the time, but I had to admit that once I stepped off that plane and arrived in Rome, I was seeing things much clearer. So I was letting my attorney fight the battle back home while I got to know Rome.
And frankly, I was enjoying the hell out of the freedom of owing nothing to anyone. I went where I wanted, I ate what I wanted, I drank what I wanted, and no one cared! I’d put on five pounds already, and no one had made any snarky comments! So if Daniel wanted to drag this out, so be it. I wasn’t in a rush to return to Boston.
Plus, and this was the part I had never expected, I had a job to start and vases to repair and a . . . life to live?
After I hung up with the lawyer, I took my time getting dressed. Nothing too fancy because, hello, old vases and plaster, but I didn’t want to look like a schlump, either.
Why are you so concerned about looking like a schlump?
Officially, it was because I was volunteering at my best friend’s workplace for a job that she had helped me get and I didn’t want to reflect badly on her.
Unofficially, oh please. There was one very particular reason to look good today. And he stood about six feet tall and rolled his eyes and his R’s when he was pissed at me. A pretty dress couldn’t hurt, could it?
Before I knew it the driver was knocking on my door and the flutter in my belly was on overdrive. I checked and rechecked my purse, tote, and my little lunch bag that Daisy had prepared and was out the door and into the Roman sunshine for my first day on the job.
The architectural firm that Daisy and Marcello worked for was in the San Lorenzo district. A mix of residential and commercial buildings, the neighborhood was grittier than some of the others I’d been in. Fewer fountains and more graffiti, but there was kind of a pulse, a creative buzz in the air. Being that it was near the university, fliers were stapled to every surface imaginable, announcing exhibits and gallery shows, concerts and readings, free classes for those wanting to bone up on their Chinese, and a get-together next week of the Transcendentalism through Pasta Society, where they’d be focusing on changing the political climate while mastering the art of ravioli.
It was a vibrant part of town, young and hip, and felt very of the moment. I could instantly see why an architectural firm that focused on green energy and restoration would have its offices here. Making my way to Daisy’s building on the corner, I headed inside and gave my name to the woman behind the reception desk. While I waited for Daisy to come down, I checked out the directory on the wall, astonished at how many people the firm employed. Daisy’s name was listed along with the other architects, and it thrilled me to see her name there. She had made her own way in this field, and risen to the top with extreme dedication and hard work.
Of course, I also felt a little thrill to see Marcello’s name. I marveled over how this enormous world had somehow become quite small, both of them working together across the ocean from me in Boston, not knowing these very important people knew each other, but had no idea I knew them both.
“There’s my girl!” Daisy was coming down the stairs, fresh as a . . . well. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Nope, just got here.” I spun around, taking in the spacious feel, the modern furnishings, the whole island of glam in a sea of semiseedy. “Very cool.”
“Come on, I’ll give you the five-cent tour before I show you the vase.” She walked me up to her office, passing aisles of cubicles artfully arranged into pods rather than long, boring rows. There were plants everywhere, a yoga studio in one corner, a guy on a balance ball in the other, and I spied at least four dogs hanging out with their owners while they worked at their desks.
It was what I imagined Google looked like. A smaller, Italian Google.
After making our way past some of the enclosed offices and conference rooms, she led me into her office.
“Corner?”
“Hell yes.” She preened, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water out of her little fridge and pouring us each a glass. “I’d say I’m doing okay.”
“Okay? This looks more like killing it.” Sinking into one of the plush leather chairs opposite her desk, I grinned. “Can I say something without sounding cheesy?”
“You can sure try.” Her eyes twinkled.
“I’m really proud of you.”
She looked surprised, but pleased. “Is this the part where I say aw shucks?”
“You can sure try.” I winked.
We avoided the fifth floor altogether. I didn’t know if Daisy was doing that for my benefit, Marcello’s, or both. Knowing her as well as I did, I decided it was for both.
Tour over, we headed back downstairs. The studio was back on the first floor, just around the corner from reception, taking up the entire rest of the floor. A spacious, open-concept room that appeared to have every conservationist tool imaginable. Solvents, clamps, sprayers, the specialized lightbulbs to ensure that the artificial light didn’t damage the pieces more than they already were.
There was a time in my life where I lived in a studio just like this, where I dreamed of a life after college making my living in a studio like this.
“You okay? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I squeezed her arm and smiled. “I might.”
Beneath a large glass dome sat the vase. It was beautifully preserved and unfortunately, the conservator was right, not in nearly as bad a shape as I hoped.
Hoped as in, I hoped it was in a terrible mess and would not only take me forever to restore it—thus giving me more time in the same building with Marcello in the hopes that I could make him not so much hate me anymore—but show off some of my restoration skills.
The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Here it is!” she pronounced, uncovering a table with a single vase, in way better condition than I was expecting. It needed work, don’t get me wrong, but thoughts of working endless hours, late into the night, stopping only to take a quick break to eat the tortellini that Marcello brought because he knew how hard I was working . . . yeah, no.
Men’s voices carried through the glass walls, and my heart raced. My face must have shown what I was thinking, because she gave me a knowing look. “He’s not here. Probably not all week. And before you think it has something to do with you, it doesn’t. He had a few days already scheduled off. Something about his parents and going back to—”
“Pienza,” I finished, pushing away my disappointment. “That’s where he’s from. And it’s f
ine actually, it’s probably best that he’s not here. It might make me more nervous if both of you were watching me work.”
“Honey, I’m not watching you. Maria is, she’s the main conservator,” she said, pointing over my shoulder. I turned to see the tiniest person with the most enormous hair I’d ever seen who was looking at me like I had absolutely no business being here. “Maria Salvatore consults with us on a lot of our restoration work. She technically works for the Montmartini Museum, but anytime we’re working with a historical site—which is always, here—we bring in someone who can make sure we’re doing it the right way. I’m heading back over to the site, tons of work to do to get ready for the opening this weekend. Have fun!”
“Bye,” I whispered, nervous now that I was alone. With Maria. And a vase.
“So, you are Avery,” she said, walking in a circle around me, something I’d only ever seen in movies or on bad CW shows.
“I am. You’re Maria, right? So glad to meet you. I can’t tell you how thrilled that I—”
“Have you worked on pottery from this time period before?”
I gulped. “Eighteenth century? I have. It’s been awhile, but—”
“And this piece here, see how the neck has been broken? How would you repair?” She eyed me carefully. I took my time examining the vase, inspecting the entirety. It had snapped along the stem, but it looked to be a fairly clean break. The vase itself was beautiful. Wide bottom, long tapered neck, graceful and sturdy. A household piece, put to good use. It could have held water, but based on the faded but still discernable greenish-brown leaf patterns along the base, I’d guess it’d held olive oil.
“Has it been inspected yet for old glue?”
“Old glue?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded, gesturing to a hairline crack just below the current break. “This was mended before.”
“That was also my assessment,” she agreed. “The glue has been removed; what would your next step be?”
“Sand it, prepare it for cement. I’d use a two-part heavy-duty epoxy, archival clear of course, then polish and prime it. Looks like you haven’t lost much in terms of color saturation, so I’d likely leave that alone, except for color matching along the seam, which will be small to minimize additional coloring.”