Roman Crazy (13 page)

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 fine 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.”

These were words and phrases I hadn't spoken in years, and yet they were as familiar to my tongue as
unleaded, please
and
Coke with no ice
.

I held my breath as she studied me once more, no doubt weighing what I'd said with her instinct. Finally, she nodded.

“Then by all means, Ms. Bardot, let's get to work.”

It wasn't until I stopped for a lunch break that I realized that I hadn't corrected her when she'd used my maiden name.

MY GOODNESS WAS THAT FUN
. I wished desperately that there had been more to work on, more smashed bits of pottery dug up from beneath that bank they were all working so hard on, but by the end of the day I'd finished the vase. Oh sure, I'd stop by the next day to make sure the paint I'd used dried correctly, that there weren't any last little bits of sanding to finish it off, but it was done. Maria checked in many, many, many times to make sure I wasn't breaking her ancient vase, but in the end she seemed
pleased with my work. I think. It was hard to say, based on the fact that she didn't smile or frown, just nodded and said
that'll do
.

And I never even saw Marcello. But no matter, I was seeing
Rome.

Those first few days after the job was done, armed with my backpack and my trusty guidebook, I explored the little nooks and crannies of my new neighborhood and even a bit beyond, getting lost in this beautiful city. Literally and figuratively. And after Daisy came home from work she'd freshen up and we'd head out for the evening ritual, the
passeggiata.

Between five and seven each night, Romans paraded around their neighborhoods for everyone to see. Couples, families, friends, everyone would stroll in twos and threes. They were dressed in their finest, to see and be seen as was the custom. The streets were alive after the heat of the day had passed, filled with friendly faces and chatter. People greeted each other as though they hadn't seen each other in years, catching up on the day's activities, making impromptu dinner plans, and deciding what they might do that weekend.

While people typically strolled in their own neighborhoods, Daisy used
our
nightly
passeggiata
as a way to show me more of this enchanting city. With Daisy by my side, we used the Metro to zig and zag across the city, turning it from a labyrinth of muddled streets into a walkable town.

Excuse me, a struttable town. Because on our evening strolls through the Trastevere, the Tridente, the Prati, I realized that Italians are strutters. They're proud of their city, of their neighborhoods, as they should be. Not to mention any woman who can navigate those cobblestones in four-inch Bionda Castanas has earned the lifelong right to strut.

What I loved most about these nightly walks were the
stuzzichini,
or snacks, that were laid out in the tiny bars and restaurants, free for the taking as long as you purchased a drink or two. We'd stroll for a bit, then pop into a bar and devour olives, pickles, little bites of fresh cheese and crispy fried vegetables, whatever was in season. We'd munch on cured salami, tiny pizzas, little rounds of pâté, even pastries and sweets. We typically had only one drink apiece before resuming our stroll; then the monumental task of deciding where to have dinner. There was no shortage of incredible restaurants and we enjoyed beautiful food every night.

And it was during these
passeggiatas
that I got to know Daisy again, as a grown-up. Though we'd been friends forever, there were things I'd missed as we'd pursued our opposite-direction lifestyles, and I was really enjoying spending time with my friend again.

The following Wednesday afternoon, I was napping on the couch. A habit I'd fallen into after traipsing across the city all day, it was my new favorite pastime. The phone woke me and I scrambled to answer it. In my sleep haze I never stopped to think whether I should be answering someone else's phone.

It was a good thing I answered it.

“Hello?” I said, rolling over to check the clock. Whoops, later than I'd thought.

“There is this man. He makes incredible pizza,” a voice said. I knew that voice.

I sat straight up, bonking my head on the overhead lamp. “Okay? Ow!” I rubbed my head. Unbelievable.

“I am hungry.”

“I'm sorry?” I asked, chuckling to myself. My body responded to Marcello's voice, little shockwaves at war with my determination to play this cool. I imagined him in his office,
coffee in hand, and a smile on his face. “Wait, are you asking me out for pizza?”

“It is very good pizza,” he replied, his tone giving away nothing.

“You know, it's awfully late in the day. You're assuming I don't already have plans,” I teased. Wait, was I flirting? And yet . . .

Daisy was out tonight and I was only going to flip a coin again and see where it would lead me.

The new sense of freedom was intoxicating. Not having to constantly be running from one country club meeting to the next was a treat. It was nice not to have to pretend that I enjoyed spending my time with Junior Leaguers. All those women with the same pearls and the same cardigans, and the same knowing and sympathetic glances . . . It made me wonder how many of them knew what my husband was up to. Or if any of them were involved with him.

But as a ray of late-afternoon sunshine broke through the window and my thoughts of home, I realized that none of those women had what I had. What I might have.

An evening with Marcello. And
all
that might entail.

Decision made, I grinned. “I can be ready in twenty.”

“I'm outside.”

“Wait, what?” I cried, jumping off the couch and running to the front door. Peering out the side window, there he was on the stoop with the phone up to his ear.

“I see you.” He waved.

“Gimme ten minutes,” I huffed, hanging up and quickly stepping away from the window. I ran to the bedroom, ripped off my shirt, and tore through the dresser looking for a top that didn't need to be ironed.