It was early, but due to jet lag and the time difference we were up and about, strolling lethargically down the Via di Minerva toward the Pantheon in search of culture, which was what Nonna wanted, and breakfast, which was what Livvie wanted. Personally, I would have preferred a few more hours in bed, but Nonna had said where did I think I was? New York? We were in Rome for one day: there were sights to see, monuments to visit, and shopping to be done. There was definitely no time to be wasted. Which was a pity because I was suddenly feeling like wasting some time—something that hadn’t happened to me in years. Maybe Rome was getting to me after all.
We were walking down a narrow side street when I was stopped in my tracks by a sudden vision. The sun was bouncing off an ancient wall, a heap of crumbling stones, turning them to gold. A little plaque informed me that this was what remained of a temple built by Marcus Agrippa in something
B.C.
I clutched Livvie’s hand tightly. Long-ago history lessons flooded my brain.
“Wow, Mom. Oh, wow,” Livvie said, impressed. “Do you, like,
believe
these Romans? They’re just walking by as though it’s just, like, y’know,
normal
!”
We wandered into the Piazza della Rotonda, another of those breathtaking cobblestoned piazzas Rome seems to have by the hundred, lined with cafés on three sides and with the ancient domed Pantheon on the fourth. By now I could smell coffee, and we followed the scent to its source, the Caffè d’Oro.
Let me tell you, those Italians surely know how to make a cup of coffee. At the d’Oro they grind their own beans, luring a girl with the tempting aroma and also with the smell of freshly baked sticky-buns filled with custard and crusted with sugar. Plus there’s the extra added attraction of a couple of dozen handsome, tanned, smart-suited Italian businessmen standing at the counter, knocking back an espresso on the way to the office. I sat up and took notice because, as you know, the only men I get to see are those in green scrubs or lying naked and comatose on a gurney.
“Forget decaf,” I said, recklessly ordering a plate of the sticky sugar buns and a double espresso with cream on the side, which together probably added up to more calories than I ate in an entire day in New York. I enjoyed this like nothing I could recall in recent memory, along with the very nice view, human as well as antique.
Nonna approved of my order. “Put a bit of flesh on your skinny bones,” she said. “See how feminine the Roman women are?”
Nonna was right. The women were chic, accessorized to the hilt, not a hair out of place as they strode through the bustling streets in their fashionably brief silk dresses and towering heels. I had thought sneakers were more practical for maneuvering Rome’s slippery cobblestones, but these women didn’t even seem to notice. Years of experience, I guess. A tall, elegant woman in stilettos went running by; a particular high-stepping kind of run, picking up each foot like a deer so her four-inch heels wouldn’t get stuck between those lethal cobbles. I said it must be a trick Roman women learned as girls, and Livvie said admiringly that she looked like a gazelle about to leap a fence and that perhaps she ought to get some stilettos too and try it, and we laughed and told her to forget about it.
I just sat back and went with the flow, sipping my espresso, contemplating the Roman scene, past and present, from the café terrace. I looked at my little family, at the bustling, bountiful, sunlit piazza. And at that moment I was suddenly, inexplicably, for the first time in years, completely happy.
Seven hours later, I stumbled alone back up the Spanish Steps, laden down with bags and packages. We had seen the Pantheon, where on the steps outside, Livvie had encountered a tiny old crone. She had looked like something out of a Hans Christian Andersen fairy story, shrouded in black and bent as a pretzel, tottering along with a stick. With tears of pity in her eyes, and before we could stop her, Livvie had taken her money from the little purse attached to her belt and given it to the old crone. It was her savings, her birthday and Christmas money, which she had meant to use to buy a pair of Italian boots. And the “old crone” had scampered off like a triathlete as soon as she grasped the dollars.
“How could a granddaughter of mine, a street-smart New Yorker, not know that that was a Gypsy boy in disguise?” Nonna demanded. And Livvie, who still had tears in her eyes from sympathy for the old crone, cried more tears because she had been duped, and besides now she had no money.
So to cheer her up, we took her for ice cream to the famous Caffè Giolitti, which believe me is no Baskin-Robbins. This is a large, high-ceilinged belle epoque structure, with fluted marble columns and crystal chandeliers and waiters in smart white jackets with brass buttons and epaulettes. Nonna had a banana split and Livvie an Eiffel Tower with “the works,” and I recklessly ordered a
tartufo,
a chocolate dome almost as exquisite as that of the Pantheon, topped with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.
The thin chocolate crust crackled under my spoon, like black ice on a Manhattan winter day, as I sought the tiny nuggets of chocolate hidden in the rich ice cream depths. I was in heaven. It was almost as good as sex.
Wait a minute! Did I really think that? That ice cream was almost as good as sex? I know it’s been a long time, but I must be losing my mind
.
Anyhow, after the second indulgence of the day, we skipped lunch and visited the Vatican and Saint Peter’s, where we looked around hopefully but did not see the Pope. I have to confess that Rome was passing before my eyes like a dream. I was not really taking it in. It was remote from me—and I was divorced from it. I was simply going through the sightseeing motions.
Later we visited the Trevi Fountain and threw coins in like all the other tourists, then sat for a while in the Piazza Navona over icy drinks, resting our feet before heading off to the Via Condotti. And the shops.
Of course, I hadn’t really been shopping in years, and this was Nonna’s opportunity. “Choose whatever you want,” she said magnanimously. “I’m buying.”
Oh god
, I thought,
the Heiress is back with us,
and I said, “Thanks, Mom, but you get something for yourself.” And she said, “What do I need? It’s you who needs the pretty clothes.”
So then I pointed out some very nice handbags in Gucci, and she said, “Maybe,” and, “Perhaps,” but finally went in and purchased a plain black bag with a bamboo-look handle, which came enveloped in its own soft little white sack and was probably the most expensive thing she had ever owned.
By then Nonna was really into shopping mode, and we headed across the street to Prada, where she bought Livvie her first handbag (other than a Miss Kitty one when she was seven), a flat black satchel that Livvie thought the last word in cool. And then Livvie saw a pair of bright red boots on sale in another boutique, which meant they were only in the low millions of lire instead of the zillions, plus then there were these cute little T-shirts and sweaters…and like that, if you know what I mean.
I bought a great handbag for my friend Patty at a much more reasonable price in Furla, on the Piazza di Spagna, and tried on a soft, silky wisp of a red chiffon dress in a boutique called Alberta Ferretti. It looked almost cute on me, and I was almost tempted. Except then I thought, What am I doing, trying on little silk dresses? When would I ever
wear
a little silk dress? And anyhow, then I saw the price and I almost fainted.
By now I was exhausted. Shattered, in fact. So I left Nonna and Livvie to it and, laden down with all the packages, headed back to the hotel and—oh thank you, God—bed.
Heavenly
bed. My feet felt about ten sizes larger than they had that morning.
A bellboy came running to take my packages, but I waved him away. It was really more effort to untangle myself and give them to him than it was to carry them that extra few minutes it would take me to get to the room. I pushed the elevator button with my elbow and waited, shifting from foot to aching foot. Was the elevator never going to get here? I turned impatiently away, scowling at the delay. Then there was the little ping and I swung around again, stepped into the elevator, and, klutz that I am, tripped over someone’s feet.
I staggered back against the elevator wall, shedding parcels like a pack mule on a mountain bend. “Oh, shoot,” I said, kicking the nearest bag crossly. “Damned shopping, who needs it!” And then I saw The Feet.
They were in expensive brown suede loafers, probably from one of the smart shops we had just patronized, and they were worn, I noticed, with pale yellow socks. My eyes traveled upward, past the immaculately pressed pants, taking in the dark blue short-sleeved linen shirt, the steel watch on a very masculine arm with black hairs tangling around it. Up the strong golden-tan neck. And into the eyes of…the Michelangelo of Long Island. I felt that blush again, rising like the sun in a fiery glow.
His eyes were gray—or were they hazel?—and flecked with golden lights, and they were not smiling at me. “Let me help you,” he said coolly.
“Oh. I didn’t realize there was someone in the elevator. I’m sorry. That was so clumsy of me.” Conscious of my own scuffed sneakers and dusty appearance, I knelt among the dropped parcels while he pushed the stop button, then bent and helped me pick up my stuff. Our eyes met again over the Prada bag.
“Yes, it was,” he said as we stood up and he piled parcels into my outstretched arms.
“Was what?”
“It was clumsy of you.”
“Oh!”
Michelangelo stepped out of the elevator, then turned back and said, “What floor?”
“Oh. Seven, please.”
He pushed the seven button and stood staring at me as the doors slid closed. I thought there was a hint of laughter in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure. What I could be sure of, though, was that I felt like a fool.
Back in the suite, I flung the packages onto the sofa, then stalked into my room, pulled off my sneakers, and flung myself onto the bed. Fuck Mr. Perfect Know-It-All, I thought, suddenly angry. Who did he think he was, laughing at me, anyhow?
I closed my eyes, and suddenly my head was back at the hospital, my safe place, where I was too busy even to think about myself. This trip is just an interlude, I reassured myself. It’ll soon be over. My job is my life, my identity. Without my doctor’s coat I’m just another single parent, Livvie’s mom, trying to do the right thing. I have my work and I have Livvie. I need nothing more. Or do I?
I thought of the Michelangelo from Long Island and his gray-green eyes, flecked with gold. I thought about his beautiful little daughter and his probably beautiful wife and about their certainly idyllic life. And suddenly loneliness loomed in those sun-filled piazzas, and sleep refused to come.
I stomped into the bathroom, ran a hot bath, flung in about half a gallon of the Hassler’s fragrant bath oil, then slumped in the water up to my chin. This Rome thing was too much for me. I felt like a transplanted alien, thrown into a life of ease and luxury where time had no meaning. I was too used to living on the knife edge, to always having to be alert, to be ready for the next emergency, to juggling time as though it were something precious to be meted out sparingly: so much for this one, so much for that, and none for me. Now all of a sudden I was wallowing in a bathtub wondering what to do next.
This was all wrong. I shouldn’t even be here.
I grabbed the hand shower and washed my hair, scrubbing my scalp vigorously as if to stimulate my benumbed brain into action again. Then I climbed out of the tub, wrapped myself in the hotel’s white waffle-cotton robe, and twisted a towel into a turban over my wet hair. I rummaged through the packages, which were still on the sofa, and found what I was looking for—an expensive tube of face mask guaranteed to remove those aggravating little lines and snap open pores tight shut. All you had to do was smooth it over your entire face, leaving two holes for the eyes, then wait fifteen minutes and rinse it off.
I smeared it on, then took a long look at myself in the mirror. Did the green clay mask make my eyes look bloodshot? Or were they
really
bloodshot? Maybe I’d better go easy on the Bellinis, though, in fact, the thought of one right now sent a pleasant little tingle down my spine. There you go, I said to myself. One minute you’re complaining that you shouldn’t be here and that you can’t cope. The next you’re putting on face mask and thinking of room-service Bellinis. Who
are
you anyway, Dr. Jericho?
I rang room service and ordered that Bellini. Then, remembering the green mask and my nakedness under the robe, I told them to leave it outside my room.
Five minutes later the bell rang. I gave the waiter a couple of minutes to make it back down the corridor and into the elevator before I opened the door. I saw the little cart just to the left with a silver bucket and my Bellini nestling on the ice inside it. Smiling, I stepped outside, reached for the ice bucket, and heard the door slam shut on me.
I swung around and almost strangled myself. The belt of my robe was caught in the door. I tugged, but it wasn’t giving. I tugged again. No luck.
Sighing, I slipped the belt from the loops on the robe and tried the door. It wouldn’t open. Maybe it was stuck because of the belt. I pushed the handle again, gave the door a shove. Nothing.
Panic swept like a hot tide up my spine. My beltless robe gaped open, and my face was frozen inside a crisp green shell. This couldn’t be happening to me. Not me, Doc Jericho, the cool emergency room physician. No, of course it wasn’t, I told myself bitterly.
This
was happening to
Gemma,
the queen of klutz. I gave the door a kick, then wished I hadn’t. Now my foot hurt like hell.
I glanced behind me. The hallway was long and empty, softly lit and silent. Our suite was at the end of the hall, and the elevators were about midway. Opposite the elevators was a marble console with a big bouquet of flowers, a house phone, and copies of today’s newspapers.
I stared longingly at that phone; it was the answer to my prayers. But between me and it was a long stretch of corridor with many doors, plus the elevators waiting to spring unwary guests and shock them with the sight of me, half naked and looking like the Phantom of the Opera.
There was nothing else for it. I adjusted my towel turban, gripped my robe around me, and sped barefoot down the corridor. I glanced warily at the elevators as I grabbed the phone and dialed. I told the man who answered that I had locked myself out of my room and could he please send someone up with a key immediately, it was urgent. He said, “
Sì, signora,
right away.” I heaved a sigh of relief. And then the elevator pinged.
Horrified, I sank into one of the little silk chairs next to the console, grabbed a newspaper, and held it up to my face. I crossed my legs and prayed that whoever it was would not even notice a barefoot, half-naked woman in a green face mask with eyes like those proverbial holes in the snow and a dangling towel turban, pretending to read a newspaper in Italian.
I heard the doors slide open and someone step out. The doors slid shut, and still the person did not move. I looked down under the newspaper and saw a pair of feet in expensive brown suede loafers and yellow socks. It was a wonder the face mask didn’t crack right off my face, my skin was so hot from the terrible blush.
“By the way,” his amused voice said, “you’re reading that paper upside down.”
I lowered the paper and glared at him. “I locked myself out, that’s all,” I said in a dignified tone. “I’m waiting for the bellboy to bring me a key.”
He was grinning at me now. “Better keep that robe closed,” he said. “It’s kind of chilly with this air-conditioning.” And then he turned and walked off down the corridor. I could hear him laughing all the way.
I sped back to my door, grabbed the Bellini, and took a gulp, cowering in the corner until my savior appeared with the key. He was politer than Michelangelo; he did not even look at me, let alone laugh. And then I was safe inside, rinsing off that stupid mask that hadn’t removed a single wrinkle, let alone snapped my pores shut, and, damn it, my eyes were still bloodshot.
I flung myself onto the sofa and slurped up that Bellini. I prayed I would never see that self-satisfied jerk again. I’d had it with Rome and smart-asses from Long Island.