She was practicing “Where is the nearest ATM?”—somehow, even that question managed to sound gorgeous in Italian—when the door burst open. From the smile on Charlene’s face, Lucy could tell she’d achieved victory. “You got us a penthouse suite?” she asked without enthusiasm.
“Not exactly, but the guy behind the desk has a room with a view. He and his roommate offered to trade.”
“The guy who checked us in? He lives in the hostel?”
Charlene’s long fingers played with the chain around her neck. “Maybe he works in exchange for room and board.”
“And we’re kicking him out of his room? He seemed so nice.”
“He is nice. Turns out he’s fine with the trade. He said he was happy to give us his view. And he should be. We were promised.…”
“But maybe not by him,” Lucy said.
Charlene hoisted her backpack on decisively. “It’s too late to back down now.”
When the girls arrived at their new room on the third floor, they found the door ajar. Charlene pushed it open and they came face-to-face with a guy—not the one from the check-in desk—stuffing rolled-up shirts into a backpack. Dark-haired and with olive skin, a Roman nose, and the scruff of a two-day beard, he regarded the girls with steady brown eyes.
Lucy thought she saw disdain in his expression, as if to say he’d seen their type before—ugly Americans throwing their weight around. She couldn’t stand to be looked at like that. One of the useful phrases she’d just practiced popped into her head. “Mi dispiace,” she told him—Italian for “I’m sorry.”
The guy cocked his head and removed an earbud from one ear.
“Mi dispiace,” she repeated. She wanted to explain that this whole trading-rooms thing wasn’t her idea, but she couldn’t come up with the right words. The best she could do was “Possiamo aspettare,” which meant “We can wait.” Or at least she hoped it did.
A pile of battered paperbacks stood on the floor beside one of the twin beds. The guy bent to gather them up, his longish hair falling into his eyes. Tall and angular, he wore jeans despite the heat. Lucy, who was particularly fond of dark Italian eyes, might have found him attractive under other circumstances. This made it even worse that he seemed annoyed with her. As if the fuss Charlene had made was somehow her fault.
“Possiamo aspettare,” Lucy said again. She wanted to say something like We’ll go away and come back later, but she was too flustered to remember how.
The scorn she’d seen in his eyes when they arrived now gave way to something like amusement.
Another useful phrase popped into her head. “Non parla Italiano?” she tried, beginning to think that maybe he wasn’t Italian at all.
Now he straightened up and grinned down at her like she was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.
Lucy elbowed Charlene discreetly in the ribs. “You try. Maybe he speaks German.”
“He doesn’t look German.”
“Try anyway,” Lucy urged.
“What should I say?”
“Say we’re sorry. That we don’t mean to kick him out of his room.”
“But we’re not sorry,” Charlene declared. “The hostel took our down payment. They promised us a view. This is our room now.”
Lucy threw up her hands, and just then, the sweet-faced guy from the front desk poked his head through the door, his eyes twinkling behind blue-framed glasses. “Bad Jesse. You are giving these beautiful young ladies a hard time?” And before anyone could answer, he swept into the room, smiling at Lucy and Charlene. “I’m Nello,” he said. “Please excuse my rude friend.”
“Who, me?” The roommate took out his second earbud and spoke up at last, sounding every bit as American as Lucy. “I haven’t said a word. Who’s giving who a hard time?” He even had an accent she recognized—from New York, maybe, or possibly New Jersey.
Lucy inhaled sharply as the American’s eyes met hers. Clearly, he had enjoyed making her look foolish.
She turned her back on him and focused on Nello. “Thank you so much for swapping with us.”
He shrugged. “No problem. Jesse and I stay in Florence for the whole summer. It’s nothing for us to exchange rooms for a few days. Right, Jesse?”
Jesse didn’t respond.
To fill the silence, Lucy addressed Nello. “You’re not from Florence?”
“I’m from Torre Annunziata. Near Naples. But my man Jesse here is from the Jersey Shore.” He tilted his head toward his roomie. “Like the TV show, no?”
In no mood to acknowledge Nello’s smirking friend, Lucy turned instead to the large picture window. The curtains had been flung back, the pane thrown open. She stepped over to it and took in Piazza Santa Maria Novella—quieter than she’d expected, but as charmingly Italian as she could have hoped. She might not have realized how badly she wanted a view, but now that she had one, she had to admit that it was a little bit thrilling.
“We’ve been here so long I forget to look out the window. I like to give this view to someone who will enjoy it.” Nello’s eyes scrunched up so kindly that between his big smile and the view, Lucy felt herself forgiving Charlene after all.
II
To give Nello and Jesse time to pack up, the girls wandered downstairs. They needed to check out the Internet situation, anyway. Both girls had promised to write home as soon as they arrived at each stop on their trip, and the one time Lucy had forgotten, her mother had sent about forty frantic e-mails. A computer sat on a desk in a common room off the lobby, but a girl with white-blond braids frowned behind it, too busy typing to look up when they entered the room. Lucy and Charlene settled on a nearby sofa, trying not to look like they were breathing down her neck.
Unable to stand the silence for very long, Lucy whispered, “Our new room is great.”
Charlene nodded, looking pleased with herself.
Lucy felt annoyed again. “But wasn’t that Jesse the rudest? Letting me go on and on like that. Pretending not to speak English. How long does it take to pack a knapsack, anyway?”
“He just wants to be sure we know how much we’re inconveniencing him,” Charlene agreed.
“He’s spoiling our whole afternoon.” And though she’d been happy about the new room just a second before, Lucy felt the tip of her nose tingle, a sure sign that she was about to cry. She laughed it off. “Look at me. I’m a total mess. We’d better hurry up and run our errands before I have a meltdown.”
Charlene checked her watch and shook her head. “All the stores will be closed. It’s siesta time.”
“That depends on what you’re looking for.” This interruption came from the blond girl, who kept typing as she spoke. Her voice was crisp and distinctly American.
“Food. And ibuprofen,” Charlene said. “I’ve got the mother of all headaches.” She shut her eyes and tipped her head back.
“There’s a pharmacy just a couple of blocks from here,” the blond girl said. “And a grocery store. Both stay open all day. Are you two waiting for the computer? I’ll be off soon. I’m just filing an entry on the Uffizi.”
“An entry? What kind of entry?” Charlene’s eyes opened.
“For the next edition of Wanderlust: Europe.”
“You write for Wanderlust? That’s the guidebook we’re using.” Charlene sounded excited. It was almost as though they’d just discovered they were talking to a celebrity.
“Everyone uses Wanderlust.” The blond gave her head a shake and sent her bangs flying. This was more or less true; all over Europe, Lucy and Charlene had seen American backpackers poring over the paperback with its distinct orange cover, looking for a decent hostel or someplace to get a good but cheap meal.
“Do you get paid to write?” There was something like awe in Charlene’s voice. Lucy, who wanted the girl to finish up and hand the computer over, bristled with annoyance.
“Wanderlust pays my travel expenses.” She said this too casually, clearly trying to make it sound like she wasn’t bragging. “Airfare, room, board.”<
br />
“How on earth did you get a job like that?” Charlene asked.
The girl turned from the computer completely, launching into a speech about how important it is to know the right people. Lucy crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying not to show her growing impatience. Just beyond this room, its windows blocked by heavy drapes, Florence lay shimmering in the sun. When the girl started explaining how she’d been editor in chief at her school newspaper and had won some kind of journalism award, Lucy jumped to her feet, unable to sit still a minute longer.
“Why don’t I go find that pharmacy and bring you back some ibuprofen?” she said brightly.
Charlene looked confused. “But what about writing to your parents?”
“Could you maybe drop them a line for me?” Lucy edged toward the door. “Just so my mom doesn’t contact the American Embassy?”
Before Charlene could say another word, Lucy slipped from the room and burst through the lobby’s glass double doors. On the fringes of the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, she blinked in the Italian sunshine. The square was empty but for a few stray tourists browsing at a souvenir kiosk and a couple splashing each other at the edge of a fountain. Lucy patted her pockets, but in her hurry to escape, she had left her map behind. That’s okay, she told herself, unwilling to go back inside for even a second. I’ll find my way. She stood for a long moment in the piazza, trying to decide which direction to take.
I can go anywhere I want, she realized, and the thought made her feel about a hundred pounds lighter, the way she felt whenever she shrugged off her heavy backpack. For once I don’t have to worry about what Charlene wants. Three short weeks earlier, when the girls had touched down at Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris, she’d been so thankful to have Charlene along. How would she have survived without Charlene, who could convert euros to dollars in her head, who spoke fluent French and knew how to decipher train schedules?
But getting around had grown easier. As the girls made their way from Paris to Zurich, from Interlaken to Salzburg, from Vienna to Munich, Lucy got better at reading maps and street signs in French and German. She learned how to make sense of exchange rates, and how to figure out what side of the street to stand on to catch a bus going in the right direction.
Even so, she’d been happy to have Charlene’s company. The endless whirl of cities as glamorous as stage sets was made even better by having a friend to share it with. Together Charlene and Lucy had climbed mountains and bell towers to marvel over the views. They had traipsed through museums and sculpture gardens and hung out in courtyards with Australians, Brits, Swedes, Canadians, and Argentineans, swapping travel stories. In front of every major tourist site along the way they’d asked strangers to photograph them, arms draped around each other’s shoulders, grinning matching grins.
What’s changed between us? Lucy asked herself as she paused on the street corner, trying to decide which way to go next. Charlene had been so strange, so difficult, ever since they left Munich.
On a whim, Lucy chose a random street because she liked its name: La Via delle Belle Donne—the Street of the Beautiful Women. All but empty, the road was lined with small, pretty shops, giving her hope that a pharmacy would pop up in her path soon. But the street fed into Via della Spada, then Via degli Strozzi, and soon she seemed to be in a ritzy part of town, passing all sorts of upscale boutiques—Gucci, Armani, Pucci, and Prada—with no pharmacies or grocery stores in sight. Lucy slowed her pace, peeking into one window, then another, a smile playing on her lips. She was finally in Italy, the country she’d been most looking forward to, seeing as how she was Italian on her mother’s side and had grown up listening to Frank Sinatra and La traviata and eating her mother’s spaghetti Bolognese.
Up ahead, the buildings fell away, and Lucy’s pulse quickened. Without meaning to, she’d made it almost to the Arno, the river she’d seen in so many pictures of Florence. Errands forgotten, she hurried toward it.
The Arno wound picturesquely into the distance, sparkling in the sun. Lucy lifted her sunglasses, wanting to see the scene’s actual colors—the blue-brown of the river, the peach, gold, and cream of the city’s buildings. She let a string of impatient motorbikes and taxis buzz past, then crossed the street to get even closer, leaning against the stone wall for a better look. To her left was the Ponte Vecchio—Florence’s famous old bridge. It wasn’t terribly far away—just a few blocks, really. Despite how long she’d been gone, Lucy couldn’t help wanting to see it up close.
As she hurried toward the bridge, a man so handsome he could have been a model crossed her path, a jacket slung over one shoulder and a smile on his lips. His mirrored sunglasses made it impossible to tell where he was looking, until he smiled right at her—a quick white dagger of a smile that made it clear he’d been looking at her the whole time.
Feeling quite unlike her usual self, Lucy smiled back and kept on grinning. In real life, she didn’t usually turn heads. With her delicate, pale features, she could look pretty under the right conditions—made up for the stage or the prom—but most of the time Lucy thought of herself as ordinary. And yet she’d caught the stranger’s eye. Maybe she looked the way she felt—exhilarated. Hungry for adventure. Though she knew she should finish her errands and get back to Charlene, Lucy was seized by the desire to keep walking.
What if I don’t go back to the Bertolini? I could just disappear—lose myself in Florence. The thought gave her a delicious little shiver. She could go anywhere, pick a new name for herself, become a whole new person. She could learn Italian, apply for a job in a café, and never go home again. I could be whoever I wanted to be. An actress, even. The thought made Lucy’s heart leap for a split second, until she remembered the disastrous audition that had ended her career—not to mention the promise she’d made to her father.
The Ponte Vecchio turned out to be a row of charming little jewelry shops strung together along a wide bridge crowded with tourists. Lucy imagined what she would buy if money were no object. One bracelet in particular—a glittering string of topaz the color of the sky above the Arno—was the most gorgeous one she’d ever seen. And that was saying a lot, considering her father owned a chain of three jewelry stores.
Lucy knew what her father would say if he were here: You have expensive taste. It was what he said whenever she asked for an advance on her allowance. You’d better study hard and get yourself a good job. If he were with her now, he would remind her that all vacations have to end, that a person can’t just flit around like a butterfly, following her heart.
Lucy loved her father, she really did. He had a temper and liked to get his way, but as long as she didn’t cross him, he was a total sweetheart, bringing her carefully chosen presents from his business trips, his black eyes bright with pleasure at her reaction. But now, as Lucy caught her reflection in a jewelry store window—nose sunburned, hair wild, arms muscular from three weeks of the backpacking life—she wished that for once he would turn out to be wrong.
When Lucy returned to the Bertolini, she found Charlene sleeping on top of the covers, her lavender-scented satin eye mask blocking out the afternoon light. The new room was bigger and brighter than the old one had been. As quietly as she could, Lucy set her bags down, opened the window, and leaned out of it, drinking in the happy sounds of children playing soccer. At the base of a white obelisk sat a couple, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. From the window, Lucy could spy on their happiness, undetected, for as long as she wanted.
When she turned back around, Charlene was propped up on her elbows, eye mask in hand.
“I’m back!” Lucy said with forced cheer. “Look what I brought.” She built a still life atop the bureau: soft cheese, a loaf of crusty bread, olives, cherries, and bottled water. “Supplies.” She handed Charlene a bottle of water.
“You’re so sweet.” Charlene took a sip and settled back onto her pillow.
Lucy perched on top of her own bed, waiting to see what Charlene would say or do next. She supposed she should h
ang around while Charlene recovered from her headache, but what a long, dull night that would be! Cross-legged on her bed, Lucy ate cherries straight out of the bag. Like just about everything she’d eaten in Europe, they tasted shockingly fresh and vivid, like the best possible version of themselves. She had just made up her mind to take her long-postponed shower when Charlene spoke again.
“What should we do tomorrow?”
So Charlene really was in for the night. Lucy felt her spirits sink. “Isn’t it your turn to choose?” she asked.
“That’s okay. I know how excited you are to be in Florence.”
Lucy rummaged in her daypack. Aren’t you excited to be here, too? she almost asked. Lately, even when Charlene was trying to be nice, she found ways to get on Lucy’s nerves. “I made a list of all the places we should go while we’re here,” Lucy said, pulling it out. “The Mercato Centrale. The Pitti Palace. The Boboli Gardens. Oh, and the Accademia. That’s where Michelangelo’s David statue is.”
Charlene heaved herself back onto her elbows. “Ellen says we need a reservation to get into the Accademia. Otherwise we’ll waste our whole day waiting in line.”
Lucy blinked. “Ellen?”
“The girl who writes for Wanderlust. Remember? From the common room this afternoon?”
“Maybe she’s wrong,” Lucy said.
“Somehow I doubt it.”
Lucy glanced back down at her list. “What about the Duomo? You know, the cathedral in all the pictures? We could climb to the top and look out over the whole city.”
“I hate to break it to you, Lucy…”
“What does Ellen have against the Duomo?”
“That’s another place with a long line. We’d have to get there by eight in the morning. Which I wouldn’t mind, but I know how you like to sleep in.”