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.
I skidded through the hallway and stopped at the antique oval mirror. “Fuck,” I groaned, and tried to smooth down my hair. I had showered and then napped, not taking the time to dry my hair.
For anyone with naturally curly hair, that’s a disastrous combination. It was everywhere, wild and untamed. And of course Daisy’s apartment had eaten every hair tie I’d brought. I looked around wildly for a hat. A fedora or hell, I’d even wear a knit cap in this humidity. There was a silk scarf hanging from the coat rack and I grabbed it just as he knocked at the door.
“Just a minute!” I called out, whipping the scarf around my head and trying to stuff my hair behind it.
“Can I at least come in?” he called.
“No!” I shouted, and frowned in the mirror. I’d tied it back as best I could, hiding the bulk of it underneath the scarf, sixties style. I hated not feeling pulled together. Daniel never saw me with a hair out of place. A button was never missed, a shoe was never unpolished, and lordy knows the occasional pimple never left the house uncovered.
“Hi,” I said, swinging the door open when I finished tying the scarf’s bow.
Once again, in the country where every male was always presentable and pretty damn good looking, he was stunning. The sun from the courtyard lit him up from behind, making him appear angelic and devilish at the same time—beautiful.
“Your shirt is outside inside,” he said when I stepped onto the porch, the door closing behind me with a quiet click.
I looked down. Sure enough, it was not just inside out, but backward, too. What was it Daisy said? Dio mio.
“Turn around.”
“Che?”
“Turn around so I can fix my shirt,” I said seriously, starting to pull my arms through.
He chuckled softly, disbelieving, but turned. “You know I have seen you. All of you. Many times.”
Oh my.
“That was college-age Avery. Before things started shifting and sinking like your Colosseum,” I explained, tucking the shirt back into the front of my yellow capris. “Okay, I’m decent.”
Marcello began descending the steps before he turned, smiling
up at me.
“You look . . .” he began.
The scarf had come loose. One end was caught in my hair but the rest was flying behind me in the breeze. Along with my hair.
“That bad, huh?” I asked, self-consciously rubbing a hand over the wayward curls.
“No, now you look how I remember.”
All I could do was grin. Silly, toothy, hopeless.
Until I got downstairs and until he swung his leg over a— “Scooter? You expect me to ride around town on that?”
He blinked back at me, confused. “Yes?”
“Have you seen how crazy people are on these, these, tootabouts?”
“What is tootabout?”
“You know: toot toot! And then you all drive into traffic like a bat out of hell, all over town! I’m not getting on that thing.” I crossed my arms. I’d been involved in several near misses by some nutty Roman on a Vespa, and I didn’t wish to experience the madness from behind easy-to-crumple handlebars.
Marcello got up, closing the distance between us once more. “What city are you in?”
I rolled my eyes. “Rome.”
“Exactly. And what is that phrase? When in Rome . . .”
“Marcello, that’s not the point. The point is dead—which is what I will be if I climb on that thing.”
I stood with my weight on one hip, tapping one foot, frowning with arms crossed. Wild hair blowing in the breeze. He just started to laugh.
“What?”
“Mannaggia,” he sighed.
“What?”
“I say nothing changes,” he repeated, but this time with a mischievous smile.
“I don’t get it.”
“How puffed up you get when you’re afraid of something. You are like that little fish who blows up when it feels threatened. You did the same thing when we went on that tour boat.”
“And I was right about that! We ended up half drowned!”
He shook his head, his eyes warming to the memory. “Half drowned is not drowned, is it? We got back in the boat and continued with our trip, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “Soaking wet, though.”
He took another step. “My favorite part,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “I could see right through your blouse.”
“Pervert.” I smiled in spite of myself.
“Do you trust me?”
“Completely,” I said without hesitation.
He looked over my shoulder at the Vespa. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
“You promise you won’t go too fast?”
His eyes danced. “I promise.”
For the record, never trust an Italian’s version of what constitutes as too fast.
We zipped through Trastevere, around the Vatican—not a short distance by the way, in less than fifteen minutes. In traffic. Right before I had climbed on and wrapped my arms tightly around Marcello’s body—which is an entirely different story and one I’d likely come back to when I was slipping off to dreamland later—I’d mentally calmed down by reminding myself that scooters weren’t cars and therefore not capable of going very fast. More of a putt-putt than a vroom-vroom.
Couldn’t be further from the effing truth. We vroomed our way around town, zipping in and out of traffic, taking off like a shot several times fast enough that I was sure my hair was going to blow off. The horn on a Vespa shouldn’t be so weenie. It should be a giant foghorn, something more representative of its ferocity.
All I could do was bury my face against Marcello’s back, my lips pressed tightly together to squelch the tirade of swearing, and hang on.
Oh, to hang on. My hands, which had been wrapped around his waist from the second we took off, were clenched against him. Twice, when stopped at a light, he reached down and slid his hand across mine, soothing . . . or just touching?
My face was buried against his back, and sweet merciful lord did he smell good. Sense memory, what a tricky thing. He no longer wore the cologne I’d been used to when we were together before, but he still had the same scent, that clean soapy smell that some men have. Earthy and pleasant and all Marcello.
These little things I picked up and noticed only in the nanoseconds between stops and starts. The rest of the time I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and prayed to whatever holy spirit seemed to be hanging over this city at all times to let me off this thing.
“Oh you sorry, sorry, son of a bitch,” I wheezed, climbing down from behind him when we finally stopped and I stood up on wobbly legs. “That was too fast.”
“How can it be too fast? We were the same speed as everyone else—”
“Shush.” Acting on instinct alone, I rose up on my tiptoes and pressed one finger to his lips, my hair flying wild all around me. “Give me pizza and I’ll forgive you.”
And because he was Marcello, he kissed that finger, bit that finger, then gave me a wolfish grin. “Pizza.” He caught my hand, and pulled me inside the restaurant.
He caught my hand. I don’t even know if he knew he was doing it, it was so instinctual. My hand in his snapped me right back to the past, where I hardly went anywhere without my hand in his. Squeezing tightly while exploring the tide pools in Cadaques, or linked lazily while he explored my tummy with his tongue, it seemed to me now that our entire time together could be summed up by a simple hand holding.
Daniel never took my hand. And to be fair, I never took his, either. It never felt natural, holding hands with my husband. And how telling was that?
So into the chaos of Pizzarium Bonci I went, holding Marcello’s hand without a second thought, each finger knowing exactly where to go, comfortable and yet thrilling enough to make a stupid smile spread over my face.
Pizzarium Bonci was so small it could barely be called a restaurant. But I was beginning to learn that the tiniest spots in Rome tended to have the best food. This little pizza shop had three stools crowded around one little table, a stand-up bar on the window wall, and barely room for two people at the counter.
I’d never seen pizza like this before. Trays and trays of long, rectangular pizza, cut sideways almost like a French tartine, but thick and piled high with the most delicious-looking toppings. Traditional, with fresh mozzarella and basil and what looked like an incredible tomato sauce. Nontraditional, with figs and prosciutto and . . . was that mint? Foie gras, salsiccia, cherries, feta, cured black olives, capers, ricotta, Serrano ham, anything and everything that could be described as delicious was scattered across these beautiful pizzas in carefully paired concoctions.
But this was no quiet romantic spot; it was chaos. Cooks shouting from the kitchen, the guys behind the counter shouting to the customers in line, and the customers shouting back their orders to be heard over the din. It was loud, crazy, and wonderful.
Marcello was trying to ask me a question, but I could barely hear him.
“What did you say?” I asked, leaning closer to him with an expectant look on my face.
He laughed and tried again. “What . . . good . . . okay . . . me . . . decide?”
I shook my head with a laugh, gesturing around to indicate how hard it was to hear him.
He rolled his eyes, but leaned closer. And as he put his mouth right next to my ear, bringing us impossibly close once more, I shivered in spite of the overheated restaurant. “What looks good to you?”
Mmm, was that a loaded question, especially when accented by the puff of air from those beautiful lips on my suddenly frantic skin. I closed my eyes to ground myself.
“Or is okay for me to decide?”
Yes, you decide. You decide it all: the how, the when, the where, the how many times, and the how loud I’ll scream.
Careful, Avery . . .
Not trusting my voice, I nodded, pointing to what looked good, and he shouted it out, gesturing wildly along with the guy behind the counter. They went back and forth a few times, finally deciding on four pieces, all different kinds. He carried the slices wrapped in grease-dotted paper while I grabbed a couple of drinks from the coo
ler, and we headed out to the street where it was less chaotic, snagging a tiny table just outside the front door.
He handed me a piece. “Start with this, very traditional. Ricotta, zucchini flower, fresh mozzarella. You will love.”
I bit into it, gooey, stringy cheese pulling back on itself while I chewed away. I moaned. “Thif eh suh goo.”
Marcello nodded, taking his own monster bite. As he chewed, his eyes closed in an expression I knew very well. He was satisfied.
“What kind is that?”
“Spicy ham, fried onions, and a small bit of apple.”
I was surprised. “Apple?”
He lifted his slice to my mouth. “Bite.”
I did, and of course it was fabulous. I licked my lips slowly and sighed a little in appreciation. His eyes watched as my tongue darted out to catch a little spot of tomato sauce just below my bottom lip.
“Madonna mia,” he mumbled, leaning against the side of the building. It was nice to know I could still make him rock back on his heels.
“So, have you been in Rome since you finished up in Barcelona?” I asked, digging into another piece. Cherries, foie gras, and fresh basil. Heaven.
He chewed slowly and methodically; possibly weighing his options? He finally swallowed and said, “I stayed in Barcelona for another year.”
“Working?”
He nodded, then arched an eyebrow. “Not just working.”
“Oh.” Oh . . .
Well you didn’t think he just pined away for nine years, did you?
I bit into my pizza, chewing furiously now. “Where’d you go then?”
Amused by my reaction, he smiled. “I worked in Dubai for eighteen months, new construction mostly. Spent almost a year in Jerusalem, where I started getting more into the green technology, upcycling original materials when we could, then spent a few months in New York—”
He was in New York? He’d been that close to me and hadn’t . . . How could he have gotten in touch with you? And better still, why would he have gotten in touch with you?