Chapter Five #2
She orders in Italian, then tells me, “I ordered us a red blend that I had last week. It’s so good. Not too dry, but not sweet. A little fruity, but not too much.” Her passion is clear, and I can’t help but smile at it.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” I said. “I trust you.” A weird thing to realize is true, but it is, and I am somehow not surprised.
The waiter is back before we can even begin to have a conversation, and I think Marina has some pull here.
The staff all seem to know her, and the waiter chats with her in Italian while he opens the wine.
When we each have a glass and he’s left to give us time to look at the menu, Marina holds up her wine.
“To a lovely day, a lovely wine, and a lovely lunch companion,” she says, and the words are genuine and heartfelt, I can tell by her face.
I smile at her and touch my glass to hers, and we both sip.
“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s fantastic.” The wine is exactly as she described, and I take a second sip.
We don’t need much time with the menu, as we both choose the Caprese salad pretty quickly, then have a little laugh about it. Marina also orders us some bread with olive oil for dipping, and when the basket arrives, it’s warm and carries that wonderfully yeasty scent that tells you it’s fresh.
“So.” Marina pulls a small, very battered notebook and pen out of her bag. “Let’s talk about what you like.” She clicks the pen with her thumb.
“Old-school notes, huh? I’m surprised.”
“Yeah? Why?” She picks up her wine and looks me in the eye as she sips, and I feel it all the way down to my toes.
“I don’t know. I guess I just assumed somebody your age would be all digital. Phones, tablets, things like that.”
“Somebody my age, huh? How old do you think I am?” She seems more amused than affronted, and her eyes twinkle. “Or maybe I should ask how young do you think I am?”
“I would guess thirty-five,” I say, and those dark eyes go wide.
“Yes. You are exactly right. Wow. Impressive.”
“Did you think I’d guess too high or too low?”
“Too low.” She laughs softly. “You talked like I’m still in high school.”
“I apologize,” I say, both of us grinning. “I just meant you’re a lot younger than me.”
“Am I?”
I snort another laugh. “Um, yes.”
“How old are you?” she asks and leans closer, looking me in the eye.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask, and I lean toward her, and yeah, this is definitely starting to feel a lot like flirting.
“Oh, no, that question is a trap,” she says with a laugh, wagging a finger at me.
“But you asked me the same question,” I whine in protest.
“Yes, but that’s because you very nearly insulted me.” She’s grinning, so I know she’s just teasing me.
I laugh and say, “Fair enough. I’m forty-nine.”
Marina waves a hand and makes a pfft sound. “You’re young.”
I make the same sound back. “On what planet?”
“This one. You are as young as you feel,” she says.
“Then I must correct my earlier response. I’m about eighty.”
She laughs outright, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard it.
I’ve seen her grin, I’ve heard her chuckle, but this?
No, this is new to me. She throws her head back and lets loose a husky, throaty laugh that’s so beautifully contagious, I have to join her.
Several customers at other tables clearly feel the same way.
She pulls herself together. “You are young and beautiful. Embrace it.”
Okay, yeah, she just called me beautiful. I let that settle over me like a warm blanket as I hold her gaze and say quietly, “Thank you.”
She holds up her wine in salute, then sips, and before I can say anything else, the waiter arrives with our lunch.
“It’s crazy to me that tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil can look so gorgeous together on a plate. It’s so simple, yet so perfect.” I take a photo with my phone—yes, I can be that person at times—before I dig in.
“It’s a classic,” she says, and the next few moments consist of us chewing and humming our approval. “Okay,” Marina says, picking up her pen. “What kinds of things do you like?”
I tip my head and think. “Hmm.”
“Architecture? Art and sculpture? Religion? Sports? Philosophy? Food?”
“I mean, that’s quite a list,” I say with a grin.
But her dark eyes hold mine, and while her expression is open and friendly, there’s also an edge of seriousness to it.
It makes me want to be completely honest with her.
I set my fork down, dab at my mouth with my napkin, and set my elbows on the table.
Wine in hand, I say to her quietly, “I need help with inspiration. Romantic inspiration. As you know, I write. Mostly books, all romance. And I’ve been struggling lately with…
” I let my thought trail off as I inhale slowly, then let it out.
“I’ve lost my passion for my work.” I say it quietly, but in earnest, and I can tell by the shift in Marina’s face that she understands exactly what I’m saying.
“Oh,” she says, her pen stilling as she frowns. “I’m sorry. That’s hard.”
I nod. Something about the genuine sympathy in her voice has created a small lump in my throat, and I don’t trust myself to talk in the moment.
“Okay.” She gives one nod of her head. “Passion and inspiration. I have ideas.” And then she’s scribbling away in her little notebook.
“I can almost hear the wheels turning in your head,” I say with a soft laugh.
“I have ideas,” she says again, then sets her pen down, picks her wine back up, and looks at me. She holds her wine up and says, “To getting your passion back.”
I touch my glass to hers, and we sip, watching each other over the rims. There’s something then, something I can’t explain. A feeling? A realization? A knowing? I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels…
Hopeful.
Meals tend to be leisurely in Rome, I’ve noticed.
People here aren’t in the same kind of hurry as Americans, New Yorkers in particular.
While I do keep an apartment there, I don’t live full-time in New York City—the place everybody’s brain goes to when you mention New York—but people who simply live in the state of New York have similar attitudes.
We’re very nice folks. And we are in a hurry, so please get out of our way.
It’s not like that here, and the first few times I walked down a street in Rome, I had to consciously slow my speed.
I was zipping past people, getting annoyed when I got stuck behind friends walking three across and leaving no passing room.
It didn’t take long for me to understand that it wasn’t them, it was me, and now I do my best to meander, wander, stroll, to take in my surroundings and breathe the air and fucking relax already .
It’s not easy, but I’m working on it.
Marina and I take our time and finish our lunch leisurely. I hit the ladies’ room, and when I return, find that Marina has paid the bill. I give her a look, and she just laughs that husky laugh that I have already decided I adore.
“I have a tour to give,” she tells me as we step outside. “So, I must go.” The air-conditioning in the back of the restaurant was lovely, and now I feel like I’ve walked into a wall of heat.
“But I just made you eat,” I say, jerking a thumb over my shoulder.
Her smile is gorgeous, it’s official. “It’s okay. I don’t eat as much with tour groups I don’t know. Serena is an exception. I feel comfortable with her.”
“Easy to do.”
A nod. “Okay, can you find your way back?” She points to my left. “I have to go this way.” She points right.
“I’m totally fine.”
“Good. I’ll text you tonight with some ideas and we’ll get to work for you, yes?”
“Sounds perfect.”
There’s a slightly awkward moment where she seems like she’s going to hug me, thinks better of it, then overrules herself and suddenly, I’m in her arms. Her scent almost distracts me from the feel of her body against mine. Almost. And then it’s over.
“ Ciao ,” she says softly, stepping backward.
I give her a little wave, and she turns away, and I indulge myself by watching her as she moves down the cobblestone street, the gentle sway of her hips, the way the heavy and hot breeze lifts her hair just enough to rearrange the ends. She’s attractive even from the back.
I give myself a literal shake so I’ll stop gawking. Jesus, what am I, a fifteen-year-old boy? I turn on my heel and head back toward my hotel.
I take my time, putting that strolling thing into practice.
The street is lined with little shops, and I wander in and out of a couple.
The third one I step into holds shelf after shelf of little notebooks and journals and diaries.
Exactly the kind of shop I can lose hours in.
I move slowly, pulling things off the shelves to open them, feel them, smell them.
Many are leather-bound, and I inhale quietly.
The blank paper also has a scent that I love, and I lift one of the journals to my nose and take a sniff.
The reality is that I don’t need another notebook or journal.
I have dozens at home. They are my kryptonite when I shop, and especially when I shop away from home.
I find one with a deep green cover that speaks to me, then move further into the shop where the next shelf features small, pocket-size notebooks.
My brain flashes me an image of the battered notebook Marina used, spiral bound at the top like the kind a TV detective would use when interrogating a suspect.
I find a beautiful one bound in black leather, and before I can second-guess myself, put it on top of the green journal in my hand.
Ten minutes later, I am on the street again, my bag filled with three journals and a small notebook. I have no idea when or if I’ll actually give the notebook to Marina, but I don’t regret buying it. I hit a couple more shops before heading back to my hotel.
Marco is at the front desk, as usual, and I wonder if he’s ever not sitting there. His friendly smile is the complete opposite of the expression he wore this morning, and I remember the heated discussion he had with his sister.
“ Buongiorno , Ms. Chambers,” he says, and looking at him now, I’m shocked I didn’t notice the physical similarities between him and his sister sooner.
Same nearly black hair. Same cheekbone placement.
Same slightly almond-shaped eyes. Where Marina’s are dark like roast espresso, Marco’s are lighter, more like cedar or mahogany.
“ Buongiorno , Marco,” I say back as I push the elevator button.
It’s amusing to me how worried I can get about leaving Reggie on his own for too long versus how often I come home, shouldering that worry, only to find him dead asleep on the couch/bed/floor in a sunbeam, all my worrying for nothing.
Today, he’s curled up on the couch in the living room, a furry little ball up against one of the pillows.
Sleeping hard, judging by the amount of blinking and yawning he does after I walk in.
“Dude, you could start pulling your weight around here, you know,” I say affectionately as I sit next to him and scoop him up. “I mean, throw in some laundry once in a while. Get some groceries. Bake cookies. You know?”
He looks at me with those marble eyes, then swipes his tongue across my nose, which makes me laugh.
“I missed you, too, sweetie.”
We spend the next few minutes snuggling.
I know he needs a walk, so I leash him up and take him out in the heat, which hasn’t gotten any less oppressive.
Luckily, Reggie is a couch potato and outside is simply a necessity.
Within fifteen minutes, we’re back in the hotel suite and I’m staring at the laptop sitting closed on the desk.
I’ve never looked at it as a nemesis before. It’s always been an extension of me, my partner in this very solo job I have. I’ve never looked at it as something ominous. It’s hard to do that now, and I try my best to breathe, to think, to let the creativity in.
I owe Scott an update at some point today. It’s still morning at home, so I’ve got some time. But instead of pulling out the chair and sitting, I move to the window, push the sheer curtains aside, and stare at the buildings beyond and the street below.
It really is gorgeous, even here in my own personal cobblestone alleyway-street-thing.
I’m learning who everybody is: which man owns the coffee shop and what the woman looks like who always opens the bag store at eight o’clock sharp.
I can see all the activity from my large windows, and I’ve learned that I find it relaxing to people watch from there.
I make myself a cup of tea, pull a chair up to the windowsill, and just observe.
I breathe in the scents of Rome—the basil and the bread and the tomato sauce—and wonder if I will ever find myself again.
I sigh, pull my dog into my lap, and sip my tea.