Chapter 28
James
Raffaello Sanzio is perhaps the most interesting man I know. It’s clear from the way the students’ faces are lit up around me that he is now the most interesting man they know. And this is what I love about teaching—the transfer of passion for a topic. How a hundred students can walk into a room completely unaware that when they walk out, their minds might be set on fire with questions about something that did not exist to them an hour before.
“The most iconic work, the real masterpieces, they can be found in Rome—no, Julia, we cannot take a field trip to Rome,” I say, meeting her wide eyes.
Julia puts down her hand and smiles while I continue on.
“That’s a bit outside our budget. But hopefully you all have mastered Italian transportation by now. Head down over the weekend and sit for a few hours staring at Raphael’s frescoes in the papal palace. The Vatican is a spiritual experience no matter what you believe. Try that instead of going out to Rimini for clubbing all weekend. And let’s try to stay out of trouble.”
There are a few chuckles, and many students avert their eyes toward their laps. Word travels fast in Urbino, and Steven has already become a cautionary tale that these students will tell their children before they study abroad.
“This afternoon you will be visiting the house where Raffaello was born. Your assignment is to document what you see, through both picture and prose, and to put together the young artist’s story for yourself. Engage in the debate about what happened in those walls. Which art was his and which was his father’s. Use what you saw at the palazzo to make your case. Santi or Raphael? You decide.”
I pause while they scribble down the assignment. My eyes find Ava’s as she looks down from the third to last row. Her head is tilted and she’s studying me like I’m on a microscope slide. I lift a brow and she shakes herself out of the trance and smiles. A hand pops up nearby.
“If you are about to ask me for a word count, please refrain. You should know by now when something feels complete.”
The hand goes down.
“Anything to add, Miss Graham?”
All necks crane her way.
“I’m excited to see what you all come up with. I wish I had assignments like this at law school,” she tells them. It’s the first time I’ve heard her come close to complaining about her career path.
“You can do my assignment,” a voice calls out from the left.
Ava chuckles. “Alright, off you go. Do the learning. Be the art.”
And my class is dismissed. Our class is dismissed.
The sounds of shuffling papers and rushing footsteps fill the amphitheater as Ava makes her way down the steps in my direction. Her eyes are on the screen behind me where La Muta is displayed in all of her glory. The green bodice of the young noble woman’s dress is the exact shade of green as the eyes beholding it.
“I didn’t know he lost both his parents at such a young age,” she murmurs, commenting on the information I shared about Raphael during the lecture.
“Eleven,” I confirm. “His uncles took him in,” I say. Her eyes find mine and I know exactly what she’s thinking. That this story sounds familiar. “He turned out just fine.”
“Didn’t he die from too much sex?”
“That rumor was born from another painter’s claims,” I explain.
“But it’s not not true.” She tilts her head a little and turns up her palms.
“Fine. It’s not not true, but very unlikely. How many people do you know who have died from too much sex?”
She pretends to count on her fingers, then counters.
“How many people do you know who are engaged to the daughter of a cardinal but hide their mistress in the villa they are being commissioned to work on?”
She’s been researching. Now who’s an art nerd? I narrow my eyes on her.
“Engaged to the child of a prominent political figure—” I lift my brows and incline my head toward her. Her eyes widen as she connects the dots. “But having an affair with someone else. That resonates for some reason. Deeply.”
She grins. “Am I Raphael in this story? Because I don’t think I can die from having too much sex when I’m having no sex at all.”
And before I can offer to remedy that, she puts up her hand.
“Don’t you dare say you could change that.”
I pretend to be offended.
“I was just going to ask if you would like to have lunch with me to discuss your transcript from the museum. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
She laughs. “A working lunch?” Her lips press together, brows lift. “All about work and only work?”
“Call it what you will, but I brought us sandwiches.” I lift the basket I packed from beneath my desk.
“Uvaldi’s sandwiches!?” She actually jumps up and down from one foot to the other when I nod. Food will never be the same for her in America.
America.
Where she lives. Where she’ll go when she leaves. Back to Senator Shithead.
I swallow past the sudden choking sensation in my throat and hand her the basket while I gather the insanely detailed transcript she put together for me. It’s one hundred times better than anything I could have written myself. Organized, clear, meticulous. These students and all future students will be lucky that Ava’s international law seminar never was.
“Ready?” she asks, clicking the power button on the projector and reaching out to take the picnic basket while La Muta fades to darkness.
I nod and watch her make her way back up the stairs.
Am I ready, though? There’s a conversation to be had—a conversation that suddenly scares the shit out of me. One that I know we’ve both been avoiding since the market last weekend. One that I should have started in the car last night instead of falling prey to the spell of having her so close. But there are too many what ifs in the words that we need to share. Too many realities that, if spoken, will crush everything that either of us might want from the other.
She stops at the top of the steps and looks down at me, the picnic basket dangling in front of her like a lantern in the dark.
“Sandwiches wait for no man,” she says seriously. “Because I’ll eat them.”
I smile up at her, working hard to quiet the voice telling me that following her is akin to walking into a hornets’ nest. I gather up her notes and put one foot in front of the other until the scent of her drowns out the buzzing of the hornets.