Chapter 2
Two
Mark
Airports are like Kleenexes. You hate needing them, but you’re grateful they exist.
I prop myself against the window in the corner of the gate area, away from the buzzing crowd.
After multiple trips from Europe to visit my immediate family in Boston over the last six years, the magic of flying has dried up.
It’ll all be over in twelve hours, though, and at least I have my book to shield me from the sea of strangers.
Except for the tanned blonde wearing flip-flops and a loose, deep V-neck black jumpsuit thingy, who raises her eyebrows at me during her scan of the full seating area.
I’m sure I don’t know her. Or haven’t seen her before.
She’s coming toward me, though, twisting the gold bracelets at her wrist. I should have taken my sister’s advice to join the twenty-first century with noise-cancelling, people-deterring headphones.
“Hi,” the woman says, smiling up at me. “You look as bored as I am. I’m guessing this isn’t your first time flying to Europe?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I travel for my job—sonar research—and love it. So far, Barcelona is my favorite. You can’t beat those beaches.”
A city full of Gaudí’s iconic Catalan Modernism architecture and this educated woman loves it for its generic sand? To each her own, I guess.
She digs out a gum pack from her leather purse. “Flying kills my ears, though, especially takeoff. Want one?”
This is a lot of personal stuff for one minute in. “No, thanks.”
Beach girl pops a piece in her mouth, waiting for me to say something, but it takes a lot more than mint gum to open me up.
She raises an eyebrow, starting to grasp I’m a tough shell to crack. But she presses forward undeterred. “Sooooo.” She draws it out like it’s fishing line while fluffing her long, streaked hair. “Why Germany?” She glances at my jeans and blue T-shirt. “Business trip?”
“No.” I force myself to add one tiny piece of information so she doesn’t think my lack of chitchat skills means I’m intentionally rude. “Frankfurt is a layover.”
“Same here.” She elbows me, like that’s a wild enough coincidence to make us pals. Mistaken on both accounts, Sandy. “I’m headed to Greece. I can’t wait to get on a boat and soak in the sunshine.”
I toss her a slow ball to see if she’ll catch it. “And visit Athens and Thessaloniki?”
“Thessaloniki is the world’s fifth-best party city.” She purses her lips and shrugs. “It could be a fun contrast after a day testing on the water, but I’m not into the city scene.”
Beaches over buildings. Makes sense for her line of work, but since I’m an architect, I’m not sure how to respond.
This happens to me a lot, women I don’t know starting up a conversation. It’s the worst possible way to connect with me.
After a beat of awkward silence, she says, “So, you didn’t say where you were headed after Frankfurt.”
I step around her. I have to save us from this train wreck of a conversation. “I need to grab a snack before the flight. Excuse me.”
I dodge bags and carry-ons and duck into a souvenir shop that’s ninety percent Red Sox merch and pick out a hat for my five-year-old cousin.
I’m teaching him about baseball, but my uncle swears Italian soccer is the only sport that exists.
This hat has a three months’ survival rate in their house, tops.
My uncle’s face when Danilo opens my gift will be priceless.
At the pocket-sized convenience store, I grab a bag of nacho chips.
While I’m in line to pay, my phone rings.
I glance at the number and shove the chips back on the shelf, darting out of the store.
Someone’s working late on Thursday evening, but that’s promising for me.
This is the call I’ve been waiting for. The one that will prove I made the right decision to stay in Italy six years ago when my world fell apart.
I answer on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mark, this is Paul Lanzi from the Italian Heritage Society. The board reviewed your proposal. We think your vision for the mansion renovation is intriguing. Before we commit to investing in this project, we’re wondering what happens to the building if the owners don’t accept your firm’s bid.”
“It depends on which bid the owners accept. I heard they’re considering a few hotel groups to do the renovation.
” I grit my teeth. The area doesn’t need more hotels and tourists.
The ancient, crumbling palazzo isn’t merely sitting on lucrative real estate.
It is the precious commodity. Just because things are old doesn’t mean they’ve lost one iota of their value.
That makes them more of a treasure, and nothing fuels me more than preserving history.
Except my own. We can pretend most of that never happened.
“—all groups. Final boarding call.”
Did that announcement say 302 to Frankfurt? Final? I must have missed the other calls for my flight.
I spin and head for the gate, phone pressed to my ear. “I have to get on a plane, but after tomorrow I’ll be available for any questions you have.”
“We’ll be in touch very soon.”
I thank him again, and he hangs up.
Intriguing vision. I clap my hands together once, my go-to cheer usually reserved for home runs. A woman nearby screams, and several people startle and jerk around. Mea culpa, that sounded like a gunshot. In an airport. I hold up my open palms with an apologetic grimace.
I join the end of the line at the gate. They’ve already boarded my first-class group, but it doesn’t matter. Less time on the plane is a good thing.
A bright laugh flies over the various conversations around me, and I lift my head, straining to search the line ahead of me, because I recognize it.
Chatting with the parents of two little kids is Passport Girl. Getting on my plane. Lexington. I wonder if her name carries any special meaning. I like that it’s rare, historical, solid yet lyrical, and without a modern edge.
She made the grumpy employee at check-in smile.
I would have missed my flight for her. For a chance to sit and talk to someone who made it easy to be comfortable, for someone who lightens the world around her.
But then she hesitated. So I gave her an out.
That’s for the better. I adjust my messenger bag and wrench my focus to the gate area, calculating its square footage. Numbers are a thousand times safer than conversations.
Case in point: my little sister, Katie, at her engagement party, drilling me for the sixth time during my two-week trip about when I would start dating again. That’s an average of one inquisition every 2.3 days. People in love are the pushiest.
If Katie had made it to the airport in time to send me off and seen me talking to a sweet-smiled, quirky Bostonian knockout, that would have been worse. Katie would take that torch and run with it right up Mount Olympus.
Because in Katie’s opinion, anyone who would put up with my customized “humor” (she always uses air quotes) is a keeper.
Passport Girl didn’t just tolerate my pun—she laughed.
I allow myself one minute of casual observation. You know that satisfying crunch when you step on a crispy leaf in autumn? And stepping on it a second time does nothing? That’s what I’m shooting for here, a zero impact second sighting because the crackle is all used up.
She picks up a dropped fleece blanket and teddy bear, ties the corners around the bear’s neck, and flies it to the teary little girl. “See? He loves flying too. It’s fun.”
I’m still holding my phone. I lift it, ready to open my boarding pass, but my fingers click open the phone’s camera and in less time than a one-two count, I capture this moment of kindness—no faces, just her outstretched hand and the little girl’s chubby fingers grasping the flying bear from her.
The child hugs the bear and giggles up at Lexington. I don’t understand how she makes friends in seconds, especially with a little child. She even had me eating out of the palm of her hand, and that’s rare for me.
Minute’s up, Mark. My scrutiny hasn’t blunted my initial impression. Those leaves are now even crunchier.
“Sir, the line is moving.” The man behind me grips his carry-on, ready to move forward.
“Sorry.” I step toward the jet bridge.
If the Italian Heritage Society I pitched to here in Boston decides to invest, my last hurdle is to win the bid for the restoration project.
A project that will tie me to Rome for at least the next three years, giving me the chance to restore the other wreckage that matters more. Dad and Nonno’s relationship.
The very last thing I need is interest in a woman named Lexington. I’ll ignore that crackle. I live in Italy and she doesn’t, even if she is wearing old Italian currency around her neck as if it’s her prized possession.
Only a fool doesn’t learn from his own personal history.
But instead of deleting the picture, I pull up my boarding pass and get on the plane.