Chapter 11
Eleven
Mark
There’s a tiny section on the Venn diagram where maddening and captivating overlap. Lexington owns that spot.
Case in point (and don’t even get me started on her grasp of Star Wars): She steals my program and walks off without a word.
But her face is stricken and her hand shakes, so there’s more going on than her sudden, baffling stiffness toward me.
Something upset her, but when I return to the edge of the lawn, filled now with all the guests ready for the official start of the evening’s events, she’s smiling from the upstairs balcony with all the calm composure of a woman comfortable with people.
I sit, ankles crossed, on the stone half-wall at the back of the crowd.
Next to Lexington, a woman in a black sheath dress with tight, busy curls taps on the microphone.
“Welcome artists, musicians, and logistics team, to the first event of the Roma Festival: L’arte della vita!
” She waits until the thunderous applause dies down.
“My name is Gia Castelli, and this is Lexi Walker. We’re both excited to have you here.
The goal tonight is to get acquainted, to make sure everything runs smoothly on the festival days, and lastly”—she bends close to the mic and lowers her voice, her Tuscan dialect pronounced—“to have fun.”
Gia thanks the mayor and the volunteers for their help, reminds us that we should deliver our pieces by Wednesday to the individual venues where they will be on display, and then introduces Lexington.
Lexington steps forward and holds her mic like she’s done this a thousand times. Her Italian is almost flawless as she thanks Gia, and her smile lights the evening sky. Whatever she did with her distress, it’s nowhere to be seen in her demeanor now. Impressive compartmentalizing skills.
“Thank you so much for coming. Our hope is that tonight you’ll meet many other artists and promote one another before and at the festival. Culture survives when the arts thrive, and I think we can see evidence of that throughout this stunning city.”
Which she hasn’t seen yet. And despite all her plans and research, Rome won’t be what she’s expecting.
She beams at her audience, and then her gaze snags on me.
For a split-second, she loses her confident ease and stops to clear her throat.
She grips the mic stand with the slightest tremor and shifts her attention to the front of the audience.
The whole pause takes less than a second and likely no one noticed a thing, but I recognize it for what it was—a tiny crack in her public persona.
Which intrigues me more than it should.
“So here’s how the rest of the evening will go.
We’ll hear a few previews from our talented musicians and see a slideshow of the art we’ll have on display.
Make a note of who you want to meet. Before and after dinner, you’ll use the scorecard on the back of your program to get a signature from as many festival participants as you can.
Each signature earns you an entry in our giveaway.
The prize is a pre-festival vernissage of Reena Brooke’s last painting. ”
I push off the wall and stand up straight.
No way. Reena Brooke. The artist whose paintings hang in my apartment.
The artist whose posthumous participation lured me to join the festival in the first place.
According to Lexington, the more people I meet tonight, the better chance I have to see the mysterious, unrevealed Rome painting before anyone else.
Getting an exclusive, private preview of my favorite artist’s last Rome watercolor would make this evening worth it.
I’m not alone in my excitement. After a collective gasp from the crowd, excited chatter buzzes in the night air.
Gia quiets us and welcomes Anna Leone to the balcony stage. She emerges from the second floor onto the balcony, guitar in hand, and fresh cheers deafen the air.
Lexington takes a sweeping glance at the crowd and catches my eye for the second time. She straightens and lifts her chin.
Challenge accepted, Lexington. Again.
I’m going to need a new scorecard.