Chapter 15
Fifteen
Lexi
In the wee hours of the night, it occurs to me that Mom must have seen the balloon picture somewhere and recreated it by memory. I pad across the room to the desk, flick on the lamp, and line up the reception program and the envelope side by side.
Okay, I might be half-asleep, but even in that state I can tell my theory is impossible. Except for the text—Trevi Fountain on one and Roma Festival: L’arte della vita on the other—the hot air balloons are the same. Every last detail.
One is a copy.
The only explanation is that Julie borrowed it, scanned it, and switched the graphics. Sure it’d be a weird thing to do, but we’re beyond logic at this point.
I send her a text asking about it and fall asleep waiting for her answer.
Late the next morning when I wake up to a dead phone, I snuggle into the expanse of pillowy cotton, hoping for more sleep.
Five minutes later, I give up. No way am I drifting off again with friendly shouts between shop owners, the buzz of Vespas on cobblestone, and the scrape and clatter of goods unloaded from delivery trucks outside my window.
But it’s fine. I fling off my duvet cover like a robed Roman victor.
It’s Italy. I can handle it, Mark.
Research, plan, execute.
I even studied jet lag management strategies and adjusted today’s schedule to accommodate for any possible sleep interruptions.
So except for losing the half day when I would have pulled out cash and bought snacks (and the unsolved mystery of Mom’s envelope painting on the reception program), things are going according to my perfect plan.
I plug my phone into the portable charger.
Stepping out into the bright, midmorning heat, I lower my sunglasses to my face and head southwest. I’ve pored over maps so many times, I don’t even need to use my navigation app.
I chose my routes to explore as much as possible on my way to all the sites.
Meandering through the narrow streets is better than I’d imagined.
Rough, aged stone, Mediterranean-colored buildings, lamps and hanging flowers, shutters and churches, cobblestones and domes.
Everything is picturesque, but the feel of Italy is something my research could never capture.
(Strike that from the record and never tell Mark Russo I said it.)
American cities are like wild, fun teenagers compared to the mature, wizened personality of old Rome. And the details. I can’t get enough of the intricate don’t-ask-me-what-they’re-called on the buildings. Every carved or molded inch of stone reveals an indescribable attention to aesthetics.
I keep my eye out for the temple from my mom’s final painting, but the city block buildings are packed tight, looming over the streets. The site I’m looking for, set in a garden, is likely not in the city center.
I cross the square until I have a full view of the Trevi Fountain. With as many times as I’ve seen photographs and films of the famous site, it shouldn’t take my breath away like it does. I thought it was just a fountain.
The way the sun’s rays light up the rock, the Roman myth caught in the travertine stone backdrop behind the fountain, and the rush of water trickling into the pool below—nothing could have prepared me for that. It is so much better in real life, I don’t even have words for it.
I work my way down the steps until I’m in front of the water.
Coins dot the floor of the pool. My fingers close over the nickel in my pocket.
Julie will pester me until I get this done, so, feeling foolish, I close my eyes, think of my mom, and make a wish.
Let me find the site of the painting. My back to the fountain, I put the coin in my right hand and toss it over my left shoulder into the water, how tradition says to do it. Done.
I turn, ready to find a spot to read my mom’s letter, but a voice at my shoulder says, in accented English, “You did that wrong.”
I glance behind me to find an elderly man smiling at me. He’s wearing a brown cap and vest, hands in his pockets, with kind, sparkling eyes I immediately trust. “Scusi?”
He points at the water and shakes his head. “That’s not how to make a wish at Trevi Fountain,” he says in Italian.
I let out an amused huff. How could there be a wrong way to make a wish?
It’s a fun, meaningless tradition. “I’ve seen the movies.
” The Italian words slide with ease off my tongue, and I point at several people around us doing it the same way.
“I’m pretty sure that was right.” Why I’m pushing back about this beats me.
I should humor him and move on. This was supposed to take two seconds.
He studies me with a mix of humor and admonition, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Are you going to trust an old Italian man who grew up in Rome or Hollywood?”
I grin. Good point. “How should I do it then?”
“First, you have to speak your wish aloud. Also, the coin you throw has to be yours.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have another coin.” I didn’t think I would have to redo making a wish.
He points to my necklace. “I’m looking at one right now.”
My fingers dart to the lira around my throat, and I close my fist around it. “Not this one.”
“We’re on the euro now. It’s worthless.”
“It’s priceless. My mother gave it to me.”
His kind eyes soften into sadness. “Ah, family. There’s not much that will break that bond.” His gaze moves to the fresco behind me, as if searching for a face in the stone. “But we sometimes find a way, don’t we.”
I’m caught in his sudden wistfulness, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
We stand together, and my thumb moves over the grooves in the lira. Mom was the only family I ever had. “I don’t . . . I can’t.”
I’ll return another day with a ramini. The one cent euro won’t cost me anything to toss in.
I give him a small wave, mumble my apologies, and head for a seat on a cold stone bench.
The envelope waits, worn and ready. I turn it over and run a finger under the flap, careful to preserve the envelope and its scene of a hot air balloon above a wooden fishing boat with flowers in it.
I pull out the single sheet of paper half-covered with my mom’s writing.
Dear Lexington,
Trevi Fountain! Isn’t it fabulous? This was my first destination when I came to Italy. And it didn’t disappoint.
Did I ever tell you that your dad and I saw each other at Trevi Fountain before we met?
I was determined to do Italy right, but the only coin I had on me was that silver dollar my uncle paid me as a kid.
Remember me telling you about it? The first dollar I ever made from my art.
I threw it in just as your father was taking a picture on the top of the wall.
I saw his camera flash, so I shaded my face and looked up to find a handsome American with a cheap camera.
He gave me an apologetic smile, and I waved to let him know it was okay he’d photographed me making a wish.
We both forgot about it until we got home and he showed me his Italy pictures.
Sure enough, there I was. That was the only picture from his trip worth keeping.
He’d always move the camera—too energetic and busy living—and the pictures would come out blurry.
Sometimes it’s not the time to stand still and wait. Your dad understood that better than anyone.
You get your meticulous gene from me, but that moment I impulsively threw my silver dollar over my shoulder was the moment your dad and I noticed each other.
Throw a coin in, Lexi. Now. No matter the cost. No matter who’s watching. Mark my words, you’ll be glad you let go.
It’s both more and less than I’d hoped for. She forgot to mention what she’d wished for, but the rest is a piece of her and Dad’s story I’ve never heard before. The fuzzy edges of who my dad was become a little more defined.
She talked about him all the time, but this whole part, the falling in love in Rome, she kept secret.
Whenever it came up, or I begged to hear, she’d press her lips together, shake her head, eyes dancing, and say, “I’ll tell you when we get there.
” Their Italian story was like a buried treasure she couldn’t wait to play mapmaker for.
Like I needed more reason to get to Italy.
The fact that she found a way to tell me in Rome, even after she’s gone, is a like a jeweled crown, heavy but glorious.
I read the letter again. It’s almost as if she’d predicted my present coin conundrum.
I look up from the paper. The old man is standing right where I left him, gazing at the fountain.
Do it now. If this man is right—that I should have used my coin, not Julie’s (though how did he know it wasn’t mine?), and that I threw it in the wrong way—then I haven’t yet done what the letter says.
I sigh, tuck the paper back in my bag and approach the old man. If Mom wants me to toss a coin in now, no matter the cost, I’ll do it. This is Italy, her story, her way.
“I’m ready.”
He nods like he’d expected me to change my mind. I unclasp my necklace and pull the chain out through the lira’s hole. I let the coin sit in my open palm, the sunshine bathing it with light.
He braids his fingers over his wide stomach. “Now, what do you wish for?”
Can I really give up my mom’s coin?
I’ve waited a year and come all this way to read her letters. I have to take her advice.
I bite my lip, hesitating, but he’s so eager. Italy has entranced me, and I’m jet-lagged. There’s literally no worse combination for making decisions.
“I wish to find—” My words freeze, but my mouth remains open wide. Weaving through the crowds is a tall head I recognize with only the slightest glimpse. Mark.
The coin in my hand grows hot.
Here I am in the most touristy-obvious place possible making a wish like I believe in magic. I should be gone before he sees me and reams me out for adding to the mass of tourists blocking the view.
Wrenching my gaze from the sight of his clean-shaved jawline, I turn to the old man. “I wish to have my luggage found,” I say in a breathless rush, tossing the coin in. That wish doesn’t sound crazy or require me to explain about my mother to this stranger.
The old man grins and claps. “Not the most romantic or exciting wish, but still fun. Come back tomorrow for your second wish.”
I face the fountain. My mother’s lira sits under the clear water, an arm’s reach away, but gone forever.
I turn back to thank the old man for the lesson.
He was strange and pushy, yet he cares for this fountain, and I loved meeting him.
But the crowds have thickened, and I don’t catch sight of him anywhere.
A tall shadow behind me blocks the sunlight. I shiver.
“No surprise finding you here.”
I take my time turning to face Mark. “You’re here too, so what’s that about?”
“I’m meeting someone. Their choice of location.”
So he consorts with people who don’t mind tourist sites. Perks of being in his inner circle, you get to bend his rules.
Instead of searching the faces around him, his eyes catch on my bare necklace.
The crowds press us closer together until I’m inches from his face.
I’ve wasted the coin on a panic-wish for luggage, of all things—and now I’ve lost a kind, comforting gentleman and have Mark instead. Way more fascinating to stare at.
Way more agitating.
My breaths are short and shallow, and he’s studying me with a weight in his expression that mirrors my own regret. We can’t seem to break eye contact.
“Did you toss your lira into the fountain?” His voice is low and serious, thrumming deep inside me. It’s classic Mark to notice that tiny detail but not register the eager hawker trying to get his attention until a small bouquet is thrust into his face, snapping our locked gazes.
I hold in a gasp, staring. I know this bouquet, white lilies and yellow roses, from the envelope. It’s the same floral arrangement my mom painted in the orange boat, even down to the single, drooping rosebud.
The man winks at me and asks if Mark wants to buy flowers for his amore. Mark shakes his head with a passionate “No.”
Sure, I’m not his fiancée and he has no way of realizing my shock at seeing that familiar bouquet in real life, but he didn’t have to refuse like the man offered to set his fingers on fire.
I take a step back, pushing against the crowd. Gone is that split-second of harmony, which I probably imagined anyway.
Am I so obsessed with these envelopes that I’m projecting my mom’s art onto everything in Italy?
If that’s the case, it should only be a matter of time before I hallucinate the ancient temple from her painting.
I need proof I’m not crazy. “I’ll take a bouquet.” I pull out my wallet and then remember I missed my scheduled trip to a bankomat thanks to the canceled flight.
My face flames, and the vendor looks between us. “So, is someone buying the flowers or not?”
I don’t give Mark a chance to pity-purchase flowers for a tourist he thinks is manipulating him into chivalry. “Not today, sorry.”
I spin on my heels and leave, unsure if I’m more upset about the flowers, the lost lira, or Mark witnessing both missteps.