Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Mark
Mr. and Mrs. Gallo are stiffer than I remember from when we first toured their palazzo. They came into the restaurant laughing, but now it’s all business. Maybe it’s the flashy, upscale atmosphere. Maybe because it’s hot (turns out the air conditioning is finito).
Or maybe it’s me.
Now that Dad has promised to come if we get the bid and Nonno’s vertigo has me wondering how much longer he can work, so much is riding on this interview.
Unhelpful pressure, but that’s the thought that keeps knocking around in my head as they question my opinions on Rome’s architectural history and future.
Bottom line—it’s not going great. And we’ve only ordered our food so far.
Mr. Gallo checks his pad of paper he’s set next to his glass. “Mr. Russo, can you tell us about your favorite building in Rome?”
Best in symmetry? Piazza di Sant’Ignazio. Best in Renaissance architecture, the Palazzo Senatario. Best Baroque . . . The question is too broad. I have twenty favorites. I feel the quicksand of time sucking my thoughts under. “I don’t have one.”
Mr. Gallo shoots a furtive glance to his wife. I begin a slow sink into my seat.
The restaurant door opens, and Lexington Walker steps in wearing loose, cream slacks, black sandals, and a black sleeveless shirt.
I’m screwed. And she looks so good today.
Those are my first two thoughts. Not in that order.
No idea what she’s doing here, but man, she looks good.
I sit straight, clear my throat, and take a large gulp of Aperol to delay consequences. A classic hack from childhood that is more survival than professional. A man does what he has to.
The waiter seats her at a table behind the Gallos, facing me. Great, thanks, man. Good thing Italian waiters don’t expect tips. Metaphorically speaking, she’s been a distraction for days, but this is worse—I can’t even look at my potential future bosses without Lexington in my sight line.
Mr. Gallo is still waiting, eyebrows raised. “No favorite building in the whole city?”
Are they expecting me to say their palazzo? It has potential, but no offense, it’s not the best.
“I have categories of favorites.”
Lexington doesn’t look at me, but she makes the motion of continue on with her hand. Great, she can not only watch but also hear my demise. She keeps making that gesture.
Elaborate. Fine. I run through the buildings at the top of my list and explain why. Mr. Gallo nods for the first time since we sat down, and my tightness loosens a tiny degree.
The waiter sets our plates on the table, and when he’s gone, Mr. Gallo continues my interrogation. “What do you enjoy most about restoration, Mr. Russo?”
“All of it.”
Lexington grimaces. Answer needs refinement, got it. “I like seeing a project from start to finish, how a new vision and hard work can transform something obsolete and ruined into something beautiful and useful that connects us to the past.”
Mrs. Gallo actually smiles at me. “And which place in Rome is the best example of restoration, in your opinion?”
“Not the Miriade hotel. They took—”
Lexington is shaking her head, hard and fast.
I clamp my mouth shut and revise my answer.
“The Theatre of Marcellus. It’s a great example of adaptive reuse.
It’s been adapted to each time period as a useful building, from theater, to medieval fortress, and now an apartment complex and venue for private events, all without losing its historical integrity or aesthetic. ”
I stumble through another excruciating twenty minutes of questions—Mariella’s going to be hearing strong words from me for sending me alone.
Lexington keeps reacting in subtle ways that help me.
A head tilt when I wasn’t clear. A slow blink.
A silent shoulder-shaking laugh. (That was at a story of mine about a project I did during my master’s program.
They asked for an example of one of my failures, and the disastrous project qualifies, but I’m not sure if she’s laughing with us or at me.) Once, mentioning the investors’ possible help to lower prices, I got a thumbs-up so furtive I wasn’t sure if she was just scratching her palm with her pinky or approving of my answer.
But playing the “how’s Lexington going to react” game distracts me enough that I relax a little.
Until right at the end of dessert, the big question that spells my doom.
“What do you think about the relationship between restoration and tourism?”
I can’t help it. I look up and catch Lexington’s eye.
It’s the first time she’s made eye contact, and she knows exactly how bad this question is for me.
It’s the reason I have no chance with her.
It’s the reason for every one of her scowls she’s directed at me since the airplane.
She knows I’m in trouble and that I deserve it.
She jumps up from her chair and heads for the back of the restaurant. Passing our table, she halts, eyebrows up and mouth open. “Mark?”
I don’t have to feign my surprise. I stare up at her with my best what-are-you-doing expression. “Yeah?”
“I keep running into you. Crazy.” Her eyes are unnaturally wide, sending a telepathic message.
I send my own back: What is going on? I trust her, but I’d like to know the plan.
The Gallos are waving at her as if they were friends, which, knowing Lexington, is probably somehow the case. When it comes to people, she’s like a busy hummingbird, except the kind that passes out sweet nectar instead of taking it.
“Oh, hello! What a small world.”
Mrs. Gallo glances behind at Lexington’s empty plate on the table. “I see you found food. Are you feeling better?”
Lexington nods. “Yes, I gobbled down a whole pizza.”
Mr. Gallo indicates the extra chair next to me. “If you know Mark, why don’t you join us for dessert?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t intrude. I’ll let you get back to your meeting, but I wanted to ask Mark if he could send me the picture he took at the Spanish Steps yesterday.”
She tilts her head and beams at me. Genius move. The picture will show I was at a tourist site this week instead of my previous track record of avoiding all but Trevi Fountain. She’s saving me.
I pull out my phone and click on one of the pictures of Lexington on the steps.
She’s giggling with the boy, and the pigeon is in the air between them.
The steps rise behind her, bright in the sunshine, and the tourists around them are pleasantly blurry while Lexington and the child are in sharp focus. I send it to Lexington’s number.
When her phone dings, she clicks it open.
Mrs. Gallo holds her hand out. “May I see?” I pass my phone over since Lexington is still peering at the photo on hers.
“He has the highest appreciation for Roman culture and his understanding of spaces, light, and focus blows me off my feet. Every time.”
This is my first time receiving a Lexington Special and . . . worth the wait.
Her words are like the lightest, fluffiest bite of tiramisu—with all the sweetness and wake-me-up the dessert would give. And it will help my chances of winning the owners over.
I might make it through this meeting in one piece.
“Yes, it’s very good.” Mr. Gallo is peering over his wife’s shoulder to look. “Are there any more?”
I nod, and Mrs. Gallo swipes left to the one of Lexington sitting on the Spanish Steps. “Isn’t that not allow—” She swipes again to the one of the policewoman marching Lexington down the stairs, and they burst into whoops.
Lexington lowers her phone and narrows her eyes at me, even though she’s grinning. “Yeah, I stepped right into that one.”
“I think technically you sat on that one.”
She groans and rolls her eyes, but her shoulders shake in silent laughter.
Mr. Gallo elbows his wife. “Remember when I convinced you to put a lock on the bridge in Paris?”
Mrs. Gallo folds her arms and mock pouts. “He’d noticed the police, but I hadn’t. It took us the rest of the morning to take care of the paperwork and fees.” She scoots closer and gives him a loud, wet smack on the cheek. “Soooo romantic.”
We’re all laughing, and then my eyes slide up to Lexington just as she glances from them to me, her delight at the Gallos’ cheeky love still lingering on her face.
My breath hitches. I’ve caught her at various moments of hurt and pain, but this is the first open-faced joy she’s shared with me.
I wish my eyes were a camera so I could capture this forever.
Where is that new technology when you need it?
She lowers her voice. “I can’t thank you enough for the lira. What you did . . . thank you.”
Her smile is so bright it singes my discretion. I would splash through a thousand forbidden fountains for that smile. Deface the Colosseum? Done. Sit on the Spanish Steps? All day long.
She excuses herself and continues to the restroom.
The waiter whisks our empty plates away. We stand and Mr. Gallo shakes my hand. “Thank you for meeting with us, Mark.”
Sometime between the start of the interview and Lexington’s interruption, they’ve switched from calling me Mr. Russo to calling me Mark. And I understand why, because since she walked in, I feel like myself.
“My pleasure. Restoring your palazzo would be a dream. I already have an Italian mosaic specialist lined up, and Ms. Accardi from Sapienza University is willing to serve as a consultant where needed.”
“Who is the specialist?”
“Dr. Riccardo Russo.”
Mr. Gallo’s eyes widen. “In Boston? I thought he wasn’t taking any projects in Italy. Wait, is he related to you?”
I nod. “My father. He’ll come for this.” I pause. It’s not bribery, it’s leveraging my assets. “If I get the bid.”
Mr. Gallo exchanges a look with his wife. “That’s an excellent connection and added value in your offer. I’m impressed.” He turns to go.
Mrs. Gallo points to the restroom area with a knowing smirk. “Wait for her. You make a cute couple.”
“We’re not together.” Why do we keep having to tell people this?
Mr. Gallo chuckles, spins his wife around like they’re waltzing, and they start walking out. He throws his parting words over his shoulder. “You’d better listen to my wife. She always picks out the ones that stick.”
They move off, and I let out a breath, sinking back into my seat.
Five seconds later, Lexington slides into the chair across from me. “Is it safe? Are they gone?”
I sit up straight. “You have no idea how much you helped me.”
She snorts. “Uh, I heard enough to know. That was a bit brutal. I think my life debt is repaid.” She holds up her lira on the chain around her neck, smug victory on her face.
“Umm, I get to say when it’s repaid, but you at least deserve a gelato. Come on, there’s a place down the street.”
We head out, walking shoulder to shoulder on the narrow sidewalk lined with a tall brick wall.
“So is everything for the festival ready to go?”
“There are always last-minute details, but overall we’re on schedule. I heard you won the private preview for Reena Brooke’s painting.”
I steer her into the gelateria, and we both stop and let out a sigh at the drop in temperature before moving to the glass counter to choose our flavors.
“Yeah, I’m over the moon about that. She’s my favorite modern artist. I have her work framed all over my apartment.
It’s going to be a highlight of my life and career. ”
Lexington freezes and raises her eyes to mine. Drumming her fingers on the glass top, she studies my face so long it’s unnerving. Her words fizz with mirth. “Well, you’re in for a surprise with the painting.”
I can’t read her expression or tone. What could possibly be amusing her? Is there something wrong with the painting? “A good surprise?”
“I think it is.” She raises her eyes to me for a second before perusing the flavor choices under the glass.
The man behind the counter is waiting with an ice cream scoop.
I lift a finger with an apologetic grimace and turn to face her. “Hang on. You’ve seen it?”
“Gia and I both have.”
This woman holds the knowledge every art lover in Italy is dying for, and she’s debating between hazelnut or raspberry gelato like it’s the most important decision in her life. I growl at her casual indifference and her cheek dimples with a suppressed smirk.
“What is it?” I haven’t even noticed that I’ve moved closer until she faces me and I see the tiniest scar under her left eyebrow.
She gives me the flirtiest, most mischievous smile I’ve ever seen. “Uh-uh.” She makes a slow zipping motion across her lips and tosses the invisible key over her shoulder.
The last bit I only know thanks to my peripheral vision because I haven’t taken my eyes off her mouth.
Her expression turns into something serious and warm and soft.
She leans closer until she’s four centimeters from me.
A curse of measuring spaces daily for work—I’m hyper-aware of how far Lexington is from me at all times.
“Lexington,” I rasp, reaching for her arms. She smells of lemons and sunshine.
Her head tilts up further, her parted lips releasing a quick, impatient breath.
The door clangs open, and a large tourist group of senior citizens barges into the small shop. They are a loud sea of orange shirts and bucket hats.
Lexington jumps back and clears her throat. “Could you order a raspberry in a cone for me, please?”
The second I nod, she bolts. “I’ll be outside.”
What just happened?
The ones that stick, Mrs. Gallo? Doesn’t seem like Lexington fits that bill.