Chapter 42
Forty-Two
Lexi
I wheel the scooter out to the empty parking area in front of the rental office and call Julie. I need two minutes of best-friend pep talk.
She answers, speaking over Gia giving instructions to festival volunteers in the background. “I thought you were headed out of the city.”
“I am, but I need to run something by you.”
“Lexi, stop worrying about the festival stuff. Gia and I have it under control. Go open the last letter and focus on closure.”
“It’s not about work. It’s the envelope thing.”
The background noises fade, so Julie must’ve stepped away from wherever she was working. “Did the envelope thing happen again?”
She sounds like she just won a Broadway season tickets giveaway.
“Not today, and I doubt I’ll find an orange villa. The destination Mom’s sending me to is a field.”
“Oh.” She sounds as disappointed as I am confused.
“But Mark was at the Vespa rental office.”
“Okay, and?”
“He’s shown up every time I’ve opened or touched an envelope. Airport, reception, Trevi, Spanish Steps, Colosseum, and now today.”
She hoots. “Well, I told you—he likes you.”
“You haven’t even met him. It’s not like that. He’s been as surprised to see me as I am. Somehow, I’ve gotten tangled up in his life here.”
“Tangled, huh? That sounds promising.”
I snort. “Focus, Jules. Envelopes. What is going on?”
“What’s going on is something out of your control. Something that isn’t planned and interferes with your need to choreograph everything in your life. The question is, are you going to fight it or let it run its wild, messy, illogical course?”
That sounds highly inefficient and uncomfortable. “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice.”
“Perfect. My favorite way to let people make decisions.”
I huff. The last time life gave me no choice—when the doctor said Mom’s cancer had returned—it felt like an excavator dug a hole right out of my chest, a hole I’ve been building walls around ever since in hopes that would make it hurt less.
If nothing can touch my wounded heart, that’s less painful, right?
“Relax, Lexi.” She is definitely tilting her head and giving me her stern but loving smile, even though I can’t see her.
Despite her acting like a ditz at times, her moments of wise advice always come when I need them most. She takes a deep breath, and her final words are gentle.
“It’s okay to be out of control and in the dark about something. ”
Out of control. Those words scare me to death. I’ve worked so hard to make sure I’m never in that position again.
But as much as I’ve tried to keep Italy in a box, in my tidy schedule, Mark crashing into my week over and over has been .
. . I struggle to find the right word, because the first one to come to mind is easy.
Fun, yes. Enlightening and unexpected. But the main impression of Mark in Italy with me is easy.
Like I can finally breathe. Like the brick walls I thought were protecting the hole in my chest were actually compressing my lungs and I didn’t even realize it until they lifted.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next with Mark, but those nervous flutters at the thought of the unknowns are joyful and pleasant, not panicked.
“Thanks, Julie.”
We hang up, and I start the scooter.
I pull out onto the road, a little too eager with the gas, and head north along the scenic route to Terni.
An hour later, I arrive at the spot Mom has picked, a perfect grassy hill, mountains in the distance, sunshine on the slope. I pull over, grab my bag, and hike to the summit.
It’s windy, and I seat myself against a large tree before pulling out the last envelope.
It’s wrinkled with wear, but the painting is my favorite.
A large orange villa, flowers spilling from the windows, set on the edge of rolling hills.
There are silhouettes of people in the windows, and I love that detail. It’s not a house, it’s a home.
After I open it, I’ll have no new messages from my mom.
I both yearn to know what she’s said in this letter and dread the end.
I stare out at the fields. A line of trees marks the determined path of a small river.
There is peace here. No frantic rush to see every corner of Rome, and I’m sure Mom has done that on purpose.
Pulled me away so I can catch my breath.
I wait one more beat, then open the envelope, my throat catching at the last of Mom’s familiar, sloped handwriting.
Dear Lexington,
I’m going to assume you’ve opened all the envelopes in Italy, that you’re sitting on the hill outside Rome right now.
I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I couldn’t go with you to Italy. I wanted more than anything to take you there. I thought we had more time.
I wanted you to dedicate the temple painting to Rome because I’m so grateful to the city.
For what it gave me. It led me to your father (and he would be so proud of who you’ve become!).
I wasn’t expecting to fall in love, but as you can probably tell from my letters, he marks every memory I have of Rome.
Even this hill—it’s where your father took me our last afternoon together for a picnic.
And the temple in the painting? It’s where your father and I first kissed, and it was magical.
In that moment, I knew that Rome had given me something more than inspiration and beauty. Rome was the start of our family’s story.
The magic isn’t Italy. It’s your father and you.
You are what matters most to me, because I love you. And whatever happens in life—even when I pass away—I will still always be your mother.
Love, Mom
I’m crying by the end, swiping at the tears so I can read it again.
The words are blurry, but I see the message loud and clear.
I don’t have to find her Italy, because it was never about that.
It was about spending time with me. Showing me her love story, which started with Dad and ended with me.
That was her Italian experience. All those photos she took and pictures she painted, they were all colored by her falling in love.
I stay on the hill for a long time. It’s goodbye all over again, but there’s also the realization I feel closer than ever to my mom, because Italy is colored for me too. It’s been more about the man I met than about Italy’s treasures, no offense to Rome.
And Mom would have understood that. The guilt I’ve been feeling loosens and falls.
As I walk down the hill to the Vespa, I check the area in all directions. No orange villa in sight, or anything from the other envelope pictures. It’s time to count all those other sightings as a coincidence.
It’s also time to accept the fact that I’m not going to find the temple. At least I have one nugget about the painting we’re unveiling tomorrow—it was the sight of their first kiss. The fans will have to accept what I don’t know, and maybe help find it, like Julie suggested.
It won’t kill me to let go of control a little. I’m learning to handle that.
At the bottom of the hill, I rev up the scooter. It’s the lack of answers that will kill me.
I pull up to my hotel a few minutes early, but Mark is already waiting on the curb. I press the kickstand down, and he stands. His white, untucked button-down with rolled sleeves is at that moment between crisp and rumpled, which for some reason is my new definition of attractiveness.
The wind whips his curls into a playful party, and I can’t look away from his full-on smile. Now that we’re friends, I get that smile a lot, but it’s still as blinding and breathtaking as the day I saw it at the Rome airport with his family.
I swing my leg over the Vespa but stay seated, unclipping the helmet.
“Wait,” he says. “Don’t move.”
I freeze and he pulls his phone out and snaps a picture of me.
“I think you’re secretly jealous I got to wear this flower helmet. Pretending to make fun but taking pictures of it—you can’t fool me.”
He chuckles. “Right, Lexington.” He waves his hand, indicating the whole me-on-a-Vespa scene in front of him. “Of all that, it’s the helmet I want.”
I slide off the scooter, breathless. That sarcasm seemed to imply . . . oh. Right. He wants the Vespa, Lexi. That’s why he’s here.
He slides his phone into his jeans pocket and grabs a bouquet of plump pink roses and a fighter-pilot style jet helmet waiting by his feet. He holds one in each hand, wide apart. “Take your pick of thank-you gifts. Roses and goodnight, or one of the best meals you’ll likely ever have?”
I blink. Mark holds in an amused smile at how slow I’m processing what he’s saying. Which is a little unfair, since it’s one hundred percent his fault for taking me by surprise while being devastatingly distracting.
He tilts his head in the direction of the helmet, shaking it, encouraging me to choose the drive and dinner.
I am out of my depth here, and frankly, it’s a little scary how much I want to say yes to him. It’s all well and good that things worked out for Mom and Dad when they met in Italy, but I’ve seen Roman Holiday. I’m leaving in three days to return to my real life.
This is why I plan things out. If I’d stuck to my schedule I never would have fallen—I never would have gotten so sidetracked.
The smart choice, of course, is roses. I’m becoming addicted to a stimulant I can’t have after tomorrow. I need to start preparing for that, start saying no.
But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. I twist the strap of my bag, stalling. “I need details. What exactly is this?”
He raises an eyebrow at the bouquet in his hand, as if suspicious. “No pesticides used. Pink. Homegrown. Freshly picked without my grandma’s permission.”
“Stop,” I say on a gurgle of laughter. “I mean about the dinner. What’s in Monte Migliore?”
“It’s my birthday, and the whole family will be there for the dinner party.”
“What? Happy birthday! If I’d known, I would have gotten you—”
He takes a few steps toward me. “You gave me a way to get to my own party. My family will be overjoyed to have you join us. Trust me. And if there’s one thing that’s true about my Italian family, it’s that there will always be enough food.”
I swallow. This is bigger than I thought. Family. I want that. I know he’s not offering his family to me, but even being among them, meeting more of Mark’s people, makes me feel so desperately vulnerable and hopeful that my knees weaken.
“So if I choose the drive, what happens to the roses? You can’t drive a Vespa with roses in your hand.”
“Ah, the lady is strategic. Play your cards right and you could get both.” He grins, raising and lowering the two choices as if they were on a scale. “What’ll it be?”
I reach over and touch the helmet. Guess I’m not taking the smart choice. “On one condition.”
He dips his chin and gives me a long-suffering look. “This is a thank-you gift. There are no negotiations.”
I fold my arms, tap my foot, and wait.
“Okay, fine. What is it?”
I pull the flowered helmet from my head that I forgot I was wearing. I flush at how oblivious to everything else Mark makes me. “You wear this one and I wear the normal one.”
He recoils, and it’s all I can do to keep a straight face.
“You’ll come with me only if I wear that monstrosity?”
“That’s the deal.” I want to know how badly he wants this. Wants me.
He looks right into my eyes, shoves the roses into my free hand, and grabs the ridiculous helmet without hesitation. “Done. Now run the flowers inside and let’s go.”
Beaming, I hurry to my room, plug the sink and fill it with water, and set the roses there.
As a dressier shoe choice for a party, I change into my espadrilles—last chance for redemption, girls—add a silver bracelet, and run a brush through my hair. Like that will matter once I put the helmet back on.
My ticket for the night tour of the Colosseum sits on the desk. I couldn’t care less. No schedule is worth missing Mark’s birthday meal with his family.
By the time I return to the street, Mark has wheeled the Vespa to the front door and is wearing the cool helmet.
“Hey.” I point at his head. “We made a deal.”
He shrugs, not even trying to hold in his satisfied smirk. “Didn’t fit. Safety first.”
I climb on behind him, setting the flower helmet back on and muttering about his big head loud enough for him to hear. His shoulders shake with laughter as he turns the scooter onto the road.
I grab a fistful of his shirt in each hand, determined not to cling like a smitten high schooler.
A block later, I realize my low-contact strategy isn’t going to work.
He’s weaving in and out of traffic like a Grand Prix driver, and I’m sorry, but wrapping my arms around his waist is the only way to keep from falling off.
This close to him for an extended amount of time is the overseas flight situation to the nth degree. I never thought exponentials were my thing, but it turns out a little well-placed math can be very pleasant.
About an hour later, Mark slows as we enter the sleepy, haphazard village.
Hedges and six-foot walls give the homes privacy on this street, and at the dead end, we park in front of a large iron gate.
He pushes a buzzer and the gate swings open, revealing a sprawling orange villa with flowers spilling out of the windows and hills behind it.
A choking gasp emits from my throat.
It’s the villa from Mom’s last envelope.