Chapter 47
Forty-Seven
Lexi
I stand alone with my mom’s painting for the last time. After tonight it will hang at a museum here in Rome.
I didn’t mean for my voice to crack, asking Mark if he liked it, but it feels like I’ve just introduced my mom to the man I’m falling for, and he barely said a word about it. I didn’t even realize how much I needed him to love it until I saw him standing there not reacting.
My heart clenches. I throw the fabric back over the frame and lock up the room. Mom’s paintings aren’t her. She will never meet Mark.
The whole viewing was disorienting, like I’ve been flipped upside down.
The location I’ve been searching for over the last year was just dropped in my lap.
I should be ecstatic, but I’m on edge about the day, the speech, releasing Mom’s painting, the after-Italy plan.
I feel fragile, like one misstep and I’ll fall to pieces.
The festival begins with Gia’s opening ceremony, and after I’ve triple-checked with all the volunteers at their stations that things are running well, I turn the walkie-talkie off and smooth my skirt down. My nerves are popping like hail on a sidewalk. I’ll see my mom’s temple soon.
Mark walks in just then but freezes, arrested by the sight of the Reena Brooke painting nearest the door.
I watch him staring at Mom’s art. It’s her Spanish Steps painting, the staircase deserted, just before sunrise.
The whole feeling of the piece is one of secret joy, waiting arms wide for the dawn, for the full bloom of whatever goodness is happening in life right then.
It used to remind me of those school days when I knew that the minute the last bell rang, Mom would be waiting to take me off on a weekend adventure.
Now when I look at it, I see the gossamer-thin moment between like and love.
Mark’s posture as he studies the picture is almost . . . squirmy.
Before I can guess at the meaning for that edginess, he turns, and I catch the full effect again of Mark in a suit. That is not going to get old anytime soon.
“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand.
I nod. His warm palm against mine grounds me, dissolving my suspicions from this morning and my unease at his twitchiness.
I trust him. His stilted behavior earlier could be from having to wear his dreaded suit and his dislike of crowds, plus our professional roles putting us on different footing.
He’s slow to open up, and work is a new topic for us. We just need more time.
Which is the one thing we don’t have.
Thrusting that thought from my mind, I step with Mark onto the decorated street choked with happy festivalgoers.
Ribbons tied to lampposts flutter in the slight breeze, banners flap between street buildings, and music dances on the air.
I wave at a few festival staff members milling around to help answer questions.
I take a deep, satisfied breath and get garlic, tomato, and basil.
My steps slow. “Where is that divine scent coming from?”
Mark points to a booth selling bubbly-crust, scissor-cut pizza squares and pulls out his wallet. “I’ll buy you a piece. It’s called pizza al taglio because—”
“I know.” He hasn’t treated me like a clueless tourist in days. Maybe we’re both just hungry, but his mansplaining hits me in the gut and feels a lot like an ominous, baffling setback.
He buys us a few pieces, and we walk as we eat. Between overanalyzing Mark and me, and the transporting taste of this pizza in my mouth, I don’t even notice that we’re one piazza away from the building where Mark’s architecture and our bet photos are displayed. I nudge his arm. “Are you ready?”
He nods. “Bring it on. You might want to concede when you see my picture.”
I laugh. Finally, the Mark-Lexi spark is back. “I might be so grateful you’re showing me the temple in person that I let you win.”
His smile twists into a grimace. “You’re that excited about it?”
“A year, Mark. I’ve been looking for it for a year. It’s the number one thing I wanted to see in Italy.” I still haven’t told him Reena Brooke is my mom. I wanted him to experience seeing her last painting bias-free. I’ll surprise him with that news at the temple as a thank-you.
He squints at the sun and tugs on his shirt collar. Is he hot, or is something else bothering him?
We start to cross the long piazza where the Orpheus Band will play. They aren’t on stage yet, but fans scream and shove their way forward. The chaos is made of sweat, wild excitement, and summer.
We’ve stepped too close, and like a black hole, the mass of people swarms around us, sucking us into the pulsing crowd. Mark’s warm hand grabs mine and holds it tight. So far, that’s been the most reassuring thing I’ve felt all day.
“We have to get to the other side,” I say, but in this ear-splitting, pulsing chanting, there’s no way he can hear me.
Before we can move, the band appears and the noise doubles. Mark’s hand tightens around my fingers as he bushwhacks a path against the current.
If we don’t hurry, we’re going to lose my window for seeing the temple.
The Orpheus Band plays the opening notes to “Turno di Notte,” their newest song. Two thousand people in the square scream at the top of their lungs and surge forward. Bodies are pressed against us on all sides. Someone knocks against my shoulder, and my hand is ripped out of Mark’s.
I shout his name, but the space where he was, right in front of me, is a sea of strangers.