Chapter 52
Fifty-Two
Mark
“You’re not restoring the past—you’re letting it dictate your future.”
Lexington’s words ricochet in my head. They won’t stop echoing, and at every reverberation, I flinch again.
Of course it’s true. I’m protecting myself, as I should. It’s called learning from your mistakes.
But blast, it hurts.
I wander down a few streets, lost in my thoughts, and then arrive at the Reena Brooke gallery a few minutes late for the unveiling.
All the chairs are full, and Gia is addressing the attentive crowd.
I slip along the back wall, the same spot where I waited for Lexington earlier, so hopeful and excited.
A lifetime ago.
Gia finishes her introduction and calls Lexington up to the stage.
For the second time in a week, Lexington Walker has switched from distressed to composed at the drop of a hat.
Her movements are smooth and graceful, stepping up and crossing the stage, adjusting the microphone and settling her notes on the podium.
Her posture is upright and relaxed, her smile soft and calm.
But I know hurt lies underneath that mask.
Which she confirms by shooting me a quick, distraught look before returning her gaze to the massive crowd.
With a deep inhale, she glances at the velvet-covered easel to her right as if drawing strength from it, then speaks into the microphone, her voice low and sweet.
“Thank you all for coming. It’s such a delight to gather together with Reena Brooke’s fans, especially on this occasion, in Rome. When she came to Rome, she had a mere few weeks to experience the city.”
Lexington talks about the things Reena saw and how she met her future husband, first a picture he took of her, then running into him later, and then getting to know him as she saw Rome.
“I’ve titled the painting you’re about to see as First Kiss.”
Why does Lexington get to title a Reena Brooke painting? An uneasy rumble, like at a fault line before an earthquake, shudders through my body. The pieces start to fit together. “My parents met in Italy.”
She’s talking about her mother. The realization knocks the air from my lungs like I’ve been slammed from behind.
“I think her paintings are so beloved because meeting the love of her life colored her Italian experience and all that love spilled into her art.”
How did I miss that? Why didn’t she tell me?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. All those stupid things I said, lumping all tourists and visitors together and calling them oblivious or disillusioned, and Lexington was coming to retrace her mother’s steps from the trip that produced some of the best Rome paintings in the twenty-first century.
No wonder it was so personal to her, no wonder she was so hurt.
There’s no way to fix this, even if I thought it was smart to.
Gia lifts a hand to the top of the red velvet fabric covering the painting.
“This is her most personal piece, as it’s the site of her first kiss with the man she would marry.”
All heads are turned toward the covered painting except mine, which is how I end up seeing Lexington shoot a lightning-quick glance at me as she says the words first kiss. Hot, pained, and hurt.
You’re leaving, I want to shout over the crowd. I’m not sacrificing my life goal for a woman who won’t stay. Not again.
The Roman Holiday rule is stronger than us.
My past is stronger than my heart.
Her mask is back on. The smooth, controlled Lexi. “Ladies and gentlemen, the last revealed painting of Reena Brooke Walker.”
Gia gives a slight tug, and the heavy fabric ripples to the floor. Floodlights illuminate the painting. Even though I saw it this morning, even though I’m across the room, it still takes my breath away.
The crowd murmurs their appreciation. Several people stand for a better look, and soon everyone is out of their chairs and stepping closer.
Lexington proposes they form a line so every guest has a chance to peruse the art.
She answers questions into the microphone so that everyone will hear, and the second question is about the location of the pavilion.
She doesn’t glance at me again. “On the property of Mr. and Mrs. Gallo, behind their palazzo.”
She points them out—they’re here?—and soon there’s a swarm around them. I was afraid of that. The site is now a hot spot, and the pavilion is beyond repair.
After the interview a few days ago, Mr. Gallo said his wife can pick out the people who stick.
Lexington’s leaving tomorrow, but on a deeper level, Mrs. Gallo is right.
When Lexington found out about the pavilion’s destiny, she sought me out and fought for us, tried to understand, walked right into the hard stuff and communicated.
Meanwhile, I lied when I told her getting my dad to Italy is the only thing I’ve wanted for the last five years.
But I can’t have Lexington.
I slip out into the night, shut off my phone, and head to our Heart of Italy exhibit. I need to dispose of the bet photos before she sees mine. It will only hurt us both more.