Chapter 53
Fifty-Three
Lexi
Monday morning after the festival days are done, I meet Gia at the Department of Cultural Activities building and she leads me to her corner office for a festival follow-up.
As expected, her workspace is the manifestation of a calculator—precise stacks of color-coded folders, pins on a large map, columns and lists printed and tacked on corkboard, and a completely cleared-off desk.
I inhale the organized atmosphere. Tidy, sterile air that clears the mind of clutter.
Gia offers me a seat and perches on the edge of her desk chair, steepling her hands.
“I know you have a flight this afternoon, so I’ll get straight to the point.
The mayor and the deputy mayor for the Cultural Development of Rome called to congratulate me on the successful collaboration between the city and the cultural institutions, foundations, and museums. The artists are satisfied with sales and attendance, the authorities had no issues with logistics, and the online feedback was overwhelmingly positive.
Even your add-on Heart of Italy coin-voting brought in quite a bit of money.
As you requested, I’ll use the money to set up an arts scholarship fund.
Mark Russo dropped the coins off an hour ago without even mentioning which of you won. ”
So he’s seen both of our photos and has the results.
That’s fine. Totally cool for me to be in the dark and for him to have the upper hand.
We’re not competing. We’re not even communicating—not a single text through the whole second day of the festival.
None of that matters. I feel fragile for entirely different, Mark-unrelated reasons.
Except I will always wonder what he thought of my choice for the heart of Italy. Did I redeem myself in his eyes as a visitor to Italy? And the question I vow not to ask, ponder, or investigate—what was his picture of?
Gia is staring at me, expectant. “Well, who won?”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t know.” I clench my hands in my lap. If she asks more questions, this is going to get awkward and emotional superfast, like the explosion from opening a pressure cooker too soon.
“Anyway.” Gia brushes the subject away. “My point is that you and I make a good team.”
Oh thank goodness we’re moving on. “I agree. We planned and executed.”
“Yes, but you were phenomenal in swerving from the plan when needed. That is not my skill. The live painting session idea you came up with, for example, became one of the hottest events of the day.” She pauses, and I feel the drama swelling like the climax of an aria. “I’d like to offer you a job.”
My eyes pop wide. That is not where I was expecting this conversation to go. “Like, work here in Italy?”
Eat at Luca’s restaurant whenever I wanted. Run into Santino at the Trevi Fountain. Hire Mariella to decorate my apartment for me.
Gia smiles and gives me a figure that makes my jaw drop.
Double what I’m earning in Boston. “We could work it out so that Julie runs the company out of Boston, like a merger, and you would mostly work in Rome as a liaison for English-speaking clients, scouting venues, and marketing to the international crowd, directly under me.”
I’m still speechless. Live in Rome. I can’t even . . . wildest dreams that I never . . . liaison . . .
Mark.
My daydreaming comes to a screeching halt. I’m a mess right now, exhausted from the festival, about to fly home, and reeling from the sudden blow-up of a weeklong romance. Probably not a good time for big decisions.
I take a deep breath. “Thank you, Gia. That sounds amazing. Could you give me a few weeks to consider? I need to talk it over with Julie.”
“Sure. I’ll be in touch about the details.
By the way, the printer forwarded me the email he received for the reception programs. It’s the one with the hot air balloons, but the email I sent him shows the JPEG I sent as the cityscape we agreed on.
It’s like the image changed in cyberspace.
I talked to the tech guys and they threw their hands up too. No explanation. Weirdest thing ever.”
I give her a weak smile. “Thanks for checking anyway.”
We shake hands and I walk out of her office, way less self-composed than when I came in, and that’s saying something.
I rush to the hotel and pack, then take an Uber to meet the Gallos at the address they gave me. I finally understand Mark’s nervousness before seeing Mom’s painting—just knowing I’m minutes away from seeing the temple has me strung tight.
As the car jostles me through the streets of Rome, I remind myself for the fiftieth time it was a good thing that I was so busy with the concerts and events all weekend that I didn’t have a chance to stop by the other museum.
After my fight with Mark, it would probably only make me feel worse to have seen his bet picture and know the final tally of votes.
The car stops before a large, ancient house, its walls pockmarked, plaster crumbling. Grand in its dimensions, sad in its age. Low storm clouds add a dreary mood. I place the memory of Mark’s blueprints over what I see, and sigh. He would make it glorious.
Mrs. Gallo emerges from the front door and gestures toward me. “Through here, Lexi. Quick, before it starts raining.”
I follow her through the house, glimpsing room after room of peeling wallpaper and broken furniture, out to a marble patio and short staircase.
The gardens, like the palazzo, are an abandoned mess.
We high-step through the overgrown grass, through a small forest, and then I’m standing in front of the temple I’ve stared at over Mom’s bed my whole life.
Mr. Gallo is regarding it, arms folded, frowning, but he waves when he sees me.
They’re right. The temple-pavilion is decrepit, slanting precariously, and the five columns have huge chunks of concrete missing.
“Not in quite as good of shape as when your mom painted it.” Mrs. Gallo gives me a sad smile. “Pity.”
I circle the temple, taking a few pictures. Mom’s painting was full of life and beauty, but the real version is . . . dead.
I lean closer.
“Don’t step inside it,” Mrs. Gallo warns.
I close my eyes and envision what this place looked like when Mom painted it. I’m breathing the same air, standing in the same place. I can almost will it back to its glory days.
I reach out and touch the weather-roughened concrete, as if that will connect me to my parents, heal the hole in me that seems even deeper today than ever. “Are you sure you can’t preserve it? Restore it?”
Mr. Gallo tuts. “It won’t survive the next strong wind. We have to destroy it before it hurts someone.”
I let out a bitter laugh and withdraw my hand. “Sounds like Mark’s opinion of our relationship.”
Mrs. Gallo lifts her head, tilting it as she looks at me without a smidgen of awkwardness from my oversharing. “What do you mean? Because you’re leaving Rome?”
I rub my hand on the smooth surface of my phone. “This has happened to him before, someone leaving.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “What about the Heart of Italy display?”
Her odd question brings another pang of regret.
I miss Mark, and I’m dying to know what his bet photo was.
But I made the right choice for my life moving forward.
“I was on a tight schedule and didn’t have the chance to see the display.
Speaking of, I should probably leave. Can’t miss my flight.
Thank you so much for letting me see the pavilion. ”
“Our pleasure.”
We trek back across the gardens as the storm’s prologue begins, spitting raindrops that feel like tears on my cheeks.
Inside the palazzo, Mrs. Gallo takes my arm and squeezes. “You don’t have to leave quite yet. You could change your flight. Work things out. I saw you, the way you looked at each other. You and Mark love . . .”
I’m glad she doesn’t finish that sentence.
She and her husband have a strong, abiding love, the kind my mom and dad had.
That makes her rosy-eyed when it comes to other people’s stories, but this one isn’t ending how she thinks.
I fill in the blank with safer words. We love Rome. We love Luca’s pasta. We love puns.
“No, I can’t linger in Rome.” I push away the thought that Gia just offered me a way to come back and stay.
That idea needs to wait until I can think straight.
“I have a full schedule as soon as I get back to Boston. Clients are waiting.” I shrug, mustering all the unaffected nonchalance I can find so we can close this out. “Mark is not in the plan.”
But Mrs. Gallo doesn’t stop, and I have a feeling the speech she gives me is what my mom would say if she were here.
“Love doesn’t wait until nothing else is happening in life.
It happens when it happens. While you’re grieving, while you’re lonely, while you’re far from home.
Even while you’re wondering who you are.
Fight love, and it makes things worse. Open yourself to it, and it might heal everything else. ”
The storm clouds break open with a loud crack and rain falls hard.
I give Mrs. Gallo a tight hug. “I wish—”
My Uber ride honks from the street.