I was embarrassed to admit how fast my heart started beating when I knew he was asking about me. I might also be embarrassed to admit how hard it is to drink prosecco while grinning. I cleaned myself up with my napkin while she finished her call.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Until he stops screaming. Okay, ciao.” She put her phone back into her bag, crossed her legs, and sat back with her menu, casually flipping through it.
“So . . .” I said, prompting her to tell me about her phone call.
“So . . . I’m thinking about the tortellini with the artichokes and the porcini. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“And . . . ?”
“Hmm, I suppose I could have the grilled shrimp with the lemon and fava beans—that sounds really good. There’s this place over by the Trevi that has the best fava beans—”
“This is me, officially hating you,” I said, sitting back and flipping through my own menu aggressively. “This is what it looks like.”
“Oh stop, you’re so fricking cute when you’ve got a crush. One night out for pizza and you’re smitten all over again! Although, since you were involved before, is it technically a crush? Do you move past all of that when—”
“And this is me, officially getting ready to strangle you. This is what it looks like.”
“I got that, yes,” Daisy said with a laugh. “He asked about you, asked how you were doing. He wanted me to make sure that I told you well done on the vase.”
“Really?” I squealed, then hid behind my menu when several tables looked over. Likely wondering why the obviously American girl was so bouncy. “Really?” I asked again, in a much quieter voice.
“He also asked if you’d be coming to the opening of the new bank we’ve been restoring.”
“Oh. Really?” I tried so very hard to sound nonchalant and not at all interested. My best friend didn’t buy it for a second.
She snorted. “It’ll be filled with art people. Those old paintings and mosaics always bring out the art community in town, as well as someone from the antiquities ministry. They love to see all those old dusty pieces we unearthed during the renovation brought into the light and on display. But you know, you don’t really seem all that interested, so I’ll just tell him that it wasn’t your cup of tea, and that—”
“This is me, officially plotting your demise. This is what it looks—”
“And this is what you look like when you realize you’re going to get to spend an entire night with Marcello and a bunch of old frescoes and a vase that you had a hand in restoring.” She made a show of grinning like a crazy person, all moony and swoony. “In case you were wondering.”
* * *
“TELL ME AGAIN how you guys got this job?” I asked, tucking an arm in hers as we headed in the direction of the party at the bank.
She scrunched her face up, sidestepping a couple arguing on the sidewalk. “It was a mess. The firm we were going up against underbid us. We told them that it was a shady move and they’d be sorry because they weren’t as qualified as we were with dealing with frescoes that age and deterioration.”
“I’m guessing they didn’t listen?”
“Nope. They took the cheaper bid and a month later they came crawling back.”
We stopped in front of a crowd of people who had gathered near a man painting Girl with a Pearl Earring on the sidewalk in chalk. It was amazingly accurate for such rudimentary equipment and uneven concrete.
“So what did they do that was so terrible?”
“Someone gave Jesus Billy Idol blond hair.” She paused, snapping a pic of the artist’s work. “Frosted tips and all.”
I was laughing so hard, it took me a second to catch up with her.
“I have a Polaroid of it at the house. I’ll show you tonight.”
Ten minutes later we arrived at the party celebration for the restoration. It was so crowded that people had spilled out onto the street with their champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Plucking a drink from a tray, I sipped, praying that my nerves would settle before seeing Marcello again.
Something happens on a cellular level to your body when you sense someone near you. It’s amplified when it’s someone you’ve been intimate with. My skin felt like a current was running over it, zips and zaps sparking me to life.
I could see him in my periphery, sliding through the crowd with ease. There was an awareness about his movements that drew your eyes to him. Casually, he chatted, shook hands with men in suits, and gave hugs to the women whose hands lingered a bit too long. It flared up some long-hidden jealousy.
“What’s everyone surrounding?” I asked, standing on my tiptoes to check out a glass-covered pedestal table in the center of the room.
“That’s one of the mosaics we uncovered and preserved,” Daisy said, leading me over.
Marcello was explaining the piece’s history when we arrived, a captive audience of eight women who had dazzled looks in their eyes.
“This, ladies, is Daisy Miller; her team is responsible for this. Daisy, would you like to say a few words?”
Never one to shy away from the spotlight, Daisy greeted Marcello with two cheek kisses before taking his spot in front of the mosaic.
Unsure whether I wanted to listen to her talk about the piece or disappear into the shadows with him, I waited.
“You know what this reminds me of,” he said, sliding in behind me in the crowded space.
Spinning around slowly, I casually sipped my champagne, his eyes on the lipstick smudge on the crystal.