And there it was. That was the question I had to ask myself and be so honest about. It came down to what were you willing to forgive, when you were forgiving The One? Seeing Daniel having sex with another woman was powerful, but the truth is, if I’d seen him just kissing another woman . . . it would have been enough. I couldn’t have forgiven that, because I didn’t want to.
But when it’s The One? You cry. You scream. You overreact. And then you work it out. Because he’s The One. And it’s worth it.
He smiled, pulling me into the chair with him.
“I love you more than I can possibly say. Can you understand that?”
“I do, tesoro,” he said, cradling me to his chest in a Marcello cocoon. “It’s as much as I love you. No more secrets. No more lies. No more running away without us talking first. We cannot do that to each other.”
“We need to be honest,” I agreed, kissing his chin. “Just you and me.”
“Just you and me.”
I HAD JUST SWIPED MY paintbrush into a shade of ripe apricot when I was overcome with a sense of melancholy. I took a deep breath, waiting for the feeling to pass. Looking up, I admired the pristine, clear blue, and cloudless sky.
In the two or so weeks since all hell broke loose, I found myself tearing up at random times throughout the day. A man helping an elderly woman across the street? I got teary.
Young kids playing stickball in the courtyard by Daisy’s apartment? Tears.
Painting here with my fellow artists in Campo de’ Fiori? You guessed it: teary. I didn’t have any explanation other than I was crazy and crazy happy all rolled into one.
We were finishing up the final touches on the painting when my instructor stopped at my easel.
“Belissima,” she said, touching my shoulder. “I am glad you come back. Beautiful work, you do.”
I smiled, staring at my painting with pride. My visits to this class were therapeutic and invigorating. They fueled that need for me to create.
By the time I reached the apartment, the painting was dry, and I stacked it in the hall closet with the rest of them. Checking the clock, I had just enough time to wash the paint from my face. Honestly, when would I ever not look like a finger-painting toddler when I was finished? I needed to be as presentable as possible, because today I was Skyping my parents to tell them my news.
A conversation that I was eager to get over with.
Earlier I had been holed up in Marcello’s office, enjoying his very handsy company and trying to fill out the paperwork for my work visa.
“Stop it,” I ordered, slapping away a roving finger. “My handwriting is terrible to begin with, and with your, ah . . . ah. Oh, that’s nice . . . Wait!”
An email had just arrived from my mother, asking if everything was okay. Her freaky intuition and a keen knack for timing had me spelling my name wrong, and I had to fill out the damn paperwork all over again.
It was as if she and my father knew something was up. It was time to break it to them.
Pulling up the chair, I opened the laptop and waited for the beeps that they were calling me. I busied myself with opening the envelope from Maria and the board at Museo di Roma in Trastevere. I beamed, clutching it to my chest. Running my hand over the emblem embossed into the letterhead, I sighed.
When Maria had called me into her office, I was nervous. I walked in to find not only her but her boss and her boss’s boss, and I panicked. I thought back to my work on the villa I’d just completed and prayed that I hadn’t screwed something up.
I left barely able to contain my excitement.
When the Skype bloop bloop noises rang out, I gulped, gently setting the letter off to the side of the desk.
“Deep breaths, Avery,” I said, clicking the green icon.
“There she is!” Dad’s forehead said.
“Move it down a bit, Dad.” I laughed.
“Damn it, why doesn’t anyone just use phones anymore . . .” He futzed with the “thingamajig.”
“That’s better,” I said once I could see them both.
They looked exactly the same as before. I, on the other hand, looked decidedly different. I could see them taking in the new European me.
My curly hair was left natural, pulled up on the sides. I wore no makeup save the burnt sienna paint I’d missed on my chin. My T-shirt was covered in similar splatters, and I prayed that the hickey from this afternoon hadn’t yet fully formed.
My father spoke first. “I must say, sweetheart, you look—”
“Perfect,” my mother finished, beaming.
“Thanks, Mom.” I took a breath, then went on with the small talk. “So, how’re things back in Boston?”
We chatted for a while, getting caught up on the gossip, the wrist my father had sprained playing tennis, the new flower bulbs my mother had ordered for the beds out by the pool, the usual. But while I enjoyed the conversation, they could tell something was up. I waited until I felt it was time. I took a deep breath.
“So, I’ve decided to—”
“Stay,” my father finished, his voice gentle and knowing.
I nodded, taking another deep breath. “I am.”
My mother daintily dabbed at her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief.
I picked up the letter with shaky hands and held it in front of the camera. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I—”
“Research conservator?” Dad said proudly. “I’m sure it’s impressive, but what is it?”
I laughed, and dropped the paper to the side. “Less field work and more office time, but that’s okay. Eventually I could get back out there if I wanted, but I think I’ll like this. I’ll be working with a team at the museum that works closely with firms all over Rome. When they uncover antiques, either in businesses or pieces that would be sent for display in a museum, we come in and create the plan to restore and conserve them. Lots of science and math and oh my God, I’m so happy.”