Our Italian Summer Page 12

  But Cherry and Laura didn’t seem to care about anyone judging them, and I wondered if I had given up too easily on certain things, like defending my own choices.

  We arrived and climbed out of the cab. I shot Allegra and Mom a text that I was there, then looked around and allowed the beautiful chaos of the square to settle around me. Multiple shops squeezed the sides of the cobblestone streets, and groups of people strolled around, eating gelato and taking in the sights. A huge fountain was centered in the middle, and my gaze lifted to the impressive row of steps that led up to the twin-towered church whose spires thrust into the air, framing the scene like a postcard.

  The beauty was in the odd details. The zigzag play of steps leading to different tiers and terraces. The stripped-bare paint peeling from the buildings. The rough cobblestones and smooth, wet-looking steps. The elegance of the architecture, which revered sweeping curves and soaring domes. The bold, natural colors of terra cotta and mustard amid the blue waters of the Fontana della Barcaccia and the white columns. The lone tree sprouting near the top of the steps and the vivid blooms of geraniums bursting from the sides. But most of all it was a matter of time. A vision slammed through me. Roman soldiers walking in their sandals on the very same ground, their dust-covered bodies weary from war, while they beheld the creative and natural beauty around them.

  Italy was a gorgeous contradiction. A place where bloodshed and combat thrived and ruled, a location where the Colosseum was entertainment and death was common, yet a place where great art bloomed among the rubble. I stood for a few moments, taking in the scene and letting my mind touch on things I rarely thought about because I was trapped in my day-to-day activity.

  “Let’s get gelato and explore,” Laura suggested as we gathered in a circle.

  “I have to wait for Allegra. You guys go ahead and we’ll catch up,” I said.

  “You sure? We can wait,” Dana said.

  I shook my head. “No, really, I’m going to poke around here a bit.”

  They finally agreed and I watched them stroll slowly out of sight. I glanced at my phone, but neither of them had texted back. Biting my lip, I decided to stay in the general area and enjoy my surroundings. A young couple kissed passionately by the fountain, and people snapped selfies from long sticks. Tour guides led their groups through the crowds, and sellers hawked their wares, from fresh roses to knockoff purses, hats, and cold bottles of water.

  I was walking around the fountain, studying the details, when I saw Enzo ahead. He was with the elderly couple from our tour—I think their names were Mary and Ray—and he was smiling as he chatted, pointing down the road toward something. I studied him from a distance, noting his silky T-shirt in a cream color, and camel slacks with canvas shoes. His hair was thick and unruly, those curls blowing in the slight breeze. His hands moved animatedly as he spoke.

  My gut gave a tiny lurch. This time, it had nothing to do with stress or panic, but was a tickle of awareness I rarely felt. Strange. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was in charge of us. An authority thing. Who knew? I still didn’t think he was classically attractive, but his energy and personality drew me.

  Not that it mattered. God knows, I’d shut him down full force and he hadn’t even been flirting. It was still so embarrassing.

  His gaze lifted and slammed into mine. I tried not to blush and hoped he didn’t think I’d been staring, but he grinned and waved me over with such enthusiasm, I couldn’t pretend not to see him.

  “Hi,” I said when I reached them. “Seems everyone’s gathering at the steps today.”

  “As it should be,” Enzo said. “The steps were used as a popular meeting place over the years. Imagine great philosophers and artists gathering to exchange ideas over cappuccino. I can set you up with a local guide if you’d like a tour, Francesca.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’m meeting Allegra and my mother here.” I turned to the older couple. I pegged them for their midseventies. “I’m not sure if we officially met? I’m Fran.”

  We shook hands. “I’m Mary and this is my husband, Ray. We were just at the Trevi Fountain and met a few others from our group there, too. It’s a good day to get in all of our exploring.”

  “It’s a good thing we trained for this before we came,” Ray said. “We made sure to hit the gym and walk a few miles per day. I refused to be the one lagging behind.”

  “You’ll do better than me,” I confided. “And my mother said the same thing. She began using those Jane Fonda DVDs that had been collecting dust.”

  “Oh, those are very in right now,” Mary said seriously. “They call it vintage. Or retro. Makes me laugh that all the old stuff is now popular. My granddaughter saw The Book Club and had the nerve to ask who that cool actress was and was she in any other movies. But she did know about Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  Enzo cocked his head. “What’s that?”

  Mary and I shared a look and burst into laughter. “A popular book. It was actually very good.”

  “Would I like it?” Enzo asked.

  Ray reached out and patted his arm. “It’s not for us. But it’s nice to see female writers finally getting the recognition they deserve.”

  Mary and Ray shared an intimate look and I choked back a laugh. Another surprise. How long had it been since I saw a longtime married couple actually still in love? Enzo seemed to be thinking the same thing, since he glanced at me with a twinkle in his eye and winked. I studied his face again, fascinated by my reaction to him. His nose was too blunt. His features were craggy and rough, and he was just my height. I had only dated tall men. Maybe I’d been too narrow-minded and shallow. It wasn’t as if I was beautiful either. I was more used to men being attracted to my position of authority than my looks. Now here I was judging my tour guide for not matching the image in my head of the hot Italians with their practiced, sexy moves and dark, handsome faces.

  We chatted for a while longer before Mary and Ray declared they were off to a late lunch. “Thank you for helping us out today,” Mary said to Enzo. “I think we would have been overwhelmed alone.”

  “Visiting a foreign country where you don’t speak the language is scary. I’m here to make sure you enjoy your trip. It’s truly my pleasure. Don’t forget if you have any trouble getting back to the hotel, call my cell. And go to one of those restaurants I recommended—they are good in price and have excellent food. Tell them Enzo sent you.”

  Ray clapped him on the shoulder. “Grazie.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow for the Colosseum,” Mary said. “I can’t wait.”

  They walked away and I faced him. “I didn’t think you really worked during our free time. You need to have some type of break, right?”

  His white teeth flashed. “Mary and Ray needed a little extra care. And, no, I consider myself working twenty-four seven. It’s my job.”

  “That’s very nice of you. And responsible.”

  “What can I help you with? Have you visited everything you wanted today?”

  My phone remained silent in my hand. Where were they? Guilt hit again. I’d managed to miss most of our early afternoon and now I was getting worried. “I had to stay in the hotel and work, so I’m supposed to meet Allegra and my mother here. But they’re not getting back to me.”

  He frowned. “I’ll wait with you. If we don’t hear back soon, I’ll help you find them. Do not worry—I’m sure they just lost track of time. It’s easy to do here.”

  I dragged in a breath. He was probably right. “I’ll be fine. No need to waste your time babysitting me.”

  “Not a waste. I like spending time with you. Let me show you a few highlights.”

  His words caught me by surprise, but he was already leading me toward the steps, launching into an easy commentary. “This is an early baroque fountain created by Petro Bernini. It is called Fontana della Barcaccia, or Fountain of the Old Boat, because it l
ooks like a sinking ship. There is a legend about a fishing boat being lost in a flood of the Tiber River, and it was carried to this spot.”

  “Was a lot of the art based on legends?” I asked curiously.

  “The majority of art and sculpture during this period was based on religious tales and mythology. The greater and more colorful the story, the more the people embraced it.”

  “Makes sense. How many steps are there?”

  “One hundred and thirty-eight.”

  “And why on earth aren’t they called the Italian Steps?”

  He laughed. “Ah, a bit confusing, no? This square was named after the Spanish embassy, so it was considered Spanish territory. Francesco de Sanctis was hired to build steps to link the Trinità dei Monti church and the seat of the Catholic Church together, called the Holy See. But guess who the church belonged to?”

  “I’m guessing not the Italians, either?”

  “No, the church was under the patronage of the French king. And they also planned to erect a statue of King Louis XIV at the top of the staircase, but thank God it never happened. The pope refused.”

  “So, this entire area once had three different countries involved.”

  “Sì. But we now claim it as ours, as it should be.”

  “Are you still pissed off as an Italian over the whole Mona Lisa debacle?”

  A fierce frown creased his brow. “The Mona Lisa belongs to Italy.”

  I pressed my lips together. It seemed I’d found a sensitive spot. “But the Mona Lisa is located in the Louvre and da Vinci died in France, not Italy.”

  He stopped walking, regarding me with serious concern. “Da Vinci is an Italian and it is where his heart truly is. We allow the Louvre to have this amazing painting because we are generous and neighborly, but it belongs to us. Capisce?”

  Oh, this was hysterical. I tamped down my laugh and managed to nod. “I’m glad I learned the real truth.”

  “So am I.” He pointed out the house to the right. “A fun fact for you. This is where the poet John Keats lived, which is now a museum.”

  “I always enjoyed his poetry.”

  “It has many memorabilia, so you may want to check it out while you are here.” We began climbing the stairs and he shared a variety of facts. There was a richness to his voice like velvet, and a lyrical quality like music. I debated taking Italian lessons when I got home. I should have had Allegra teach me while she was learning it in school.

  “Do you like McDonald’s?”

  I blinked at the question. “No.”

  His relief was palpable. “Good. They had the audacity to build a McDonald’s here, which was met with a very large protest.”

  “Who won?”

  “McDonald’s, but many have boycotted. This actually started our own protest, which is now the Slow Food organization. There is no need for false food when you have the land and ocean to nourish your body. Many forget the real truth of food. The purpose.”

  “Not to die?” I teased.

  He didn’t smile back this time. Those dark eyes were filled with intensity. “It is for the soul, not just the body. Feed it falsely and you will begin to lose yourself.”

  The sunbeams caught his face and in that fleeting moment he was beautiful. I’d read several books regarding the Mediterranean diet, keto, South Beach, and other smart ways of analyzing food intake and nutrition. Food as fuel for the soul was a familiar motto, spoken on cooking and morning talk shows in order to promote a product or lifestyle. But I’d never heard the philosophy uttered like a Bible verse, full of respect. It was like hearing something a thousand times, yet on the thousand and first, it made sense. I finally got it, standing in front of my tour guide in Rome.

  He had no idea he’d suddenly shifted my thinking. All those times food was shoved in my mouth as a resented requirement of either good health or weight loss, each time I rushed through a drive-through and congratulated myself on eating a limp, dressing-free salad, I had been false. Even my junk-food choices were picked without care or concern. I thought of how many times Allegra mentioned cooking with my mother, and how I viewed it as a traditional block to a woman’s freedom, thinking my job was to push her to be more like me.

  Maybe I’d been wrong.

  Enzo continued talking, ignorant of the sudden spin of my thoughts over his last statement. We climbed to the top and leaned over the rail to study the square spread out before us. The view, like many historic spots, was worth the climb. Looking down at anything usually gave me a sense of power and accomplishment. Right now, I felt more connected to the people milling around the square, as if there were no differences between us. As if we had all shared the view and claimed our power together.

  Our shoulders brushed against each other and I didn’t move. The light scent of his cologne drifted in the air and tickled my nose, a scent of familiarity, like I’d smelled it many times before, almost like a dim memory I couldn’t place.

  “Did you finish your work?” he asked.

  I sighed, resting my elbows on the ledge. “No, but I can finish tonight. I think that’s why Allegra isn’t texting me back. She’s mad.”

  He didn’t respond for a bit, like he was thinking about what to say. “Children don’t realize our responsibilities. And I think the mother-daughter relationship is the most complicated of all.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I have four sisters.”

  I gasped. “Four! Are you kidding me? How did you survive?”

  His grin was back. “Well, I never got the bathroom, but my mama treated me like a king. And though they drove me nuts, they spoiled me. I’m the baby.”

  I began to laugh. “Typical. You’re a mama’s boy.”

  He shrugged. “I am proud of this. She taught me all the important things.”

  “Like what?”

  “How to cook the perfect pasta and gravy. How to romance a woman. When to fight and make my stand, and when to run.”

  “And your father? Was he hard on you and easy with the girls?”

  A shadow flickered over his face. “My father died when I was seven.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I touched his arm, then quickly drew back. “My dad died when I was in my late twenties and I still can’t seem to stop grieving.”

  “Our parents make us feel valid. They are the ones who saw everything of who we really are and loved us anyway. Losing them is like losing a limb, no?”

  “Yes.” Allegra had missed out on having a grandfather, and it still tore me apart. And for a long time, Mom was completely lost, like she had no compass. Her granddaughter had brought her back to life. Even though she’d disapproved of my choice to get pregnant alone, Allegra gave her new hope. “Are you all close?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Very. When I am not on tour, I see my mama and sisters every Sunday. I have two nieces and a nephew so far.”

  “That’s so nice. Where do you live?”

  “A tiny town you’ve never heard of. It’s called Lucca, which is in the Tuscany region.”

  I blinked and shook my head. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “We rented a villa half an hour from Lucca. I got it on Vrbo—it’s an old farmhouse.”

  Shock filled his dark eyes. “Do you know the exact location?”

  “It overlooks the town of Borgo a Mozzano, I think? It used to be a chestnut farm. It looks like a beautiful property with a terrace, and views, and even a lake. We can walk into town for the market. We’re heading there for a week after the tour.”

  “You picked a charming spot. And if you want, I’d be happy to show you around or give you any information since I will be there after the tour, too.”

  Our gazes suddenly locked. My chest tightened and I got caught up in the rich dark brown of his eyes, framed with a perfect ring of g
old to give his stare a deep intensity. I liked the thought of spending time with him at our villa. I liked it a bit too much, which confused me. I stepped back casually. How I hated acting like a schoolgirl, when I was a grown woman. But I was beginning to realize it had been a long time since I’d talked to a man at length without a particular goal in mind. And, damn, why was his scent so mouthwatering? I needed to find out what type of cologne or lotion this man was using. “Thank you. I think that will be really helpful.” I cleared my throat. “My mom insisted on something simple and rural so we can spend quality time together. I think she’s hoping there’s no internet.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Could you last?”

  “Maybe. I think my daughter would be the first to go mental.” The thought of Allegra made me check my phone again, even though it hadn’t buzzed. “I’m starting to get worried.”

  “Then let’s go find her. I’m very good at tracking people down in a crowd. Tour Management 101.”

  He reached out as if to take my hand in a natural manner, then pulled back, as if realizing he’d made a grievous error. I wondered if his hands were rough or smooth, and if they’d grip my fingers with a firm grip or light caress. I wondered if I’d ever find out.

  “Mom!”

  My daughter’s voice rang across the square and filled me with sheer relief. I turned and Allegra was racing over, her hand linked with my mother’s. They were both laughing, and the joy and strength of their connection hit me full force. I’d never felt such a bond with my mother. It was as if my father had sucked up all my attention and emotion, and when he passed, all of that went straight into Allegra. Enzo stepped a few paces back to give them room as they reached us.

  “I was so worried,” I said. “You didn’t answer my calls or texts, so Enzo and I were going to try and find you. Are you both okay?”

  “I’m so sorry, Fran,” my mother said. “We lost track of time and you know I rarely check my phone. I feel terrible you had to contact Enzo.”

  “No, I was here already, Sophia,” he said smoothly. “It was no problem. I told your daughter how the charms of Rome can make you forget time.”