Roman Crazy (20 page)

It was a very advanced kindergarten class . . .

I bought a bewildering array of bus maps, highlighted the best and fastest route out to Grottaferrata, and bought my weekly ticket from the tobacco shop down the street. It felt official. I was ready for work. Something I hadn't done in almost a decade.

Nine years is a long time to be away from something. To be missing that passion that you felt every day when you really loved what you did. I was ready. More than ready, and I couldn't help but feel that this was my second chance. My new start, and I sure as hell wasn't going to waste it.

With a tote filled with a sketchbook, pencils, and some other necessities, I was off and waiting at the bus stop. I even packed myself a lunch. My journey to work wasn't without a slight mix-up, of course. I was lost in my thoughts, doodling an image of Marcello's shoulders in the book on my lap, and I almost missed my stop.

Maria was there waiting for me when I arrived. “As I said, we didn't do any of the tests yet. This is a big job, Avery. I need a detailed plan from you first, your list of recommendations, and your best estimation on the time needed. We'll discuss it with the office. For today, cleaning tests are really the only thing that you have time for.”

The area had already been taped up with the plastic covering, the scaffolding was still in place, and tall stands topped with
work lights were spaced out around the area. I wondered what was in store for me behind the curtain. I saw from the project schedule she'd given me that we were already a few days behind with the delays over finding a restorer.

I set up shop in my little corner of the villa. Tools, brushes, long Q-tips, pails, and clean rags were spread out. My chair was puffy and padded for when I needed it, but for now, I sat on the floor and stared up at the wall.

What was under there? I wondered. Pulling out my notebook, I began my list. Overpainting dominated most of the wall. It looked like someone tried to remove it themselves, leaving some damaged areas. Taking pictures of the spots in question, I kept a record of them for reference. They'd need more time, care, and delicate touches.

With pastel, I drew a section over my testing area in five quadrants to show the levels of overpaint and damage.

I detailed my report, including the cleaning process and how it would involve swelling the top layers of paint and then lifting them away from the wall. Layer by layer in what was sure to be painstakingly time-consuming work, we would finally get to the last layer of paint that would have to be dissolved with natural solvents as to not further damage the painting beneath it.

After that, we'd varnish and touch up any spots that needed it before a final sealer was applied. Given the size of the wall and the length and width of the mural on it, we were looking at what was at least two weeks' worth of work.

WHEN MARCELLO CALLED AROUND MIDDAY,
I was bursting with pride.

“I love everything about this job.”

“I want to hear it all.” It was hard to hear him; I'd forgotten he was at a construction site today. Loud Italian screaming mixed with loud Italian noise didn't make it easy for me to explain my morning. But I gave it a shot, gushing on and on about the people I'd met, the detailed frescoes I was working on, and how I'd already found three new restaurants I was dying to try in the neighborhood.

He chuckled, shouting something at a worker before what sounded like a door closing. “I'm proud of you. You are like a true Roman. Now, if I could only get you to use a Vespa.”

“Nope, no way, no how. Riding on one of those is one thing, driving is something completely different.”

“Just think of how much faster you'd get there,” he explained, while I popped biscotti into my mouth.

“No way,” I mumbled, thinking about me zipping in and out of traffic with a little red helmet on.

I looked out the arched windows onto the courtyard below and counted fifteen scooters. Clearly I was the only person here with a problem with the zippy little bastards.

“Are you busy?”

“Not now. I'm taking a break and reading up a bit on this villa. The family had documents from previous owners lying around that are fascinating.”

“Like what?”

I tucked the phone closer to my mouth and whispered, “Did you know someone was murdered here? A few someones, apparently, but the bodies were never found!”

My mind went to Edgar Allan Poe's “The Casque of Amontillado,” where an Italian man buries his former friend alive behind a wall in his wine cellar. I made a mental note to be extra careful with the wine cellar's frescoed wall.

“I can hear how excited you are,” he purred, and all thoughts of Poe went out the window. “Tell me, what do you plan to do later?”

During the ride from my bus stop to the villa earlier this morning, I had concocted a plan. After passing an incredible market on the way in to work this morning, I also spotted a cheese shop, a wine shop, and a bakery, all within thirty steps of the bus stop.

“I was thinking of making dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?”

“Mm-hmm, Daisy's flying out tonight, I'll be alone.” I held my breath. “Want to come?”

“Just tell me what time,” he replied.

I told him anytime after seven and hung up with a secret smile on my face.

“I MIGHT USE YOUR LUGGAGE.
It's so much nicer than mine,” Daisy teased, running a hand across the leather. She flicked open the lock and examined the smooth interior. “Definitely using it. Then it guarantees you'll really be here when I come back.”

“Of course I'll be here.” I blinked at her innocently. “I'd never leave without my Vuitton luggage.”

She slapped me on the arm. “I'm serious. I travel so much, but I've never had someone waiting for me when I got back. It's kind of nice.”

Daisy the globetrotter was off on a late flight to Amsterdam tonight, bidding on her next project. Who knew when she'd be back. Just last night I was raving about her nomadic lifestyle, but this put her life into a new perspective for me. Sure she had work friends here. but what's left of her family was back in Boston,
and her visits back to the States had gotten less and less frequent over the years.

“Makes you want to find a nice gorgeous Italian man to settle down with, doesn't it,” I said, arching my eyebrow at her.

“I think you've got the nice and gorgeous on lock. I'm in no hurry for either. Besides, I've got you. Speaking of nice and gorgeous, any plans while I'm gone? You've got a lot of nonwork hours to fill. Whatever will you do?”

I evaded, not because I didn't want to tell her, but because I didn't want to jinx anything. “Subtle. I was thinking of some day trips; Florence, Bologna, maybe Milan for a weekend.” I paused, hearing the actual words I was saying. “What is this life?”

“Don't question it. You deserve every ounce of happiness that this country brings you. P.s., I hear Marcello loves Milan.”

“What's another word for subtle?” I asked. “Hey, no way!” I cried as she starting pulling my matching duffel bag from my closet. “If you're taking all my fantastic luggage, I'm keeping this.”

“For weekend trips—”

“For weekend trips,” I said, giddy at the thoughts of planning them. I wasn't limited to Italy, either. I could revisit Spain. Pop over to Paris. Explore Greece. The sky was the limit. I just hoped that he'd be free—and interested—to join me. But what would that entail? I know what weekends away with Marcello used to mean: lots and lots of naked times. Is that still what it meant? Was I ready for that?

I was pulled out of my thoughts by Daisy, packed and ready to go.

“Don't get into any trouble while I'm in Amsterdam,” Daisy teased, grabbing her purse and keys. “I worry, leaving you home all alone.”

“I'll be fine, Mother.”

“Whatever will you do while I'm away . . .”

When the door clicked shut, I jumped from the couch and danced to the table to find my phone to call Marcello. I danced, shimmied, and sang his name. There may have been some humming. It may have been “Let's Get It On.”

“I can hear you,” she shouted from the stairwell. “You can at least have the decency to wait until I leave before calling your boooooyfriend.”

I swung open the door. With wide-eyed innocence, I said, “How'd you know I was calling your dad?”

She mock-gagged. “Unfair!”

“Be safe. Love you!”

When she disappeared around the corner, I closed the door, leaning against it. The phone was clutched in my hands and my nerves were climbing like vines to wrap themselves around my lungs. I had a pretty good idea of what might happen when he came over, and for the life of me I couldn't find one reason to
not to do exactly that
.

I took one more breath, then called to let him know that Daisy had left the building.

With barely one ring, he answered with an out of breath, “
Pronto
.”

“Hey, am I interrupting you?”

He cleared his throat. “Hey to you, and no, you are not interrupting me. How are you?”

“I'm good. Uh . . . Daisy just left.”

“I see,” he said quietly.

“Do you still want to come over? We could you know . . . hang out.”

“Hang out?”

“Yeah, you know hang out. Board games, Netflix, and chill.”

“Board games?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“And dinner, you didn't forget I said I'd make dinner.”

“I have not.”

Everything south of my teeth clenched, tightened, and sang “Hallelujah” in anticipation. “I went shopping this afternoon. I have ingredients.”

“I like ingredients.”

“How's an hour? That'll give me time to get things going in the kitchen.”
And reshave my legs, loofah my entire body. Slather myself in that blood orange lotion I bought at the fancy Italian soap shop. As you do.

“That might be a problem.”

My heart sank. I didn't consider there being a hiccup. “Oh, okay,” I said, trying to sound unaffected. “Just come over whenever you can.”

Two knocks rapped at the door.

I jumped, dropping the phone to the floor with a clatter. “No way.” I gasped, picking it up and tiptoeing to the door. “Tell me this isn't you.”

He let loose a low chuckle. “I would be lying.”

I'd just taken my hair down from the braids I'd been wearing all day. I'd borrowed a shirt from Daisy to wear; it was a size too small, so old it was practically see-through, and happened to be covered in cartoon lobsters. To say nothing of my boxers; yes, old-man boxers that I wear around
when I am alone
.

Not exactly the seduction I had planned. And yet, I didn't care.

I tossed the phone and flung the door open. His warm brown eyes went wide when he saw me.

I didn't think or consider; I just jumped, wrapped, and held on while he pinned me to the door. He was all grasping arms and seeking fingers, and I was melting.

I
T WAS SCARY HOW MUCH
I wanted this. Nine years later, and it was as if no time had passed. That feverish undercurrent was ever present, and thankfully it wasn't just me who felt it. Marcello wasn't holding back, kissing, squeezing, sliding over every inch he could reach.

“What is this you are wearing?” he asked between searing kisses, gripping the waist of my shorts.

I felt scattered, trying to remember any thought I had before he kissed me. What underwear did I have on? Does the bra even match? He kissed along my collarbone before nipping at the crook between my neck and my shoulder.
Lord,
don't kiss me there.
Fuck,
my thoughts were lost again.

“I had plans, lingerie, seduction. These are—”

“
Perfetto,
” he answered, and slipped his hands beneath the shorts to cup my bottom. He just held them there, ten perfect pressure points. His arms trembled beneath me. “You don't need to seduce me. I wanted you again the moment you walked up to the table.”

“Marcello,” I whispered, and in response his hands squeezed
just so.

He rocked his hips up slowly, dangerously. “Give me a minute. Don't move,” he breathed against my neck.

Staying there for a moment, his chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths. My muscles were bunching, pulled so tight from being still. It was a delicious burn. I could feel him ready and impatient, and as much as I wanted to savor every moment of this reunion, I didn't want to wait.

Pulling away from my shoulder, he pressed our foreheads together, as his body tensed with each breath. “
Tesoro,
” he began, sounding nervous.

“What is it?”

Kissing me quickly, he took a deep breath and exhaled a quiet, “I want this. All of you, now. I know there are talks we need to have but I . . . if you are not ready or if there is something
else
stopping us . . . tell me. We can wait. We can wait.” He finished, stumbling over the last few words.