Page 28 of Every Step She Takes
When I get downstairs, the car is pulling in, summoned by Isabella. I’m barely a mile from my hotel, and it’s faster to walk. Iwantto walk. Even as I step out into a light rain, I don’t change my mind. That car belongs to Isabella, and within its confines I remain under her control. I need to get away from that and collect my thoughts.
I’m so wrapped up in those thoughts that I overshoot my street. As I take out my phone, I scan shop names so I can orient myself on my cell-phone map. The one right beside me proclaims Authentic Italian Iced Treats. One glimpse at the candy-colored gelato has me sniffing in disdain. I chuckle. I have become an Italian, who knows that this neon-bright whipped stuff isnotproper gelato.
As I gaze at that shop, my mind tumbles back to an afternoon last month, meeting Marco after a Pantheon tour and having gelato at Giolitti. Sitting at a rickety table on the cobblestone street, we shared an insane dessert of chocolate ice cream and custard zabaione, entirely encased in a globe of whipped cream. Marco was telling me about studies that upend the prevailing theories on the Vesuvius eruption. The moviePompeiishows people drowning in lava and perishing in a rain of fire, but any tour guide knows that’s Hollywood hyperbole. It’s long been presumed that people suffocated from the volcanic ash. New studies, though, suggest their brains may have exploded from the heat.
Marco was explaining this new theory to me, his enthralled audience… until we caught the horrified looks of the tourists beside us, who apparently didn’t consider brain-boiling a proper dining conversation. So Marco switched to Italian… and got the same horrified looks from the locals on our opposite side.
Now I’m standing in the rain, staring at this fake gelato place, and I’m back in that sunny afternoon in Rome. I hear Marco’s animated chatter, and then our stifled snickers and giggles as we realize we’ve inadvertently driven off our dining neighbors, leaving us free to continue the discussion.
I remember what that momentfeltlike. Sharing our crazy dessert. Basking in the sunshine. Rapt in our conversation. I’d sat there looking at Marco and felt…
Happy. Giddily, unbelievably happy. I could scarcely believe this was my life. This beautiful, bewitching city? Mine. This gorgeous, fascinating man? Mine. All mine.
What I felt that day wasn’t mere happiness. It waslove, God help me. Love for that life. Love for that city. Love for that man.
I inhale so sharply I startle an old woman, who mutters at me in Korean before tromping into the gelato shop. I watch her go, and I breathe, just breathe, until the stabbing panic subsides. When it does, I know my answer for Isabella. I understand that she wants this thing, and I want to give it to her, in apology, but I truly cannot take the risk.
I will need to meet with her again, though. She has the power to upend my life, and I must talk to her face-to-face and bring her to fully understand what she’s asking me to do and why I cannot do it.
I text her, warning that my position hasn’t changed but accepting her invitation to lunch. We arrange to meet at her hotel suite at noon tomorrow.
Then I text Marco. As much as I’d love to call instead, tourist-season weekends are insanely busy for him. He won’t be in bed yet, but he’ll be exhausted.
Me:It’s me. Busy day here, but I’m sure yours was busier! I just wanted to check in and say ‘buonanotte e sogni d’oro.’
The reply comes right away.
Marco:Yep, long day, but never so long that I’m not up for a chat. FaceTime?
I hesitate, my fingers over the keypad. I’m on a busy New York street in the rain. Not the place for the conversation we need to have. I can probably get to my hotel in about fifteen minutes but…
My heart pounds, as if I’ve been asked to publicly perform a new song from sheet music. I’m not prepared. I need to be prepared.
Me:I’m out, having taken a wrong turn, and it’s raining. Not a good look for me.
Marco:I’ll be the judge of that.
I snap a photo and send it.
Marco:Bellissimo. But, yes, not the environment for a video chat. Tomorrow?
Me:I’ll be up by six, and I don’t have anything before eleven. That’s between noon and 5p.m. your time. Anything work there?
Marco:How about nine your time?
Me:Excellent. And… it won’t be a short talk. I really do need to speak to you.
Silence. Then:
Marco:Those ominous words again. The same conversation, I presume? More urgent now?
Me:Just an overdue conversation that became more pressing after I left Rome.Nothing ominous, I promise.
I’m not sure he buys that. I’ve said it twice now, and a dozen possibilities will be flying through his head.
We’re getting too comfy – I need you to back off a little.
I’m moving to the US.
