Roman Crazy
Page 85

“You did! Oh that’s wonderful!” I cried, clapping my hands. He beamed; this was a job he’d really wanted. “So you’ll probably have to take a trip there soon, yes?”
“Yes.” He nodded, gently sliding the contents of the pan onto a platter. Picking up a big wedge of Parmesan, he began to shave thin slices over the top. The aroma was divine; I couldn’t wait to dig in. “I will be going down there next week, starting to put the team together.”
“Wow. That works out well, actually. I’m starting work on a plan for a mosaic the power company stumbled upon over near the Borghese gardens. The Galleria has plans for it to be unveiled next year, and from what I can tell, it’s going to be a bitch! I can get a bunch of it done while you’re gone. You’re awfully distracting, you know,” I teased, giving his bottom a squeeze as he walked toward the table with the pasta. And the fish. And the veal, rice, veggies, my God. I would be rolling out of here. “I’m so proud of you.”
This was a huge feather in his cap. He did amazing work, and he was being rewarded for it. “How much time do you think you’ll have to spend down there?” I leaned over to smell the pasta.
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about. They want me to move to Brazil.”
“This pasta looks incredi— What did you say?”
“The firm asked me to move to Brazil.”
“To Brazil.”
“Yes.”
“South America.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “Eighteen months, two years at the most.”
Eighteen months. Two years. At the most.
I lifted enormous forkfuls of pasta onto my plate, swirling a huge bite onto my fork and spoon like an American, and stuffing it into my mouth.
Eighteen months. Two years. At the most.
“When they asked you to move to Brazil, you told them yes.”
He propped his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “This isn’t really the kind of thing you say no to. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
I swallowed hard past a sudden lump in my throat. “I know it is.” I looked down at the table, the wood grain seeming to swim before my eyes.
“It could be incredible for you, too,” he said softly, and my head snapped up.
“What?”
“I want you to come with me. To Brazil.”
“Come with you?” I repeated, stunned.
“Yes, of course. I want you to come with me.” He came around the table, sat next to me, and took my hand. “I’ll head down there first, find us a place to live, then come back for you. We can move there together.”
“Come back for me.” I sounded like a parrot. “But what about my job? That I just got. And my work visa—it hasn’t even come through yet. And I just started my classes again. And I just heard about a volunteer program where Americans living in Rome give tours of local museums to tourists. I was thinking about looking into that, and—”
“We will work it all out, Avery. You’ll see,” he soothed, pulling me onto his lap. “That will all be waiting for you when we come back.”
“In eighteen months. Two years, at the most,” I said, feeling a twinge of irritation.
“Exactly!” he said, excited. He looked at the array of food on the table and chuckled. “I went a little overboard here, yes?”
“A little,” I chirped. He nodded, assuming I was agreeing with him about the food and not the overall concept here. “Marcello, I need some time to think about this.”
“I know, it is a lot to take in. But there is plenty of time to figure this all out. Wait until you see Rio de Janeiro—you will fall in love.”
There were so many things I wanted to say, so many questions I needed to ask. But first I needed time to think, time to get my head on straight.
So I celebrated this wonderful news with him, and I let him love me like only he could. But inside?
I was unsettled.
I STAYED AWAKE ALL NIGHT, while Marcello slept soundly. After the love, I’d tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, unable to shut my brain off from the hurricane of thoughts.
Move to Brazil?
Leave Rome behind?
Follow Marcello?
Leave my new job behind?
Follow Marcello?
It was that last part that was giving me the most trouble.
I watched him sleeping. When he slept deeply he went full flop, one arm thrown over his head, the other out to the side, one leg thrust in my direction, the other hanging over the side of the bed.
The sheet was draped perfectly around him, low on his hips, exposing the happiest of trails . . . He looked styled for a cologne ad. Perfection.
How could I even think of not sleeping next to him every night?
I couldn’t think about it—not while he was right here in all his glory. With sleep wood, which was always impressive . . .
I slipped out of the room and went up to the rooftop terrace, shrugging into a big oversized cardigan on the way. Here, where the air was clear and fresh, maybe I could think about this calmly, and rationally.
I sank into one of the big overstuffed chairs, staring up into the night sky. The city was quiet this late at night. And I needed that to help me sort out the thought that came into my brain whenever I thought about leaving Rome.
I didn’t want to leave Rome.
And the part that I felt guilty about was . . . I didn’t want to leave it even for Marcello.
When I graduated from Boston College, I’d more than the one offer. There was Manhattan, strictly entry level, practically no pay, but an opportunity a twenty-two-year-old rarely gets. SFMOMA in San Francisco wanted me to apprentice in their art conservator program and learn from the masters in my field how to best preserve these priceless works of art and then I was accepted into the master’s program for art conservatorship at Washington University in Saint Louis—an incredibly difficult to get into program and a huge honor for me.