Page 24 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Did you toss your lira into the fountain?” His voice is low and serious, thrumming deep inside me. It’s classic Mark to notice that tiny detail but not register the eager hawker trying to get his attention until a small bouquet is thrust into his face, snapping our locked gazes.

I hold in a gasp, staring. I know this bouquet, white lilies and yellow roses, from the envelope. It’s the same floral arrangement my mom painted in the orange boat, even down to the single, drooping rosebud.

The man winks at me and asks if Mark wants to buy flowers for hisamore. Mark shakes his head with a passionate “No.”

Sure, I’m not his fiancée and he has no way of realizing my shock at seeing that familiar bouquet in real life, but he didn’t have to refuse like the man offered to set his fingers on fire.

I take a step back, pushing against the crowd. Gone is that split-second of harmony, which I probably imagined anyway.

Am I so obsessed with these envelopes that I’m projecting my mom’s art onto everything in Italy?

If that’s the case, it should only be a matter of time before I hallucinate the ancient temple from her painting.

I need proof I’m not crazy. “I’ll take a bouquet.” I pull out my wallet and then remember I missed my scheduled trip to abankomatthanks to the canceled flight.

My face flames, and the vendor looks between us. “So, is someone buying the flowers or not?”

I don’t give Mark a chance to pity-purchase flowers for a tourist he thinks is manipulating him into chivalry. “Not today, sorry.”

I spin on my heels and leave, unsure if I’m more upset about the flowers, the lost lira, or Mark witnessing both missteps.

Sixteen

Mark

After two weeksin the States, I can’t wait to see Nonno again, so I’m not sure why I’m watching Lexington make her way up the street instead of searching for him around Trevi Fountain.

When she’s out of sight, I turn to the crowd. I’ll never find him in this mess. A policeman barks at a man dipping his hand into the forbidden water. Someone backs into me, jostling me against another person, and I start to feel claustrophobic and trapped.

A familiar whistle sounds above me. Nonno waves from the sidewall, and the sight of him is enough to pull me through the crowd and up the steps to him.

His bear hug melts all other pressures away. He steps back, scanning my features with a slight wrinkle of worry between his eyebrows. “You okay?”

I nod. Whether he saw my social distress or not, I answer the bigger question. “It’s never easy to leave Mom and Dad and Katie, but I’m glad to be back.”

He claps me on the shoulder but says nothing. I always watch his reaction when I mention Dad, trying to get a hint of his feelingsfor his estranged son. Nonno shuts down any attempt to talk about him, so I have to take oblique measures.

I point to the street opposite of the one Lexington disappeared down. “Let’s get out of here. I’m not a fan of Trevi.”

He rubs his hands together.Great.Something amuses him. The whole family is one massive rubber-band ball of mischief, and I don’t trust the gleam in his eye.

“Any reason for that?”

Lots of reasons. My dislike of crowds. My hope-dread of Lexington returning. Neither of which I can say to Nonno. “The fountain’s fame eclipses everything else. Is anyone noticing these buildings and the rest of the area?” Columns and arched doorways grace the buildings, and the imposing Baroque church on the corner is worth at least an afternoon’s worth of architectural interest.

His head knocks back and he hoots, wheezing. “You dislike Trevi Fountain because it’s hogging people’s attention? You’re very crabby today.” Nonno pats me on the back, cutting my defense short. “Come on. I figured you’d want another look at the palazzo, and then your nonna wants us to pick up zucchini blossoms on the way to the house.”

It’s a hot, sticky walk, but worth it. Every time I size up this Renaissance-style mansion, set back from the road in all its tired pomp, the potential makes my skin tingle. Instead of pigeon- and bat-infested rooms, sagging beams, and crumbling plaster, I envision stenciled ceilings, Romanesque patterns on the cornices, frescoes on the walls, and polished marble floors. When the broken glass and rotting frames of the tall windows are repaired, light will flood the row of connecting rooms along the front. My blueprints highlight all the history while making it a comfortable, glamorous venue.

Dad once told me his dream was to renovate an Italian villa. I’m inches (well, we’re in Europe, so millimeters) from doing that. I could ask him to help. This could lure him to Rome.

Iwantthis project.

It’s in such a bad state that nothing is even locked. Rehashing ourproposed plans for the reconstruction, Nonno and I walk to the back side, where stairs from the white marble terrace lead to an extensive, overgrown lawn and a wild, weedy rose garden.

Nonno was in charge of the landscape plans, which he hadn’t finished before I left for the States. He sweeps his arm to include a swath of gravel walks and a small grove of untended trees. “The new gate would open up to a drive-through here.”

“Wait, tear down the pavilion? We can’t do that.” Decrepit, open-air columns hold up a domed roof in the middle of where Nonno says the drive would go. It needs a little restoration love, but its location is picturesque and would be a big draw for people.