Page 25 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“They need more parking.”

I turn, looking for another space for cars, but he’s right. If the owners need parking, this is the only choice. “So let’s move it.” The pavilion is already practically in pieces, so it wouldn’t be too hard to deconstruct and then relocate.

“It’s a modern addition made to appear ancient. Not made well, either.”

I trudge through high grass and weeds until I’m inches from one of the columns. He’s right. There are none of the typical white chunks of lime clasts in the concrete that show up in ancient Roman structures.

“I wouldn’t step inside. It’s one strong breath away from collapsing. I’m surprised the city inspector hasn’t roped it off yet. Come on. We’d better get those zucchini blossoms from the market or your nonna will hide my favorite slippers for a week.”

I take one last look at the structure. Pity.

We head northwest, pass the Pantheon, and end up in the Campo de’ Fiori square right at the two o’clock closing time. The hooded statue of Giordano Bruno seems to frown on all the market activity, the morning’s mess of selling from stalls littering the area, with empty crates and truck beds half loaded. Nonno steps over wilted leaves and a smashed eggplant, and skirts a pile of pallets. An old woman sits on an overturned crate with a bag.

“Ciao, Elena. Have you been waiting long?”

She squints up at Nonno, half her teeth missing, and stands, whacking him on the arm. “Just an hour, sloth. Next time I save you the best, I expect flowers from Alba’s garden.”

I watch their easy interaction. Nonno’s way with people is something I crave, but it might come with having grown up here. I’m stuck between foreigner and local. It’s Zeno’s dichotomy paradox—the ability to move only half the distance to the goal means I won’t ever reach it, but I have to keep trying.

We leave with the zucchini and Elena’s warnings not to smash the fragile blossoms. The metro is emptier than usual since it’s August, but stuffy. When we’re settled in seats near the door, I bring up Dad again. Might as well start paving the way in case Icanget him to visit. “At Katie’s engagement party—”

Nonno stops me, palm out, and makes a panicked sound. “Are you trying to get us killed? Your grandmother said no talking about your trip until we get to the house. Can you imagine what she’d do to both of us if she misses out on any family gossip?”

True. Nonna is ... a force. She’s got a finger in every pot, an opinion for every situation, and the nerve to back up every threat. Because her love for people is so fierce.

We emerge from the metro at the Flaminio stop, the fresh wind and bright afternoon sunshine a welcome change, and climb the hill to the house.

Six years ago, the first time Nonno walked me up this street a few weeks after Zoe left, it was almost Christmas. After a semester with university students and Zoe’s circle of American expats, I was starved for family life and normalcy, even if it looked more Italian than American. It was stupid of me not to contact my extended family until then, but they were strangers.

Without a word, Nonna had wrapped me in a grandmotherly hug, giving what young men are too proud and manly to ask for. She took stock of me for two seconds and judged me “thin, heartsick, and lost.” Then she stuffed me with homemade pasta, which—no exaggeration—fixed almost everything.

Nonno pushes the creaky iron gate open and we pass through. The family is already gathered out on the shaded terrace, so we take the shortcut through the living room. Metal chairs scrape on the mossy bricks, and kids giggle, nearly drowning out the low murmur of adult conversation.

As always, the framed childhood photo on the side table stops me. The four siblings sit lined up on the sand at a beach—Flavio, Dad, Stella, and Alice. My dad has the same photo stuffed away in an album.

On that first visit here, this picture connected me to my world back home. That was the moment I fell in love with Italy and knew I had to fix the breach in our family. And now, walking out to the terrace, seeing three of the siblings together without my dad, it hits again. The closer I get to the chance to restore the palazzo, the bigger and more urgent the need grows to get Dad here.

After another round of hugs and kisses, Nonna pours us each a spritz and nudges me into a chair under the scissor leaves of a massive palm tree. Dinner won’t be for at least an hour, but the table is loaded with heraperitivospread—bruschetta, cured meats and cheeses, and tiny quiches.

I pull my chair closer to Mariella. “Never found you last night. Were you avoiding me?”

“Luca wanted me to help him with his breads early this morning, so I left right after dinner. Did you make a lot of contacts with the other festival participants?”

“Filled up my scorecard, which made the whole evening a lot less painful than I thought it would be. I even met a film cinematographer—that was super interesting.Andthe best part is I found out this morning that I won the vernissage. Can you believe that?”

The lady on the call said it would be Lexington showing me the Reena Brooke painting. Tingles shoot up and down my spine every time I think of it. The painting reveal, I mean. Obviously.

“Oh, speaking of gifts.” With my bag on my lap, I pull out theRed Sox hat and show her under the table. Her eyes widen, and she presses her lips in aplaying with fireface.

Danilo’s off playing with the other little cousins—all girls—but he comes looking for food soon enough. I beckon him to me and put my finger to my lips. He hustles around to my side and lifts his T-shirt sleeve to wipe the sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. “Hi, Marco. What’s up?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

He glances around, scratching his bare leg. “Nah, probably not.”

I chuckle. “I didn’t think so. Here. Put this on, but don’t say anything. I want to know how long it takes your dad to notice.”

Danilo peeks under the table and claps his hand to his mouth. “A baseball hat? Thank you!” He sets the hat on his head. “Like this? Do I have it right?”