Page 66 of The Roman Holiday Rule
Oh, that. I’m supposed to remember life events before the Lexington Almost-Kiss. “Barely survived.”
She lets out a long sigh. “That bad?”
“It worked itself out in the end.” Then I add, under my breath, “Like raspberry gelato.”
“Okaaaay. That’s weird and specific.” She looks like she’s going to ask follow-up questions, none of which I will be answering. She must see that on my face, because she shrugs. “Well, it’s behind you now.”
I follow her into the kitchen and set the bread on the counter while she fills a pot with water under the faucet.
Luca strides in, his arms full of spices and fresh produce, and starts bossing us on what to chop. I’m assigned onions again because Luca loves how much they make my eyes water.
Once we find our meal-prep rhythm, Luca takes a break to sharpen a few of Mari’s knives, leaning against the counter. “Did you get your car back yet?”
“They return from the Amalfi Coast Friday afternoon.” The family I lent it to knew the air conditioning was out, and I don’t envy their sweltering drive.
“Cutting it a little close.” He shoots me a warning look. On Friday evening, we have a huge family thing for my thirtieth birthday at our aunt and uncle’s villa in Monte Migliore, a town an hour’s drive south of us. “Are you sure you don’t want to get a ride with my parents? We can squeeze you in. We’re leaving before lunch so Mom can help with the food.”
“If you’re staying the night, I can’t. The festival starts Saturday, and I have some setup for our display and my Reena Brooke painting preview before it starts. Thanks, though.”
Mariella already had homemade pasta drying. Within the hour, we’re ready to take the tomato soup and the pasta dish—Luca’s seasoned twist oncacioepepe—to the table.
The doorbell rings, and Mariella hands me the stack of bowls and plates. “Here, set these out while I answer that.”
I glance at Luca and he shrugs, then points to the white dishes. “Four.”
My heart sinks. Mari does this a lot—she’s a more-the-merrier type of hostess. A little warning would have been nice. I like it when it’s just the three of us with our comfortable banter and rapport.
There’s a murmur of quiet conversation at the door. I’m laying the dishes around the table and trying to get a glimpse of who’s just arrived when Mariella leads Lexington into the room. She catches my eye, and there’s a flash of electricity that sparks between us. The last plate I set down rattles against the silverware.
“You guys remember Lexi? From the restaurant on Monday?” Mariella knows Lexington speaks Italian, but we make the switch to English anyway.
Luca nods. “Of course, hi. Nice to see you again.”
Lexington responds with all the niceties, the thank-you-for-inviting-me, love-your-apartment, I-brought-some-wine stuff. I wait.
The second Mariella is examining the bottle and Luca returns to the kitchen for the serving spoons, Lexington gives me a smile, quick and private, as if to say,I didn’t know, it was alast-minute thing.
I send her a furtive wink, and then we all sit around the table, Lexington across from me. Mariella carries the conversation for a little bit while Luca ladles out the soup.
Before I can decide how to play this, words spill out. “So how has Rome been the last couple days?”
Even though I asked the question, she avoids my eyes. “Very fun. I witnessed someone being arrested at Trevi Fountain and rescued a helpless guy being drilled by a scary old couple near the Colosseum.”
Mariella gurgles with laughter. “Those are two stories I have to hear.”
Surely Lexington won’t divulge those men were both me. I stretch my legs and give her a warning tap with my foot and she smirks. Too saucy for her own good.
“Start with the arrest, that sounds exciting.” Luca passes the freshly grated Parmesan around.
“It was epically bizarre. Tall guy, about my age, stepped in the water to get a coin. Not a handful, just one. There are, like, three policemen guarding each side of the fountain, so of course one of them sees and whistles at him. Does he run or hide in the crowd? Seem worried or stressed or repentant? No, he stands there, one pant leg and sock soaking wet, and half-grins, like he’s not in trouble at all.”
She’s playing our Keep-Us-Secret gameandher own Mock-Mark game, and I’ve never enjoyed a conversational heist more.
When the laughter dies down, Mariella pauses her next bite, fork in midair. “So, then what?”
“The officer starts yelling and marches him through the crowd, but the guy’s still looking around like he’s supposed to meet a buddy instead of be ashamed.”
“Who does that? What did he look like?” Luca asks, lifting a straytonnarellinoodle hanging over the edge of the cacioepepe bowl and dropping it into his mouth. “A fanatic?”
