Page 78 of The Roman Holiday Rule

We hang up, and I start the scooter.

I pull out onto the road, a little too eager with the gas, and head north along the scenic route to Terni.

An hour later, I arrive at the spot Mom has picked, a perfect grassy hill, mountains in the distance, sunshine on the slope. I pull over, grab my bag, and hike to the summit.

It’s windy, and I seat myself against a large tree before pulling out the last envelope. It’s wrinkled with wear, but the painting is my favorite. A large orange villa, flowers spilling from the windows, set on the edge of rolling hills. There are silhouettes of people in the windows, and I love that detail. It’s not a house, it’s a home.

After I open it, I’ll have no new messages from my mom. I both yearn to know what she’s said in this letter and dread the end. I stare out at the fields. A line of trees marks the determined path of a small river. There is peace here. No frantic rush to see every corner of Rome, and I’m sure Mom has done that on purpose. Pulled me away so I can catch my breath.

I wait one more beat, then open the envelope, my throat catching at the last of Mom’s familiar, sloped handwriting.

Dear Lexington,

I’m going to assume you’ve opened all the envelopes in Italy, that you’re sitting on the hill outside Rome right now.

I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I couldn’t go with you to Italy. I wanted more than anything to take you there. I thought we had more time.

I wanted you to dedicate the temple painting to Rome because I’m so grateful to the city. For what it gave me. It led me to your father (and he would be so proud of who you’ve become!). I wasn’t expecting to fall in love, but as you canprobably tell from my letters, he marks every memory I have of Rome. Even this hill—it’s where your father took me our last afternoon together for a picnic.

And the temple in the painting? It’s where your father and I first kissed, and it was magical.

In that moment, I knew that Rome had given me something more than inspiration and beauty. Rome was the start of our family’s story.

The magic isn’t Italy. It’s your father and you.

You are what matters most to me, because I love you. And whatever happens in life—even when I pass away—I will still always be your mother.

Love, Mom

I’m crying by the end, swiping at the tears so I can read it again. The words are blurry, but I see the message loud and clear. I don’t have to findherItaly, because it was never about that. It was about spending time with me. Showing me her love story, which started with Dad and ended with me.Thatwas her Italian experience. All those photos she took and pictures she painted, they were all colored by her falling in love.

I stay on the hill for a long time. It’s goodbye all over again, but there’s also the realization I feel closer than ever to my mom, because Italy is colored for me too. It’s been more about the man I met than about Italy’s treasures, no offense to Rome.

And Mom would have understood that. The guilt I’ve been feeling loosens and falls.

As I walk down the hill to the Vespa, I check the area in all directions. No orange villa in sight, or anything from the other envelope pictures. It’s time to count all those other sightings as a coincidence.

It’s also time to accept the fact that I’m not going to find the temple. At least I have one nugget about the painting we’re unveiling tomorrow—it was the sight of their first kiss. The fans willhave to accept what I don’t know, and maybe help find it, like Julie suggested.

It won’t kill me to let go of control a little. I’m learning to handle that.

At the bottom of the hill, I rev up the scooter. It’s the lack of answers that will kill me.

I pull up to my hotel a few minutes early, but Mark is already waiting on the curb. I press the kickstand down, and he stands. His white, untucked button-down with rolled sleeves is at that moment between crisp and rumpled, which for some reason is my new definition of attractiveness.

The wind whips his curls into a playful party, and I can’t look away from his full-on smile. Now that we’re friends, I get that smile a lot, but it’s still as blinding and breathtaking as the day I saw it at the Rome airport with his family.

I swing my leg over the Vespa but stay seated, unclipping the helmet.

“Wait,” he says. “Don’t move.”

I freeze and he pulls his phone out and snaps a picture of me.

“I think you’re secretly jealous I got to wear this flower helmet. Pretending to make fun but taking pictures of it—you can’t fool me.”

He chuckles. “Right, Lexington.” He waves his hand, indicating the whole me-on-a-Vespa scene in front of him. “Of all that, it’s the helmet I want.”

I slide off the scooter, breathless. That sarcasm seemed to imply ... oh. Right. He wants theVespa, Lexi. That’s why he’s here.