Page 83 of The Roman Holiday Rule

After he says grace, Mark asks, “You know my grandpa?”

I tell him about running into him at Trevi Fountain and Mark rounds on his grandfather. “So that’s how you knew whose lira I was extracting.”

“Admit it, you thought I was omniscient for a minute there, didn’t you?”

Alba hands me a plate of steaming pasta, rolling her eyes. “These boys and their tricks. I swear every time we get together someone or other is figuring out some big life mystery that turns out to have been a prank.”

Laughing, I dig into my dinner. Mark was right about this being the best meal I’ll ever eat, which he knows because his nod is smug after I moan over another heavenly bite. No meal will ever top this for the rest of my life. Every ingredient is showcased and complimented, and the homemade pasta itself is divine. But it’s not just the food. They pull me into their stories and ribbing as if I were part of them, and I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the feeling of sitting, accepted, in a large family gathering.

As we near the end, Alba stands, a little shaky. “I have a few words for Mark, so hush, everyone.”

When the laughter dies down, she continues, “Thank you for finding your family when you came to Italy. And it was just in time. I had my work cut out putting meat back on your bones. Do you remember how much pasta you consumed that first month?”

They’re all smiling at the family memory, but then Alba sobers and tears swim in her eyes. “You filled a hole ... No parent should ever have to lose...” Her voice breaks, and I remember that Mark said his dad left and broke all ties with his Italian family. “I’m sure your mother in America wishes she could love on you there. With burgers and ketchup or something.” She shudders. “We’re thankful for the time we have with you. Happy birthday, Mark.”

Mark’s gaze moves down the table and settles on me, raw and bittersweet.

Then the pieces come together. Trevi Fountain, the Aventine keyhole, the Roman Forum, and every other gorgeous sight in Italy hasn’t touched my heart the way this family meal has. I think of my mother’s letter.You are what matters most to me,because I love you.One of the most powerful things in all the world is the love of a mother. I remember Santino’s words.“My heart would beat faster when I talked about my mom’s pasta.”

Alba hadn’t offered Mark mere pasta when he first came to them—it was the love of a grandmother trying to reduce the suffering and heartbreak in her grandson’s life.

I take a shaky breath. And I know. This. Family. A mother’s love. This is the heart of Italy. For him and for me.

Forty-Five

Lexi

Later,after we’ve all brought the used, chipped dishes inside and everyone is lounging around the meal’s debris, Santino comes and sits next to me on the outdoor couch. Taking my shoes off and tucking my feet under me on the cushion, I shake my head at him. “You knew, all this time. That Mark and I had met.”

He chuckles. “I put it together pretty quickly. I thought I saw him talking to someone at the fountain the day after he got back to Rome. You wished for your luggage back and later I found out he’d had a luggage switch, so then I was sure. By the time he asked for my help getting your lira out of the water, which I remembered seeing on your necklace, I knew he was a goner.”

A goner.

I set one leg on the ground, drawing shapes in the gravel with my toe to hide my blush. With a laugh, I say, “I heard about your ‘help’ at the fountain getting the lira.”

He looks to our left, monitoring Mark with wary eyes where he’s talking to one of his aunts near the door. “I can’t sleep at night, waiting for his payback.”

That cracks me up, and I turn to find Mark watching me. He rubsthe back of his neck, smiles, and only returns to his conversation when his aunt whacks his arm.

Santino sets his wineglass on the side table. “So did the fountain grant your second wish?”

“Well, I walked straight to the place I was looking for.” I grin, remembering. “It wasn’t because of the fountain wish, though. It was because I was avoiding Mark.”

He rubs his thighs and stares at the hills behind the villa, past the young trees. “No, there is no magic in the fountain. I’ve thrown a thousand coins in and my greatest wish is still unfulfilled—that my son would return to us. You heard what Alba said tonight. To lose your child is the greatest heartache in the world that no parent should have to go through. We’d had a fight about the family business, and then he was just ... gone. We knew nothing, couldn’t find him, until Mark showed up at our door and filled us in on the missing years.”

We sit for a moment, watching the kids play with the molted cicada shells on the trees.

“My mom said to me once, ‘Start fresh when you need to.’ Maybe he’s waiting for you to come find him.”

Santino turns pained eyes toward me. “Then why wouldn’t he have said that to Mark? Or answered our calls and letters?”

“I don’t know. I have no family left, but if I did, I think I would chase them down to the ends of the earth, no matter what I think they want.”

He pats my knee with a sad smile.

I take a deep breath. “Even though the fountain has no magic, there is something weird I’ve experienced this week.” I can’t believe I’m bringing this up to him, but if anyone would take me seriously and try to understand, I believe it’s this kind but eccentric man. “I had four letters from my mom to open in Italy at various places. She’s an artist, and she painted a scene on each envelope. Every time I opened one, I saw a part of the painting in real life. Here in Italy.”

He strokes his chin, thinking. “Four times?”