Roman Crazy
Page 23
“Which is why I’m not telling you what to do,” she said with a snort. “I’ll just say this—”
“I don’t even own a trench coat.”
She ignored my comment. “Put yourself first. Do what you want.”
“And that’s it?”
“Honey, that’s enough. Trust me, I’m a master at putting myself first,” she said, lightly slapping my leg. “Now, anything else happen? Any other little tidbits you want to tell me about?”
“He walked me home, a different way than he took me to coffee.” A faint smile crossed my lips when I remembered why. “Marcello wanted me to see more of the neighborhood.”
Daisy nodded knowingly.
“Oh, and I found an art shop! They were closed but Marcello got a card for me with their hours on it. I’m going to drop in today.”
My excitement was not lost on Miss Daisy, who was driving herself crazy. “Marcello walked you home. Marcello showed you the neighborhood. Marcello made sure you knew when the art shop was open next. Hmmm. Sounds like a great day to me.”
I blushed, sipping at my coffee as an excuse not to say any more. It had been a great day.
“But are you seeing him again? You must be seeing him again, right?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll see him again. Like at the office.” I paused for effect.
Her eyes went wide and she hopped from foot to foot. “I was hoping you’d tell him. Hence my perfectly timed text message. How’d that go?”
“Yeah, thanks for that. A little warning might’ve been good. I thought you were going to talk to him.”
“I did. I texted! Sounds like you did the rest. How’d it go? What did you say? What did he say? Is he going to be okay with you working in the office?”
“Hard to say; we spoke a lot in metaphors.”
She looked confused. “Metaphors?”
I nodded, pulling out a fruit salad from the fridge and scooping us each a bowl. “He said a vase is not just a vase. And I agree, but damn, I think I just want it to be a vase.”
“You do?” She looked surprised, and bit into a giant strawberry.
“Weren’t you just telling me to put myself first?”
“Yeah, but I thought you doing that would mean doing him.” She munched on a banana slice. “Okay, so. A vase is just a vase. A sigh is just a sigh. You’re sure about this?”
I thought about second chances. I guess looking at it it’d seem that the second chance here was clearly a second chance at love, with Marcello. But maybe it was getting a second chance at life, with myself, for myself, doing something that I loved.
Put. Yourself. First.
“Yes,” I mumbled, but then I repeated it louder. “Yes, I’m sure. I just— I have to get my head on straight. Everything with Daniel has really put things into perspective. What I gave up, how really unhappy we were—or at least how unhappy I was. How I’m now realizing that there was an emptiness to my life in Boston. So actually, when you think about it, maybe the vase isn’t just a vase.”
Daisy nodded sagely, biting into a blueberry, watching me work my way around all of this.
“Marcello suddenly being back in my life, maybe, possibly complicates things. But the vase, this project and what it means—that’s for me. I know it’s not much but it’s mine. Just because it involves Marcello doesn’t mean that something is going to happen again there. I’d like to focus on me for a change.”
“Then there’s your answer. Just make it your goddamn vase,” she said, setting her bowl into the sink.
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER I’d finished my breakfast, said good-bye to Daisy, who was in fact late for work, and was working on my second cup of coffee.
What would I do today?
It was Tuesday. Back home that meant garden club at ten thirty, lunch with my mother after her garden club, then over to Acquitaine Boston for my Art of French Cooking class. With just enough time to zip home, drink a couple of glasses of chardonnay while staring at the television until six thirty, then throw together a salad to go with whatever fabulousness I’d made in class that day.
Sleep?
Great idea. I could sleep all day if I wanted to. After all, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on vacation? I mean, going through a divorce? Relax. Cocoon.
Hide?
Shhh.
I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over my head, like they did in every rom-com when the woman is going through something depressing. The longer I lay there, the antsier I got. I didn’t want to sleep anymore, or sulk, or dwell on what was happening at home. Then I remembered what was in my purse. I hopped out of bed and rummaged around until I pulled out the card.
Poggi Art Store was open and only a few blocks away. And thanks to Marcello, I knew exactly how to get there.
And thanks to Daniel, I had an Amex that hadn’t been canceled yet.
Looks like someone was replenishing her art supplies . . .
* * *
I GRABBED MY LEATHER BACKPACK and threw in a few snacks, a bottle of water, my wallet, and I was ready to go for a day out and about in Rome.
A guidebook with a map was the last thing I tossed inside the pack before pulling it onto my back and heading out to the art store. Would I get charcoals or pencils? Pastels? Or maybe I’d try my hand at painting again. It didn’t matter. I could have picked up finger paints from a kids’ store and I still would’ve been blissfully happy.
The walk there wasn’t quite the same as it was last night. Not just the obvious fact of Marcello not being there, but because my mood had changed, lightened. Entering Poggi, I had a spring in my step.
“I don’t even own a trench coat.”
She ignored my comment. “Put yourself first. Do what you want.”
“And that’s it?”
“Honey, that’s enough. Trust me, I’m a master at putting myself first,” she said, lightly slapping my leg. “Now, anything else happen? Any other little tidbits you want to tell me about?”
“He walked me home, a different way than he took me to coffee.” A faint smile crossed my lips when I remembered why. “Marcello wanted me to see more of the neighborhood.”
Daisy nodded knowingly.
“Oh, and I found an art shop! They were closed but Marcello got a card for me with their hours on it. I’m going to drop in today.”
My excitement was not lost on Miss Daisy, who was driving herself crazy. “Marcello walked you home. Marcello showed you the neighborhood. Marcello made sure you knew when the art shop was open next. Hmmm. Sounds like a great day to me.”
I blushed, sipping at my coffee as an excuse not to say any more. It had been a great day.
“But are you seeing him again? You must be seeing him again, right?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll see him again. Like at the office.” I paused for effect.
Her eyes went wide and she hopped from foot to foot. “I was hoping you’d tell him. Hence my perfectly timed text message. How’d that go?”
“Yeah, thanks for that. A little warning might’ve been good. I thought you were going to talk to him.”
“I did. I texted! Sounds like you did the rest. How’d it go? What did you say? What did he say? Is he going to be okay with you working in the office?”
“Hard to say; we spoke a lot in metaphors.”
She looked confused. “Metaphors?”
I nodded, pulling out a fruit salad from the fridge and scooping us each a bowl. “He said a vase is not just a vase. And I agree, but damn, I think I just want it to be a vase.”
“You do?” She looked surprised, and bit into a giant strawberry.
“Weren’t you just telling me to put myself first?”
“Yeah, but I thought you doing that would mean doing him.” She munched on a banana slice. “Okay, so. A vase is just a vase. A sigh is just a sigh. You’re sure about this?”
I thought about second chances. I guess looking at it it’d seem that the second chance here was clearly a second chance at love, with Marcello. But maybe it was getting a second chance at life, with myself, for myself, doing something that I loved.
Put. Yourself. First.
“Yes,” I mumbled, but then I repeated it louder. “Yes, I’m sure. I just— I have to get my head on straight. Everything with Daniel has really put things into perspective. What I gave up, how really unhappy we were—or at least how unhappy I was. How I’m now realizing that there was an emptiness to my life in Boston. So actually, when you think about it, maybe the vase isn’t just a vase.”
Daisy nodded sagely, biting into a blueberry, watching me work my way around all of this.
“Marcello suddenly being back in my life, maybe, possibly complicates things. But the vase, this project and what it means—that’s for me. I know it’s not much but it’s mine. Just because it involves Marcello doesn’t mean that something is going to happen again there. I’d like to focus on me for a change.”
“Then there’s your answer. Just make it your goddamn vase,” she said, setting her bowl into the sink.
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER I’d finished my breakfast, said good-bye to Daisy, who was in fact late for work, and was working on my second cup of coffee.
What would I do today?
It was Tuesday. Back home that meant garden club at ten thirty, lunch with my mother after her garden club, then over to Acquitaine Boston for my Art of French Cooking class. With just enough time to zip home, drink a couple of glasses of chardonnay while staring at the television until six thirty, then throw together a salad to go with whatever fabulousness I’d made in class that day.
Sleep?
Great idea. I could sleep all day if I wanted to. After all, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on vacation? I mean, going through a divorce? Relax. Cocoon.
Hide?
Shhh.
I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over my head, like they did in every rom-com when the woman is going through something depressing. The longer I lay there, the antsier I got. I didn’t want to sleep anymore, or sulk, or dwell on what was happening at home. Then I remembered what was in my purse. I hopped out of bed and rummaged around until I pulled out the card.
Poggi Art Store was open and only a few blocks away. And thanks to Marcello, I knew exactly how to get there.
And thanks to Daniel, I had an Amex that hadn’t been canceled yet.
Looks like someone was replenishing her art supplies . . .
* * *
I GRABBED MY LEATHER BACKPACK and threw in a few snacks, a bottle of water, my wallet, and I was ready to go for a day out and about in Rome.
A guidebook with a map was the last thing I tossed inside the pack before pulling it onto my back and heading out to the art store. Would I get charcoals or pencils? Pastels? Or maybe I’d try my hand at painting again. It didn’t matter. I could have picked up finger paints from a kids’ store and I still would’ve been blissfully happy.
The walk there wasn’t quite the same as it was last night. Not just the obvious fact of Marcello not being there, but because my mood had changed, lightened. Entering Poggi, I had a spring in my step.
