Italian for Beginners (38 page)

I rolled my eyes at her. “You’re bossy.” But I did as I was told. A few minutes later, we were in a cab, pulling away from
my curb.

Karina handed the driver an address scribbled on a piece of paper.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” she said mysteriously.

As we cut across the park, I began to get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Karina?” I asked suspiciously as we emerged
on the West Side and the driver turned right to head farther uptown. “You’re not taking me to see Michael, are you?”

“No,” she said innocently. “I told you, I am taking you to see your photographs.”

But when we turned on West Ninety-third Street and crossed Columbus, finally pulling to a halt in front of the familiar facade
of Adriano’s, I turned to glare at her.

“Karina!” I said. “I specifically asked you if you were taking me to see Michael,” I said. “You lied.”

“No,” she said, not making eye contact. “I actually have no idea whether he’s here or not.”

I glanced at the restaurant, not understanding. I looked back at Karina, who was still avoiding my gaze. “What are you talking
about?”

The cabbie turned around and grunted something that sounded like, “Are you getting out?” But we both ignored him as the meter
continued to run.

“I am being honest,” Karina said after a moment. “I do not know if Michael is here or not. But I wanted you to see this.”

“You’re telling me that it’s Michael Evangelisti who has just randomly bought eighteen of my photos?” I asked dubiously.

Karina nodded. “But it’s not what you think,” she said quickly. “He has no idea they are yours.”

I stared at her.

She continued, “I called him a couple months ago and said that I’d heard of a new photographer who was exhibiting at a gallery
in SoHo,” she said. “I promise, I did not say it was you. He has no idea. But when he was in Roma, he was talking about how
he would like to make his restaurant feel more authentically Italian. And when I called, I suggested this might be the way.

“He sounded doubtful at first,” Karina went on. “But he promised to go check the photos out. Gillian called me a few weeks
later and told me she’d made our biggest sale yet—eighteen photos, framed, sold to the owner of a restaurant called Adriano’s
on West Ninety-third Street.”

I shook my head. “You mean he looked at all the photos in her gallery,” I said slowly, “all of the different photographs she
has of Italy, and he chose eighteen of mine?”

Karina nodded slowly. “Amazing, isn’t it? And whether you see Michael or not, whether you talk to him again or not, I think
you should see your photographs displayed the way they were meant to be.”

I thought about it for a moment. I was at a loss; I didn’t know what to do or how to feel. I looked at Karina uncertainly.

“I know it is not total coincidence,” she said after a moment, “since I am the one who suggested he go to the gallery. But
I swear, I told him nothing about you. Does it not mean something that he chose to surround himself with your art?” She paused
and added, “Now, every time he sees Rome, he sees it through your eyes.”

I swallowed hard. I looked up at the entrance to Adriano’s. Then I looked back at Karina. “Okay,” I said softly. “Let’s go
in.”

Karina grinned and tumbled out of the car while I quickly paid the muttering cabdriver. I followed more slowly and stood on
the sidewalk for a long moment after the cab had peeled away. I stared at the restaurant. I didn’t know why I felt so scared.
I had liked Michael—a lot. And if it hadn’t been for a stupid misunderstanding, perhaps I would have begun dating him months
ago. But now, I wasn’t so sure. Did he hate me after the way I’d been so rude to him—on not one, but two, continents? And
if he didn’t, how did I even know he was available? Perhaps he was dating someone else, and by allowing even a sliver of hope
in, I was setting myself up for heartbreak. And even if he wasn’t, was that a road I even wanted to go down? It would be complicated
to date a widower with a daughter. What if he wasn’t ready? What if his daughter hated me from the start?

“Are you going to stand there and think of all the reasons you shouldn’t go in?” Karina asked. “Or are you going to act like
an adult and walk through those doors to see your hard work on the walls?”

“Er,” I said. I was still thinking about it. “The second choice, I guess.”

“Good.” Karina grabbed my hand and dragged me into the restaurant.

The hostess—the same girl who had delivered the news about Michael’s motherin-law being on the phone without bothering to
clarify—looked us up and down with a bored expression on her face. “Table for two?” she asked.

“No,” Karina responded immediately. “We are just going to walk around and see the photographs in the dining room.”

The hostess snapped her gum at us. “I don’t know if that’s allowed.”

Karina stared her down. “I know the owner,” she said. “And I’m sure it’s fine.”

She took me firmly by the hand again and dragged me into the main dining room before the hostess could protest.

As soon as we got through the doorway, we both stopped in our tracks.

The room looked entirely different than it had last time I’d been here. Gone were the nondescript prints of old Italian paintings,
as well as the fake vines and grape bunches that had lined the walls. The entire interior, in fact, had been redesigned. The
curtains were a lovely black velvet now, and the tablecloths were a rich black, too, which looked striking against the exposed
brick walls.

But the most obvious difference was my photographs, which were spaced evenly around the room, six on each of three walls.
All together, they looked larger than life in their stark black and white.

I stood motionless for a moment, staring at the work I’d done. I’d never seen them collected this way before, and certainly
not eighteen of them together at this size. They were all framed in shiny black wood lined with silver, which only enhanced
their sharp, black-and-white-movie quality. As I gazed around at the walls, I felt I was reliving my month in Rome in vivid
detail.

I recognized a scene from the Ponte Sant’Angelo, and two angles of the Trevi Fountain. There were several shots of the Forum
and one shot of a café off the Piazza Venezia. There was a shot of the Pantheon and two of the banks of the Tiber River. There
were three photos of Vatican City, and one of the Mouth of Truth, which reminded me, of course, of
Roman Holiday
— and of Marco. And there were also several shots of Romans going about their daily business: two old men playing chess outside
the bakery near Karina’s apartment, a trio of old women hobbling down the street, two teenage girls on a stoop leaning together
and obviously gossiping about a boy who was passing by. Most striking, though, were two pictures that sat side by side in
the center of the back wall.

One was a shot of a little boy playing soccer in the park. You couldn’t see his face, and since it was dusk, it was hard to
make out any distinguishing details.

“That’s Nico, isn’t it?” Karina asked softly.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. It was strange to see him on the back wall of Michael’s restaurant.

But perhaps even stranger was seeing the shot beside it. It was the picture I’d snapped of Aunt Gina as she was cleaning the
window of the store the day I’d met her. She had just turned around, as if she knew she was being watched, and her eyes met
mine through the lens, just before I snapped a final shot and turned away, pretending that my attention was elsewhere. I had,
of course, seen the photo on the screen of my computer before agreeing that Gillian could show it in her gallery. But I’d
never seen it blown up to such a large size. Even from a distance, you could see Gina’s deep eyes, her smile lines and her
worry lines, and the expression of curiosity on her face as she stared out from the photo. I took a few steps closer, oblivious
to the diners around me, and gazed at Gina, feeling a pang of sadness as I thought about how far away she was and how much
I missed her.

“That one was my favorite,” said a deep voice behind me that I recognized immediately, “because the woman in the picture kind
of reminded me of you.”

I whirled around. “Michael,” I said flatly. I swallowed hard. He was just a few inches away from me, looking at me closely.
I glanced around for Karina, who had backed all the way across the room and was watching us with an amused expression. She
gave me the thumbs-up sign.

“Hi,” he said simply.

“Hi,” I said.

We stood there, just looking at each other, for a long moment.

Then Michael blinked and cleared his throat. He glanced behind me. “Is that Karina over there?”

I nodded. “Yes. She and her son are visiting.” I glanced in her direction again and realized she had disappeared.

He looked confused. “She didn’t tell me she was coming.” He paused. “She told me about the gallery that sold these pictures,
though. Is that why you’re here? Did you come to see the photos?”

I hesitated and nodded slowly, not sure what to say.

“They really make a difference, don’t they?” he asked, looking around at all the pictures.

I nodded, but I still didn’t say anything. I couldn’t seem to find the words.

We stood looking at each other again. “So, you’ve been doing okay?” Michael finally asked. “It’s, um, been a while.” I could
tell he felt as awkward as I did. There was something comforting about that.

“I got your note,” I blurted out suddenly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I just… I didn’t know what to say. I felt like I’d
screwed it all up, just by not listening to you. But I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for anything. I wasn’t ready for what
might happen if I called. I—I know I was wrong not to, but I didn’t know what to do.”

Once the words were out of my mouth, I felt strangely like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. And now, the butterflies
were back as I waited to hear what Michael would say. Once I had opened myself up to him, admitted I was wrong, it was as
if I had reopened a closed road to my heart. I was handing him the power to reject me. And that was scary.

“It’s okay,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, too, for not trying harder to clear things up with you that night.” He paused and
thought for a second. “I think I wasn’t ready, either. I wanted to be. But I wasn’t. And I think I knew that deep down.”

“Oh,” I said softly. I wasn’t sure what he was telling me. Was he still unready? Was he still scared?

“But I think I’m ready now,” he added after a moment. “For what it’s worth.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “I think I am, too,” I said softly.

We stood there for another awkward moment. It was as though the restaurant had faded around us and it was just Michael and
me, in our own little bubble.

“I kind of like standing here,” he said suddenly. I knew he was trying to alleviate the awkwardness. Neither of us seemed
to know what to say next. “I feel a little like I’m in Rome,” he added. He paused, and when I didn’t reply, he added, “But
I guess that sounds sort of silly.”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t. That’s how the pictures are supposed to make you feel.”

He laughed. “You say that like you know the photographer.”

I looked at him closely. “I do,” I said softly. I looked up and met Michael’s eyes. I didn’t know whether to tell him or not.
But suddenly, I found that I wanted to. I was proud of this, and proud that the photos I had taken made him feel something.
“It’s me.”

“What?” Michael asked, looking confused.

“The photographer,” I said. “It’s me. I took the pictures.”

He looked even more baffled. “What? No. It’s a photographer named Audrey something. A new talent, the gallery owner called
her.”

“Audrey Verdicchio,” I said.

“That’s it.” Michael snapped his fingers. “How do you know that?”

I took a deep breath. “Audrey Verdicchio was my mom’s name,” I said. “When I decided to try to sell some of the photos I’d
taken in Rome—with Karina’s help—I decided to use her name. I didn’t want anyone to know it was me.”

He stared at me. Then he looked slowly around at all the photographs until his eyes landed on the one he’d said was his favorite.
“And that woman in the picture?” he said.

“My aunt Gina,” I said softly. “That’s probably why she reminded you of me.”

“My God,” Michael said softly. He shook his head. Then he looked back at me, and after a moment, a slow smile spread across
his face. He laughed. “So all this time, I’ve been surrounded by you. Literally.”

I laughed, too. It was sort of funny when you thought about it that way. “I guess so,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t usually believe in signs. But there’s got to be some cosmic message in all of this. Right?”

I hesitated and nodded.

“So at the risk of sounding like a fool,” he said, “would you consider going out with me again? If I promise to you that I’m
not, in fact, married? I haven’t even been out on a date since that disaster date I had with you.”

“Well, the whole date wasn’t a disaster,” I said with a half smile.

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed. “But the end was.”

I nodded and looked down. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. Do you think we can ever forget about it? Can you forgive how
silly I acted?”

Michael paused, and for a long moment, I thought he was going to say no. But then he spoke, his voice slow and deliberate.
“Maybe it’s not about forgiving or forgetting,” Michael said. “Maybe it’s about remembering everything and being willing to
start over, anyhow.”

“Even if it means you might get hurt,” I added softly. I thought of my father and my mother, how much more I understood now,
and how much I’d probably never understand.

“But sometimes, it’s worth the risk,” Michael said. He took my hand. “Don’t you think?”

I looked into his eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, I had the feeling I was exactly where I belonged. I smiled
back and let myself stare into his eyes long enough to reawaken the butterflies slumbering in my stomach. “Yes,” I said finally.
“I do.”