by Ella Carey
As they made their way down Via del Lavatore, passing shops laden with tourist wares, the atmosphere became gritty. Restaurants flashed cheap bright signs, while shops sold postcards and plastic suitcases tied together with strings on the street.
Restaurant hawkers called out to them, hassling Tess to come and sit in one of their plastic chairs, to linger at tables laden with plastic tablecloths where customers sat with greasy pizza in the golden afternoon light. This wasn’t the Rome she wanted to see. Tess felt her shoulders hunch as she walked alongside James.
But suddenly the road opened up into a piazza and a beautiful old church overlooked groups of tourists and the Vespas parked around the square’s edge.
And there it was. Tess gasped. The Fontana di Trevi. James pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes searching her face.
“There we go,” Tess murmured, her eyes drawn to Oceanus’s muscular body, his abundant beard.
James moved closer to her. “The fountain’s placed where an ancient Roman aqueduct ends,” he said. “According to legend, this aqueduct takes its name from a woman whom the Roman soldiers met when they were thirsty and tired. She led them to the source of water that feeds this aqueduct and restored them back to health.”
Tess kept her focus straight ahead. In spite of the crowds of tourists snapping pictures, their loud voices echoing through the heat, the sense of his standing close behind her, his voice like toffee, was starting to get to her.
“Let’s go to the Pantheon,” she said. Anything to move on.
“Okay,” James murmured.
Tess made her way through the throng. She walked next to him as he wound his way down the Via delle Muratte to the Via del Seminario. Deliberately, she forced herself to focus on her surroundings, tall office buildings. Wrought iron lamps hung from the old facades, lending a nineteenth-century feel. Tess felt her insides curl as they passed quiet alleyways.
James walked confidently, as if he knew the streets of Rome as well as he did those of New York. Tess hugged her arms around her body. And then she stopped dead still as they reached the piazza at the end of the street.
There it stood, right in front of them. Nearly two thousand years of wear and tear sat graciously on its proud facade. She moved out to the center of the Piazza della Rotonda to stare at the classic perfection that rested before her eyes.
“Hey,” James said.
She turned to him.
“Why don’t you go inside on your own? I have a few things to take care of.” He smiled down at her.
She started a little, not sure how she felt about his decision not to come with her.
But he took a step away from her then. “Thank you for letting me join you,” he said.
“That’s fine!” Her voice was far too bright. “But . . .” she trailed off.
He stood there for a moment, waiting. “Enjoy it,” he said.
James disappeared into the crowds on the cobblestones, while Tess stood there in front of two thousand years of history, feeling more confused and less significant than she’d ever felt in her life. But there were two things that stood out in her jumbled thoughts: one, during that darned walk, she had felt undeniable stirs of attraction for James, and two, she was starting to wonder if he was right. Had he had nothing to do with Alec’s defection? Had he simply been told he was Alec’s editor, and had Leon and Alec engineered the move?
Tess glanced around the ancient square as if it might hold the answers before moving toward the entrance of the magnificent old building in front of her. She wandered inside, her head tilted, as every other person’s was in the vast space, toward the tiny pinhole of clear, unadulterated light that shone in through the ingenious open circle in the dome.
The next morning, Tess had to force herself to focus on Edward Russell. He was enough to deal with without her having become foolishly attracted to James Cooper. Both men were trouble; each was born into a different type of privilege, and yet in many ways the two of them were so alike that Tess hardly knew what to think. And they’d both crashed into Tess’s life. She had to deal with them. The problem was, she had to work out how. As she wandered through the Basilica of Maxentius, which was all set up for the festival, the wondrous old curved space with its vaulted roof started to work its Roman magic and calm her circling thoughts.
She sat down a little early in one of the chairs that had been set up for the first reading, fanning herself with her program, glad to be out of the searing heat that enveloped the city. And spent the day being fascinated by the young poets whom she heard reading and inspired by the authors who spoke so well about their work. She spotted James a few times, but last night she’d deliberately suggested they go to separate events so that they could swap notes after the festival. And so that Tess could get a grip. She had to focus on her work.
By six o’clock, the sun still beat hard on the Forum. Tess lingered in the temporary bookstore that was in a marquee outside the Basilica of Maxentius, entranced by the books for sale. She eyed James making his way to her through all the festival guests.
“I took your studied lack of eye contact with me as a message that you wanted to be completely left alone.”
“You could hardly blame me,” she murmured, picking up a book of poetry.
He picked up another volume, by one of the most charming poets who had spoken at the festival so far, and flipped it over, not looking at Tess as his next question popped out with more insouciance than anything else. “Have you worked out what you’re going to say to Edward Russell?”
Tess already held several slim volumes under her arm.
“I’ll get there. I’m still thinking about it.”
She felt James’s eyes run over her face. “You’re meeting him at eight?”
Tess nodded, her arms full now.
“I think we’d better stop buying books.” James held as many volumes as she did. “So . . . what are your thoughts about him?”
Tess moved across to the counter.
“I’ve decided the best approach with Edward is to be honest,” she said.
James nodded. “I’m of the firm belief that if in doubt, tell the truth.”
Tess swiped a glance at him, standing right next to her in the line. She half wanted to believe him here in the lazy heat; if she were honest, a niggling part of her wanted him to be the person he said he was. But, she admonished herself, he’d taken her author, not told her he was coming to Rome, been utterly obnoxious at the ball. He was a work colleague, nothing more. She forced herself not to smile at the way he’d opened one of the books of poetry he’d chosen, his eyes running across the page, clearly concentrating on the words.
He kept up a steady banter on the way back to the hotel, and Tess found herself laughing with him a few times. Lightening up and avoiding controversial topics seemed to work well. But when they arrived at the hotel, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the balustrade. He seemed to have something he wanted to say.
“Tess,” he started, finally. “I hate to do this, and I didn’t know how to tell you, but Leon called me this morning. He insists that I come along with you to meet Edward tonight. I told him there was no need, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I’m afraid . . .”
Tess took an involuntary step back. “What?” Dread sat in the pit of her stomach.
James raked a hand over his dark hair. “Leon’s worried about breach of contract given what you’re about to approach Edward with—the fact that we’re about to ask him to reveal his novel is based on his past, not to mention that we want him to talk about Rebecca in public. Leon’s also concerned about Edward’s ad hoc approach to his work. We need to get him working with us, Tess, not against us. Leon just thinks I’ve had experience with . . . more literary types and their vagaries.”
Tess could not hold back her retort. “So, who do you think I’ve been working with throughout my career? Dinosaurs? Apes?”
A grin passed across James’s handsome face, but then he shook his head. “This
isn’t a directive from me. Leon just thinks having two of us there lessens the risk of any breakdown in the contract. What you’re about to do is hardly conventional.”
Tess put her bag of books down on the floor in front of her and regarded James. Her last conversation with Edward had been better than the first. She’d thought she’d made some progress.
“Remember, it’s also only one meeting,” James said, his voice soft.
“The implication is that I can’t handle even one meeting myself. I don’t like this.”
James appeared to consider this. “I’m worried that if you refuse to have me along, Leon will say you’re being unreasonable. Edward clearly wants to work on his own terms, and you’re about to throw a massive wrench in his gears. He’s not going to be happy. And Leon knows how annoyed you were at having to work with him in the first place. I hate to say it, but I think he just doesn’t want any sparks to fly. He thinks having a third person present could tone things down. That’s all. I’m sorry it has to be me, Tess.”
Tess let out a groan. “It was hardly surprising that I felt some resistance toward the idea of editing Edward at first.”
“I know.”
“But, you know what? Now that’s not the case.” Tess looked down instinctively at her handbag, where Edward’s little book of poems sat, and tried not to think about the fact that James had been the one who lent it to her. “It’s different now. I want to work with him. And I need to develop my working relationship with him, James.”
“Yes.” He stood there.
Tess ran her free hand through her hair, her hand slick from the heat. “James.”
“Mmm hmm?”
She looked straight up at him. Met his eyes. Saw the expression in them soften, and hardened her own resolve. “I hate to say this, and I don’t want to be suspicious, but if you were in any way interested in soliciting yet another one of my authors . . . if this is some scheme . . .”
“No,” he murmured. “It wasn’t me who made the decision about Burgess. I don’t know how many times I’ve got to reassure you of that. And this isn’t me, either.”
Tess took in a shaky breath.
He propped his arm against the banister, leaned a little closer to Tess.
She didn’t move but just looked at the floor, her lips set.
“I promise you that I will never, ever solicit Edward,” he said, sounding as if he held all the secrets locked in one special place. “You have my word.”
Tess wrapped her arms around her own waist. This was insane. The magnet, the full force of attraction that she was feeling toward James was the last thing she needed. She was already completely off course with her career; now she wanted the man who’d caused all her problems? Utterly irrational. Tess wanted nothing of the sort.
“I think that Edward could be a career breakout for you,” he went on in his honey voice. “And I have no doubt that you’ll make him a success. But I promise you, I am completely supportive of your career . . . and of you.” He paused. Reached out with his hand, then drew it back in. “Are we all clear now?”
Tess looked up.
A slight frown creased his forehead. “See you back here in an hour? I promise, I’ll just be there to keep Leon happy.” He picked up her book bag from the floor and handed it to her.
She reached out and took it, but as she did so, it seemed as if everything moved in slow motion. And she turned away from him, not wanting to look into his eyes. This was crazy.
It had to be Rome.
Back in her room, Tess collapsed on her bed, kicking her shoes onto the floor. But then, in a panic, she went into the bathroom, one idea fixed in her head. If James could look stunning, and effortlessly so, then she was not going to let herself down either. What was more, if she was going to convince Edward to agree to her plan, then she needed all her armor intact. One hour later, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled. And her insides danced. But in spite of all that, she admonished herself: do not do anything nonsensical with James.
But as she made her way down the stairs, Tess sent silent thanks that she had brought her favorite strappy red dress. It flowed from the bodice to just above her knees, and its color gave her confidence. That was all. Nothing else.
James stood in the lobby, wearing a white shirt that was open at the collar and a black jacket and trousers. There was something about the way he stood there, so upright, right on time . . . Tess shook her comparisons with the men she’d dated right away. This was not a date.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured.
Tess stopped and clasped her hands together. She must focus on Edward. But when she walked past James as he held the door open for her, she noticed he smelled like heaven. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower. Stop it. Idiocy, she reprimanded herself.
Be professional, Tess. She couldn’t afford to make a serious mistake.
James made his way to the restaurant, chatting, keeping his gaze straight ahead, dodging the crowds as if he were a born Italian, taking Tess’s arm a couple times when they almost bumped into people, letting it go as soon as they’d passed. He told her stories about the writers he’d seen that day and encouraged her to do the same. By the time they reached the lane where the restaurant was, she was smiling and at least feeling a little more relaxed about the task ahead.
Tess spotted Edward Russell as soon as she stepped inside the restaurant. He looked so gentlemanly in his white shirt and light trousers, with his hair neatly combed, that Tess, for an absurd moment, pictured the little boy who had been sent off to boarding school, while Celia swanned off to Europe. Then an image of him as a young man walking along the beach with Rebecca ricocheted into her head. She turned to James.
“That’s him,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
“I know it is.” James slipped a hand into the small of Tess’s back.
She loved the feel of his hand on her back, but told herself off for thinking that, and then moved toward Edward. James stood aside, allowing Tess to shake the older man’s hand first. Edward’s skin was slightly tanned. His face was lined in a handsome, rugged way. Once they were seated, Edward asked about the festival, and by the time they picked up their menus, Tess was laughing at both her companions’ easy talk.
James sat back once they had ordered and were sipping Chianti. There was a moment of quiet, and Tess knew that the time was right.
“Edward,” she said. “Something has come to light, and I want to talk to you about it. It would be remiss of me not to, in fact.”
Edward turned to her, his expression so relaxed she almost doubted her motives again.
“It’s about Rebecca,” she said. There was no point beating around the bush.
Edward placed his glass of wine down on the table.
Tess kept her eyes steady on the older man. She was ludicrously aware of James next to her, ludicrously annoyed that she wanted to move closer to him, but she forged ahead.
“I’m afraid that I found out she was real,” she whispered.
Edward shot a glance down to his lap. “I see,” he said. When he looked up again, the expression on his face reminded Tess of that hurt look she’d seen pass across James’s features a couple times. She was starting to link these two men together.
There was a silence.
“How did you find out?”
“The library,” Tess said. “I felt there was so little separation between you and the book.”
Both men seemed to lean in closer to her, and now thoughts of the circle that Edward wrote about between him and Rebecca came to mind. Circles . . . the Heide circle, the upper-class one that so intimidated Rebecca . . . and the one that seemed to be forming now. She was glad James had come along. He seemed entirely in tune with Edward, and, she had to add, with her as well . . .
Tess took in a breath. “Most fiction is autobiographical,” she said. “But what I want to know, what I want to ask, with all respectfulness toward you, is whether you would be willing to rev
eal that Rebecca is based on a real person. I understand it’s sensitive. Enormously so.”
Tess held Edward’s gaze and sensed that she was starting to move forward from losing Alec. Decisions had been made for her that were beyond her control, but here was a chance to take the things she had left and shape them into something new, with a different approach, one she had not used before in her life or in her work. If Tess were honest, she was starting to feel a swell of new promise for the first time in a while.
“The thing is, Edward,” she went on, “if you revealed the truth, you could generate incredible interest in the book. The true story will resonate with people. If you were willing to share it, then I think you’d do extremely well.”
Edward sat quite still. He picked up his glass of water, placed it back down on the table again. “Tess, I’ve never, ever written for commercial purposes. It’s not what I’m about. Surely you know that.”
The food arrived. The waiter asked several questions. Pasta. Would they like Parmesan cheese? Yes? He came back with it. Would they like cracked pepper? And returned with a giant grinder.
Tess caught James’s eye and he raised his brow at her. She felt herself blush in return. Would they like more wine? They had to try a local Italian variety. Would they like the waiter to tell them all a joke? They all looked so serious and this was Roma!
“We are fine. Thank you,” James said.
Edward added something in Italian. Clearly, he charmed the waiter. Definitely did the trick. The waiter went away bowing.
“How theatrical,” James murmured.
“I’m never more reminded that we are all players on a stage than when in Rome,” Edward said. “How does that look, Tess?”
“Delicious.” Tess smiled. She adored pasta, she had to admit.
James and Edward chatted about the wine for a few moments. Then James stopped and Edward was quiet too.
“Edward,” Tess said, “it runs deeper than simple commercialism. Were you to speak honestly about your past, to open up about it, I think readers would empathize with you in the most rewarding way.” She took in a breath. “You would open yourself up as human, as someone who has loved and lost and survived. That is something to which we can all relate.”
