by Lucy Lambert
"Next time I'll get a cold one," I returned.
Usually I took the teasing in stride. Sitting there, I didn't realize how much I would have missed it until she brought it up.
"You are certain? You seem... sad?" Isabella tried, searching for the right English word.
I kept getting this urge to tell her everything. To tell her that I couldn't come up with any way to get Dr. Aretino to lay off.
Except my desire to fix this all by myself kept intercepting that impulse. There has to be a way. I'm just not seeing it yet.
"Has Professor Di Cenzo fixed that paper for you, yet?" she asked. The barista came over with Isabella's latte and set it on the table beside her. "Grazi." She sipped from it right away, not even flinching at the heat.
I shrugged. "Not yet."
"You told him that he made an error? You told him that I helped you with that paper?"
"Yes to the first, no to the second."
"You should tell him. He would reconsider if he knew."
"The work should stand on its own, though. I just don't know what to do about it anymore. It's like there's nothing I can do!" Frustration clouding my judgment, I grabbed my latte and took a sip. It was still too hot. I sucked in a breath through my teeth at the sudden pain.
"Are you certain you are all right? You seem... I believe the word is preoccupied?"
"It's nothing," I started to say. I couldn't finish, though. There comes a point where you have to let something out, or else you would burst. And I didn't like keeping this from Isabella. She knew something of what was going on, true. But not the full extent.
So I told her. I filled her in on everything. On how Dr. Aretino refused to budge, on Professor Di Cenzo and the rest of the faculty siding with him, on how I'd come so close to leaving, on how Liam had come and saved me from myself there.
And how I felt my hands were tied, how I couldn't figure out how to fix this that didn't involve me lowering myself to Dr. Aretino's level.
Isabella listened carefully, that little dimple of concentration forming between her eyebrows. She took sips from her latte, then pressed her lips together.
When I finished, she said, "You didn't think to say goodbye to me?"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking straight. Will you forgive me?"
"Of course."
We hugged again and I experienced this burst of gratitude and friendship for her.
"You say you don't want to be like him. I do not mind so much. Let me take care of this for you. There is a baron with an estate near Napoli, he wants my attention so badly, he will do anything I ask him. Anything, I tell you. I could get him to..."
I put my hand on hers. "Thanks, really. But I really feel like I need to take care of this myself."
She smiled in a way that would make an angel blush. "Fine. If you feel you must, then you must. You won't accept any help at all? Not even from your Liam?"
"I want to do this myself," I reiterated. Isabella held up her hand to stop me from saying anymore.
"I think that you've become so involved in this that you have forgotten something. There is a difference between asking for help and advice and getting someone to do a thing for you."
"I don't see your point," I said.
"If your Liam feels for you like I think he does, then he would very much like to help you. You should let him."
"No," I shook my head.
She blinked, then glanced around the cafe, trying to find some way to explain what she meant. Then she smiled. "Your paper for Professor Di Cenzo, you let me help you with that. You let me suggest changes and additions. Was that cheating?"
"Of course not," I replied. Teachers and professors were always bugging students to review each other's work. "Oh," I finished, finally seeing her point.
Isabella shrugged, then looked at me over the rim of her cup while she took another sip of her latte.
She set the cup down and then lightly tapped the tabletop with her manicured nails. "So here is my advice to you: accept help. Let him help you."
We finished our drinks together. I didn't pity that baron trying to court her. He didn't stand a chance.
Chapter 16
Liam picked me up from the campus. The sun had begun its descent into the west, and we had to pull the visors down to keep it out of our eyes. A bar of shadow ran over Liam's face starting at his nose, making it look like he wore a mask.
"Is this the same one as before?" I said, nodding at the BMW's dash.
"Yes, actually. They tried to offer me a different one, but I insisted. I have too many good memories with this car to let it go so easily."
We purposely avoided talking about school. I could tell he wanted to, from the way we danced around the subject.
Instead, we talked about how pretty the city looked in the slowly dying light, about what we hoped to see at the museum. That sort of thing. Anything but Dr. Aretino and how I planned on winning.
And then I kept thinking about what Isabella had told me. I wanted to do like she suggested, I really did. It just didn't feel like the right time, though. Like some important piece was missing from the equation.
We reached the Capitoline Hill and it was just as beautiful and breathtaking as I remembered. With it being so late in the day and the season, it was nearly deserted, too.
Liam took my hand and we wandered past the central square with its starburst floor and its bronze statue and into the building that looked down on it.
It was called the Palazzo dei Conservatori, and we'd only been in to see the ground floor that first visit.
At first I thought it was closed. But when Liam reached for the door it opened with his grasp.
A guard wandered by, resting one hand on the black leather case that contained his cuffs. He gave us a quick once over before turning his nose up and wandering down the polished floor of a nearby hallway.
Excitement thrilled through me, buzzing in my chest. All of my senses opened up. I couldn't believe how empty the place was, that I wouldn't have to deal with people jostling us to get a look at some tapestry.
I really needed this.
It was an incredibly opulent building with paintings and frescoes and statuary. So the two of us looked the part of the tourist couple. I still wore my casual clothes from school: a comfy pair of jeans, a shirt and a light jacket over that to ward off the cooling evening air.
Liam wore his polo shirt and khaki pants, the shirt pulled out so that you couldn't see the brown belt he had on. The slight chill in the air didn't seem to affect him.
So definitely a pair of tourists. Though neither of us had a Nikon or Canon slung around our neck, which I suppose probably made us more conspicuous. Tourists that weren't there to take pictures were usually there to touch.
"He probably thinks we're going to try and touch the paintings," Liam said, picking the words out of my mind.
Surrounded by all those priceless works of art, it was easy to forget my troubles, easy to let myself fall into the moment. Especially with Liam's warm hand pressed against mine.
"Come on, I think the stairs up are over this way," I said, tugging him along like I was an impatient kid wanting to find the best aisle at Toys R Us.
"There," Liam said, pointing at the square sign poking off the wall with the picture of a stickman mounting stairs.
We pushed through the doors and I started up, our footsteps echoing up and down so that it sounded like dozens of people took the trip with us.
We were alone, though. A fact that Liam didn't forget. We reached a landing. I wanted to use my momentum to swing me around to the next flight, but Liam held me firm.
"What...?" I started.
He pulled me to him, pinning me against him with those strong arms of his. "You're so beautiful. Especially when you're happy." He kissed me, his mouth eager and hot on mine.
It was nice, but I felt so self conscious. "What if the guard comes? Or other visitors?" I hissed at him.
"Let them," he replied. He star
ted kissing me again, the warmth of his body pressing against mine intoxicating. I wanted to get drunk on him. But then I saw the camera.
"What if someone's watching?" I said, nodding at the camera up in the corner, the little red light below the lens glaring at us like an evil eye. He looked back over his shoulder at it.
"I don't have anything to hide. I don't think you do, either. Let them see us."
"You exhibitionist," I said. Not that there was a single part of him he'd need to be embarrassed about anyone seeing.
"I can't help it. You're just irresistible. The way you move, the way you smile." Apparently even mentioning it got him going, because desire flared in his eyes again and he pulled me into another kiss.
We carried on until the hollow boom of the first floor door opening washed over us. Adrenaline burned through me at the thought of being caught. We both laughed, rushing up the final flight of stairs before we could be discovered.
"Oh," I said when we pushed through that second door.
The second floor used to be the Conservator's Apartments. It was definitely a job I would have worked for free if I'd been able to live in those halls and rooms.
It was even more opulent than the first floor. Frescoes and tapestries decorated what seemed to be every flat surface.
Statues and busts filled every sconce and archway. Even the architecture of the rooms themselves was a work of art.
"What is that?" Liam said when we reached a window that looked down into the inner courtyard. Fragments of a massive statue stood on various plinths on the stone floor.
"It's a colossus. Oceanus, I think," I said, staring at a massive foot broken off at the ankle that looked about as long as I was tall. It was hard to grasp the full magnitude of what the statue would have looked like, fully assembled. Though I remembered seeing drawings in some textbook or other.
"Must be a pain to shop for shoes," Liam said.
"Ha-ha. Funny."
"Who said it was a joke?" he replied, nudging me.
Still hand-in-hand, we reached the exhibit that was one of the centerpieces of the museum. It was a bronze statue of a wolf, two small boys suckling at it from beneath.
"Romulus and Remus," Liam said, naming the two mythical founders of Rome.
Again I was impressed. It kept slipping my mind that Liam knew his stuff when it came to this city.
"I think I'd like to be the curator of a museum," I said, examining the burnished head of the she-wolf, seeing the ferocious and protective look in her eyes.
"Whatever happened to the Roamin' Roman cafe?" Liam said.
That brought the heat to my cheeks. "I can't believe I told you that. I also can't believe you remember!"
"It was important to you. I knew how much that memory of your father meant to you. So it's important to me, too."
I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him close. I could feel the firmness of his abs through the thin material of the polo shirt.
It's okay to ask for help, Isabella said. I knew right away why I'd chosen to remember that at that moment. I knew that Liam wasn't going to look down on me for asking for help.
I took a deep breath, getting myself ready. Here goes.
"Liam, I wanted to ask you something..."
"I think we've seen just about everything," he broke in, "Unless there's something else you can think of?"
"No, I don't think so. Like I was trying to say, there's something..."
"Great! We can get to part two of the date now."
What is he playing at? "That's nice, but this is hard for me. Just let me get it out. So..."
His arm, already across my shoulders, squeezed me closer so that the fresh scent of his aftershave tickled at my nose. "I think I have some idea of what you're getting at. If it is what I think it is, then we should probably talk about it over supper."
"Supper?" I said.
"Yes. That meal that comes after lunch. Usually between five and seven in the evening."
I hit him in the ribs with my elbow. "I know what it is."
"Good. Then you should join me for some."
I started to object, but then my stomach made its presence known with a growl that Liam pretended to ignore. I'd been so caught up with the museum, and with everything happening at school, that I'd forgotten about food.
But now that I had remembered, my appetite returned with a vengeance. That cinnamon cookie at lunch had been my last bit of solid food for the day. Far too little, as made abundantly clear by the gurgles that I thought for certain echoed throughout the whole floor.
And of course Liam had known. That man was magic, or psychic. Something, anyway.
"Okay, but after we eat there won't be any more..."
"Interruptions? No," he grinned at me. "Don't worry, the place is pretty close by."
There was a small corner restaurant just at the bottom of the hill that he took me to. As soon as he opened the door the smell wafting me out had the saliva squirting into my mouth.
"Pizza," Liam said, "Italian pizza. The real deal. I'm going to assume that you haven't actually had any since coming here. Which is, in my book at least, a sin."
As with so many of the little restaurants and cafes throughout the city, this place preferred those round little bistro tables suitable for no more than two. Unlike many of the other places, the tables in this place had white tablecloths draped over them, their skirts inches from the floor.
Liam and I took our seats at one near the window, which looked back up the hill towards the museums that now seemed to glow with the last rays of evening light washing over them.
It was a dark place, but in a warm and comfortable way. That warmth and comfort emanated chiefly from the old-style wood-burning oven in the back. I could smell melted cheese, fresh basil. The richness of homemade tomato sauce.
The man who came out to take our order wore an enormous black mustache below his nose and one of those floppy white chef's hats on his head. Flour patterned his apron and made me think of Mrs. Rosselini.
"Pizza Margherita," Liam said, holding up two fingers, "Due."
The man nodded and then went back to his prep table, which was visible to us. Making pizza in Italy was an art unto itself, it seemed. He rolled and kneaded the dough balls into relatively flat sheets.
These he then tossed into the air, spinning them in circles as expertly as an NBA player can spin a basketball on his fingertip.
The centrifugal forces made the pies thin in the middle and thicker towards the crust.
These shells he slathered with that fresh tomato sauce, a deep red, then shredded mozzarella cheese, a creamy white, and finally a few fresh sprigs of basil, deep green.
He then took a broad tray with a handle on it and loaded the pies into the oven. Soon the restaurant filled with the delicious aromas of baking pizza underscored by wood smoke. Flickering orange light spilled out through the oven's open door before he closed it up again.
"The colors of the flag, that's what the toppings meant," Liam filled in for me, noticing the rapt attention I paid to the process.
I'd wanted to talk to him right away about dealing with Dr. Aretino, but I couldn't. I was physically incapable of doing so until I'd had a taste of that pizza.
It was an aching wait for those pizzas. And when he finally put them on the table in front of us I barely remembered that here they ate their pizza with a fork and a knife.
I sawed off a portion and stuffed it into my mouth. Liam had done it again. First the gelato place, now the pizza place. The man knew his Italian foods.
It was rich tasting, as flavorful as it had been aromatic. Different, yet similar to the pizza back home in St. Louis. Though you could tell not a single ingredient in this pizza had come from a can or a freezer.
"Wow," I said.
"Glad you approve," he said, slicing off a piece of his own and plopping it into his mouth.
We didn't speak again until we'd cleared every morsel from our plates. It wasn't until the chef had put two t
iny white mugs full of espresso down on the table that I marshaled the nerve to try and bring it up again.
"What do you think I should do about Dr. Aretino? Something that keeps me from sinking to his level. I'm not asking you to fix this for me. Only what you think," I said. I had to make that distinction clear.
My heart started pounding, and since all my blood was in my stomach in the first place, it gave me a dreamy, lightheaded sensation.
Liam sighed, then took a sip of his espresso. He stared back at the oven without really seeing it.
"I've dealt with lots of men like Aretino," Liam said, "There's not much that will get through to them. You have to beat him at his own game, use it against him somehow. That's the only way."
"But what about not wanting to be like him?"
He nodded at my concern, recognizing it. I loved that I didn't have to tell him, that he could just know me like that. No one, especially no guy, had ever been like that with me before.
"They sometimes fight forest fires by burning the trees before the fire can get to them. Stops it in its tracks."
"What if I don't want to burn myself in the process?"
"Look at it this way: if you stand up to him, put him in his place, then maybe he won't try this again with someone else."
That did make sense, but it still didn't feel entirely good. Two wrongs not adding up.
He saw my hesitation. "He's not going to understand anything else, Emma. It sounds to me like he has everything tied in a neat little bow, or at least he thinks he does. He thinks he's untouchable at the university. And he may be right."
"A vote of confidence if I ever heard one," I said. I wished then that there was more pizza.
It was no wonder some people liked to eat through their worries. Eating was easy and comforting (and tasty, you can't forget tasty) and perhaps most of all it was something you could accomplish. Something you can start and finish.
Instead, I took a sip of my espresso. It was powerful, bitter, and incredibly smooth. Sleep was something I wouldn't be doing that night if I drank much more of it.
"My point is that you attack him right where he thinks he's most invulnerable."
