My fingers slip under the brown paper, and I gently peel back the edges, exposing my mother’s soft wide strokes underneath.Immediately, I recognize the familiar rise and fall of Urbino’s twin towers painted from the main entrance of town, the angle from below instead of from the hills beyond. But in the center of the towering fortress there is a woman standing beneath the arch, staring up into the city. She’s just a silhouette, made of dark lines and shadow, but I know with every inch of reason I possess that she is me—that my mother painted her final wishes—her dream for me to experience what she did.
Ava and Urbino.
Her beautiful curving title confirms what I already knew, and a shiny splatter appears on the bottom corner of the painting. I lift the painting into the light, knowing that it will go in the pile to the right. My pile—the paintings that will go where I go.
When I go to stack it against the others, my eye catches on a white square taped to the back of the canvas, and I place the painting face down into my lap. The exact postcard she gave me to fill stares up at me, with the image of Urbino that is more familiar than my own reflection. I peel the tape carefully and turn the cardstock over. On the back, my mother’s handwriting fills every square inch and my eyes sweep greedily over her words:
My Ava,
I’ve had this dream for you since I found out you were growing inside of me. Now as I paint it, I realize that this painting might be the only way I’ll get to witness you visiting the place I loved so much. And I need you to know that I’m okay with that.
The lives—yes, lives plural—that I lived were a gift I could have never asked for. Finding Italy, finding my second family and friends there, then finding my art andmyself—that life was never part of the plan. But somehow, I was lucky enough for all of that to find me. And the beauty that came with it—well, words were never my strength. That’s why I paint.
My second life, though, Ava. The one that came with remission and meeting your father and having you, my sweet, stubborn girl—that life blew me away. It humbled me and inspired me. The joy and the satisfaction that you could give me with just the smallest giggle—a million days in Italy couldn’t compare to that sound. You were the dream I never dreamed of, my love. The dream I could never have imagined for myself.
When you look at this painting, Ava, I want you to dream beyond your plans. Beyond the limits of my imagination. Say yes to it all. And always say yes to love. You just never know what life will give you when you let it.
Always with you,
Mom
I put my hand over her words and shut my eyes, then make another promise to my mother.
SESSANTATRE
James
Fall has come early to London. The biting wind leaves the cheeks of the people passing by looking freshly smacked. I’ve learned quickly that the weather does not keep Londoners inside. Hyde Park is still crowded by Urbino’s standards—hatted heads bent toward the onslaught, gloved hands tucked into peacoat pockets. As they hurry to where they need to be, I focus the crosshairs of my camera on the subject ofThe Post’s article and let everyone else blur away around her.
Greta Stall sits with her ankles crossed on the bench in front of me, the dark water of the Serpentine a few meters behind her reflecting the thick clouds that float overhead. Her blonde curls barely budge out of place despite the gusts that whip the tree branches of a nearby weeping willow, making her appear like she’s in another world. A world protected from weather and crowds. The world in which she writes.
The photographs are exactly what I need to show the readers how her first novel,Obscurity, came to be. She wrote it here on this bench, often beneath an umbrella, broke and determined to follow her pipe dream despite the odds being stacked against her.
“I’ve got what I need, Ms. Stall,” I say as I lower the camera.
She turns down her mouth and shakes her head in mock frustration.
“Greta. You need to call me Greta,” she says.
“I’ve got what I need, Greta.”
She smiles and stands from the bench, tucking the notebook she had open on her lap into the purse at her feet.
“You’ve been wonderful, James. I cannot wait to see the finished product.” She holds out her hand and I take it.
“And I cannot wait to read your next finished product.”
Her next novel releases in May, and if it’s anything like her debut, she’ll have another massive hit on her hands. And possibly another feature inThe Post.
“Till we meet again then,” she says, pulling a glove on the hand I just shook.
I nod and smile.
“Looking forward to it. Arrivederci,” I tell her, and she gives me one last grin, crouches to give Verga one last scratch, and then turns to join the rosy-cheeked strangers walking along the sand-colored path leading back toward Kensington Gardens.
I sink down onto the bench she just left and look out toward the ornate brick buildings with their white framed windows and wrought iron balconies that string together along Kensington Road. I’m still growing accustomed to the change in scenery—like a time traveler tugged straight from the Renaissance into the Victorian era. But it’s no less beautiful.
My phone pings from my pocket and I slowly pull it out thanks to my stiff frozen fingers. Nina reminding me of dinner—for the fifth time this week. Some things are just like Urbino. Even the view from their rooftop deck in their two-story flat in Notting Hill, where we desperately cling to dining al fresco in sweaters and coats, is a different kind of beautiful than our views at home. None of these differences matter, though, because they are here. We are together.
