“Who? A student? Surely that is why she is taking your course.”
Mio Dio. Is this really how this is going to go?
“Signorina Graham. She’s studying law,” I explain for the benefit of the act my uncle is staging.
“I see.” He steeples his fingers. “So she who studies law cannot also study art? That’s very narrow-minded of you, Professore.”
Zio has dabbled in so many fields of study that we have a filing cabinet filled with diplomas and certifications. I’m barking in the wrong forest and this suddenly feels a lot like my conversation with Ava last night about fitting people into boxes.
“She has no interest in art,” I amend.
“Did you ask her that?” he muses.
I don’t move.
He turns his lips down.
“Then don’t be absurd, James. Everyone is interested in art.” He smiles, and I’m suddenly twelve again, my feet dangling from this same chair as I watch my uncle work on his thousandth dissertation.
I let out a breath and try to find the right words to explain why I cannot have Ava Graham in my amphitheater all summer, glaring at me from behind the students’ heads, distracting me from my lectures with—whatever the hell it is that makes me need to grab the camera. She’s infuriating.
“She challenges you,” my uncle says, leaning across the desk. “And it has been some time since I’ve seen that.”
“Ha! I don’t know if I’d use the word challenge, Zio,” I say.
Vexes. Enrages. Maybe even confuses.
“It is done, Gi. There were no other courses on such short notice,” he says, then pats the papers in front of him twice and then swirls his hand in the air. “Forse, she will help you ‘mix it up’ a bit.”
What the hell does that mean?
“Mix it up?” I repeat, mimicking the twirling hand gesture.
“Sì. Your syllabus has gotten a bit—what’s the right word?”
“Solid? Refined? Watertight?”
He pulls his lips to his nose and then puts a finger in the air.
“Stale.”
I lean back in my chair, gripping the handles made of ornately carved mahogany. Stale. Like the leftover bread Nina leaves on the counter in a basket to make crostini. I watch my uncle for some sort of remorse, some acknowledgment of the insult, and he just lifts his hands and shrugs his shoulders.
“Yet another reason why you might consider accepting Signore Davenport’s offer in London. Think of the lectures you could write while passing the time in the Victoria and Albert or Kensington Palace, all while pursuing what you love—”
I put up a hand to stop him before he gains momentum.
“I should really get to work on my stale lectures.”
I stand.
“Thank you for this meeting, Dean Russo. As always, your feedback and expertise are invaluable to me,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder as I reach for the door.
“Certo, Professore. Any time.”
Oh man, I cannot wait to tell Nina this. Maybe she’ll make him sleep with the sheep.
“Gi,” he says just as my hand lands on the handle.
