I give my smile free rein as I close the door behind me, and I’m still smiling when I walk onto the terrace a minute later. Marco and Holly are both taking in the view, so I do the same, looking over the railing at the city beyond and committing every glistening light to memory. I feel alive tonight in a way that’s totally different, and something inside me innately knows that I wouldn’t feel this way anywhere else.
Only here. Only in Rome.
13
It’s been a week since my aquatic exploits at the pool with Matt, and as much as I’ve been eager to finish what we started, time is something I’m currently running short of. We only have one week left until our presentation meetings with Lorenzo, and I’m starting to freak out about my lack of progress. Marco and Holly’s designs are all but solidified, but no matter how much I tweak and adjust mine, I’m just not in love with them like I should be. Scoring my collection myself, I’d give it a six or seven out of ten, and that isn’t going to cut it if I’m going to secure Lorenzo’s vote over Marco and Holly. I need to show him something spectacular and the clock is ticking.
I step off the elevator after my day in the atelier and see that most of the office is empty and half the lights are off. Needing no further proof that it’s time to head home, I make my way to the marketing table where I stashed my bag when I catch a movement from out of the corner of my eye. Turning toward it, I spot Mira, and she spots me. Changing her course from the exit, she walks over with an exhausted but kind smile.
“Done for the day?” she asks, standing opposite me at the table.
“Definitely done,” I tell her. “It’s incredible how time flies here when you’re up there. I think I slip into some kind of hyperproductive sewing time paradox.”
“They’re not working you too hard, I hope?”
“Not at all. I used to seamstress every summer during high school, so I’m not fazed by it. I actually find it relaxing. Sewing clears my head.”
“That’s wonderful to hear that you were a seamstress,” she says. “It’s always surprising to me when interns come in and don’t feel comfortable with construction. In my opinion, a strong background in sewing is crucial for designers. The more you know, the more control you have over your work.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I tell her. “My nonna worked in a bridal shop for over twenty years, and she threw me on an industrial sewing machine to start learning when I was seven. It was amazing.”
A nostalgic sort of grin crosses Mira’s face and it makes me wonder if she’s thinking of a memory of her own nonna, or maybe her mother. I’m not left to ponder the thought long before she says, “Do you want to come somewhere with me? It’s a weekly get-together that I go to. I think you’ll like it.”
“Oh, um...” I’m not quite sure what to say, and Mira seems to catch my hesitance.
“It’s nothing scary, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just good food and wine, and a fun group of people.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I swiftly pull it out, glancing down at the screen. It’s a text from Greg, and it’s so short that I can read the whole message on the preview screen:
I’ve been thinking about you.
His words pull at me, drawing me out of the present and into my mind. He’s been thinking of me. Does that mean he misses me? Was he thinking of me with fondness or thinking of me with longing? I search for shadows and hints inside his words, leaving Mira to misinterpret my pause.
“No pressure if you’re busy,” she adds.
I look up with an abrupt shake of my head, sliding my phone back into my pocket without replying to the text. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Yes, I’d love to.”
“Great! Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later we’re walking down the street of LouisaTessuti, and I’m more than a little confused when we stop directly in front.
“This is where the get-together is?” I ask Mira.
“Not quite. Here,” she answers, opening the unassuming door a few feet to the left of the fabric store’s entrance. I follow Mira as she steps inside, and through a steep, narrow stairwell. It’s almost completely dark as we continue up the flight of stairs, but soon enough I begin to hear the echoes of music. And not just any music. Opera. The music gets louder the farther up we get, and the soprano’s voice peaks right as we reach a small landing from the floor above us. We’ve arrived at another door, which Mira doesn’t hesitate to open. I walk behind her into a room filled with light and the pleasant sound of laughter.
My eyes adjust as we move deeper inside, taking in the space that seems part workroom, part storage and partly an apartment that time forgot. Racks of old dresses and bolts of fabric line the perimeter of the room, and a well-appointed row of five old sewing machines is lined parallel to the windows.
“Ciao!”Mira calls, moving toward a trio of women who are sitting on old-fashioned settees and chairs in the center of the room. Two of the women stand up upon seeing her, happily swarming her as they take turns kissing her cheeks in greeting. When they’ve finished with their hellos, they turn to me as Mira says, “This is my friend, Violet. She’s interning over at Gia Luca with me.”
I’m then hit with a double dose ofbuona serasas the women approach me, one of whom is Louisa herself.
“Benvenuta,”she says, giving both of my cheeks a kiss.
I reply with agrazie, and I have to say, being here makes me feel very chic and Italian by association.
“Thank you for having me,” I tell her.
“I forgot you two have already met,” Mira says, returning to my side.
