‘So, with all that out of the way, let’s tuck into this amazing cake Ignazio has made.Grazie.’ Her friends cheered and hugged her. ‘Now, who’s forcaffé?’
Marcella bolted for the kitchen and took charge, leaving Stella to simply observe as the gathered company returned to previous discussions and laughter. Feeling all the love in the room, Stella’s heart was once again full; this washerworld now.
Marco stood and joined her on her side of the table. As if reading her mind, he took her in his arms and gave her a long lingering embrace. In her ear he whispered, ‘Rome sweet home, Stella. You deserve all this and more.’
Marco pulled Stella into her bedroom before his departure from the party.
‘I know you said no presents,’ he said, revealing a wrapped parcel he had snuck into the party under his coat, ‘but I think you need this.’
They sat on the end of her single bed, side by side with little space between them.
‘Marco, you shouldn’t have!’
As she began tearing through the blue tissue paper, he explained, ‘It’s a happy one year in Rome present, and a little thank you for the work you’ve done at Bar Luna e Lupa.’
‘The mural isn’t even finished yet,’ she corrected him.
‘I know. But it’s nearly finished,no?’
She folded back the final sheaf of tissue to reveal a leather satchel, buttery soft and smooth under the palm of her hand. The colour, a deep midnight blue, replicated the colour of the walls Marco had chosen for the inside of Bar Luna e Lupa. The fold overflap was dotted with dozens of tiny stars which had been cut from the leather. Securing the flap was an ornate silver clasp in the shape of a star.
‘Oh my . . .’ Stella was rendered speechless.
‘Ti piace?’ he asked.
‘Do I like it?’ she gushed. ‘I love it!’ She held the bag up to the light, watching the light dance off the clasp. ‘Where did you even find this?’
‘I had it made for you.’ He smiled, enjoying her reaction. ‘My friend in Florence – the guy I told you about, the one who made my gloves – he made it for me. Well, foryou.’
Undoing the clasp, she peered inside. The internal lining was a washable acetate in a similar navy blue, which she later learned was removable, enabling her to properly clean up any spills or mishaps that might transpire. It featured four internal compartments; there was a row of elasticated loops of various sizes designed to hold her brushes, and behind that there were two large sections, one closable with a zip to keep things from slipping out, the other left open. Finally, the section at the back doubled as a handbag, with a phone pouch, key pocket and special spot for her wallet. One of the most endearing qualities, however, was that the navy blue lining was in fact patterned with little pictures of various phases of the moon; waxing, waning and full.
‘The stars are for you, Stella, because you’re our star. And the moons,’ he pointed to the lining, ‘are so that you never forget us at Bar Luna e Lupa – you know, when you are a rich and famous corporate type.’ He smiled, yet secretly hoped there was no truth to what he just said.
‘Forget Bar Luna e Lupa? Impossible.’ She gave him another hug, planting a big kiss on his cheek. ‘This is the single most thoughtful gift I think I’ve ever received.’ She held it close to her chest.
‘I saw the condition of your old one.’ He gestured to the crumpled tired-looking satchel hanging on the back of her bedroom door. ‘It was time for an upgrade.’
‘Hey, you used “upgrade” correctly!’
‘I have a good teacher.’
‘This is amazing Marco.Grazie.’
Suddenly, Stella caught sight of the plane ticket pinned to the back of her door.
‘Are you having second thoughts?’ he asked, noting her gaze.
She took his warm hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘Not a chance in the world.’
Standing, she walked to the door, yanked the page from its pins, and tore it a number of times. Throwing the shreds into the bin by her desk, she said, ‘God, that feels good.’
‘Destinooften does.’
trentacinque
The lead up to Christmas was everything Stella could have hoped for.
Nights were spent drinkingvin bruléspiked with cinnamon and clove while meandering along Via del Corso. The earthy scent of roasting chestnuts on most corners of thecentro storicoperfumed the air, while twinkling lights and garlands bounced overhead on the wintry evening breeze. Tightly packed waves of shoppers moved in and out of festively lit stores, the sound of their chatter and rustling bags of Christmas treats muffling the sounds of increased traffic and chaos of the city. It was joyous and rousing, and Stella was practically drunk on the enticing sensory offerings of Rome.
