“Weeeeell…” said Giovanni, his eyes twinkling, “thatwas something!”
Lee wanted to laugh. She wanted to link arms with this sweet guy and lean into him, befriend him. She waited for Cord to make it possible. But he looked into the middle distance, frowning. “Do you want to…” said Giovanni.
“Do I want towhat?” said Cord coldly. His Winston-esque tone turned Lee’s stomach.
“See you in an hour,” she said, hopping off the cart and following her mother into the maze of covered stalls. There were tables of beautiful vegetables: giant eggplants, tomatoes as red as blood, lush green beans, and the ripest strawberries Lee had ever seen. Charlotte was admiring tiny bottles of grappa lined up underneath a row of ham legs. She looked up as Lee approached.
“Honey!” said Charlotte. “Do you think they’d let me on the ship with a bit of grappa?”
“Mom,” said Lee. “What do you think about Giovanni?”
“Hm?” said Charlotte. “Oh, andlook! Olive oil!” She held up a bottle of viscous liquid. Lee sighed. Her mother had been doing this all her life—blithely pretending not to hear what Lee was saying; making Lee feel like she was the crazy one. It was unbearable.
Lee turned from Charlotte, skirted the market, joined the line outside a pizza shop called Forno Campo de’ Fiori. When it was her turn, she pointed to a square of thin-crust pizza and a man in a little white cap slid it into waxed paper. Lee handed him a bill and he said something with gusto and handed her a bit of change.
Outside the window, Lee could see Giovanni and Cord. Cord wasstilllooking at the ground and Giovanni was yelling at him passionately. Regan sat by a majestic fountain on the other side of the square, her face lifted to the sun.
Lee unwrapped her pizza and took a bite. The hot crust and salty toppings were divine: she got right back in line to order another square. She breathed in the scent of dough baking, of fresh oregano and mozzarella.
If she got in a taxi, Lee would be at the airport in an hour, and in Malta by evening. Or she could get back in the golf cart with her family. She could give in to new romance or to motherhood; she could refuse them both.
Her phone buzzed and she peered at it, wondering if Kiko had sent another love note. But it was a text from her agent, Francine.
Lee, BIG NEWS. New reality show wants you to audition for a role. Call me ASAP. Am emailing 150-question personality test. Also need video by tomorrow. Where are you?
Lee reached the front of the line. “Yes?” said a man in white, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead. He held a pencil and waited. “Lady, what you want?” he said.
EVERYONE SEEMED CRANKY AFTER LUNCH.Cord’s friend, Giovanni, gave Charlotte a dry peck on the cheek and whispered, “This wasn’t how it was supposed to end,” before jogging away into the shimmering city streets; Lee was distracted; Regan was quiet; Cord was ashen-faced and morose; and Donte drove the golf cart with wild abandon, whirling them past the glorious Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon (Charlotte tried to ask him to stop—she’d always wanted to go inside the Pantheon—but he didn’t even slow) before returning them to the parking lot across the street from the Colosseum.
“Now you do the tour,” said Donte, pointing to a sweaty young woman holding a tour flag. “Have your nice day,” he concluded, adding, “Your video emailed shortly. Ciao.”
Well! Charlotte had hoped a lunchtime nip of grappa would make the day more pleasant, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her niggling worries about who Giovanni was and what was going on with Cord did not fade with Giovanni’s abrupt departure. Instead, they coalesced into a solid, cold fact: Cord was gay. He loved men, or in any case, one man. Giovanni. Charlotte felt a heavy dread, imagining what her church friends would think. If she embraced her son, Charlotte knew, she would lose Father Thomas, who was so kind. Father Thomas had brought her a bouquet of hydrangeas once, just because.
Louisa had loved Charlotte only when she was good. But when she screwed up, Louisa’s love vanished. Charlotte didn’t want to pass on the bleak feeling that came when a parent loved you only some of the time.
What a disappointment,Louisa had said, when Charlotte had told her about the famous painter. Charlotte had been seeking comfort, but Louisa offered only shame.
—
CHARLOTTE CLIMBED QUICKLY FROMthe golf cart, grabbing Regan’s arm. To distract herself, she focused intensely on the Colosseum tour leader. The guide gave them each a little headset, pointed them toward the large group they seemed to be a part of, and directed them, en masse, across the busy Piazza del Colosseo.
Charlotte focused on the ancient arena. My God, the building was magnificent.
She had just inserted her little earpieces (they reminded her uncomfortably of hearing aids…which she didn’t need!) when the girl’s voice came booming through:Welcome to the underground tour of the Roman Colosseum!
It was so hot, hotter than Charlotte had imagined was possible.
Follow me!said the voice in Charlotte’s ear,as we travel back in time! Imagine, please, tens of thousands of Romans waiting with bated breath to see the show right here. Gladiators fighting panthers, hippopotami, crocodiles, and even…a LION!
Lee and Cord seemed to have disappeared. Charlotte tried to remain upright as Regan admired the cunning wooden contraption that had been used to ferry lions to the arena. (It was a facsimile, said their guide, wherever she was, in their ears.) They plodded through dark and creepy hallways into the Colosseum dungeon.
Here, in the dungeon,said the voice,is where the gladiators awaited their fate! Imagine how it might have felt to be a gladiator about to enter the arena, knowing this breath might be your last…
“Yikes,” said Regan, meeting Charlotte’s eyes and grinning.
“What’s funny?” said Charlotte. Regan’s face fell. They kept moving, climbing up and passing under an enormous arch to enter the arena.
Now we are walking through the Porta Libitinaria…or Gate of Death!cried the guide.Imagine fifty thousand people cheering. Imagine facing an army of tigers, or other armed gladiators. Will you survive?
