Page 34 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“How did you end up involved with the festival?”

“My mom’s artwork will be unveiled on the final day of the festival and dedicated to the city. I’ll be giving a speech about her experience in Rome. When it came out that I’m also an event planner, Gia invited me on board to help with the whole thing.”

The woman blinks, then seems to snap out of whatever held her frozen for a second. “Reena Brooke is your mother?”

I nod.

She gives me a sad, searching smile. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” That was true last week, but here in Rome, close to her memories and with her letters, I’m not sure. But I don’t want this woman to feel she has to hold my grief for me, so I point behind me at the keyhole. “What architect designed this and why?”

Her eyes sparkle. “No one knows. Accident or perfectly executed idea? The Aventine keyhole is one of the great mysteries of history we’ll never have answered. It’s my favorite site in Rome, and I come about once a month.” Her eyes twinkle. “My family teases me and calls me The Tourist, but I think tourists often get more out of a city than residents.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Mark needs to meet this wise woman. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of it.” All that research and planning,and an accident brought me to this miracle. “Who knows what else I’m missing.”

“Well, my brother owns a hole-in-the-wall restaurant right around the corner that you might never find on your own. Best kept secret in town, hands down. I was about to go there for lunch. Do you want to join me?”

From somewhere nearby, a bell tolls.

I’m supposed to be halfway through a tour of St. Peter’s Basilica right now. Lunch at her brother’s place is not on my schedule. I should say no and get back to the plan.

But now I have the chance to hear from a local where to eat, what to visit, and how to do Rome. Wikipedia has its limits. And honestly, based on my ridiculous urge to call Mark, of all people, I need a friend, if only for a few hours. I can’t pass that up. “I’d love to, thanks.”

She smiles over her shoulder as she leads the way out of the square. “I’m Mariella, by the way.”

Twenty

Mark

Iowe Lexingtonpayback for that picture she sent me last night, but I’ve been working all morning and haven’t come up with a revenge strategy.

Worse than her stunt—I can respect being well-played—is the fact Luca saw it and demanded to know why someone sent me a picture of my street.

It didn’t go well. “Just because” didn’t suffice, and he insisted I come to his restaurant today for lunch and give him the scoop.

I enter his cramped kitchen through the back and hang out by the fridge where I’m out of the way of the waiter coming in and out with orders and the cooks filling plates and washing dishes at the massive sink.

Luca glances over his shoulder but doesn’t pause in chopping onions. “So, about the photo of your building. Talk.” He uses English for a thin layer of privacy, although I’m pretty sure at least one of the cooks speaks fluent English.

“No greeting? No lunch first?”

“Ha. You’re not getting a thing out of me until I get the nitty-gritties.”

I stifle a hoot. Luca’s slang is a work of art. Teaching him old and awkward words isn’t making him less cool—I have a sinking feeling he’ll end up starting a huge citywide trend.

I don’t keep much from Luca. But this, yes. I’ve had all night to compose a quick, innocuous summary. “It’s some American I made a bet with. She and I exchanged phone numbers to work out the winner. That’s all.”

“And what does she look like?” He finishes chopping and grabs a head of garlic.

I freeze—and that is not a refrigerator pun. I expected his next question to be about the bet and how it relates to a picture of my apartment. “Why does that matter?”

“Because you’re beingcagey.”

Well now I regret teaching him that word last month.

“Answer my question.”

“Brown hair. Medium height.” Sounds nice and average. Which Lexington is anything but.