Page 95 of The Roman Holiday Rule

So he’s seen both of our photos and has the results. That’s fine. Totally cool for me to be in the darkandfor him to have the upper hand. We’re not competing. We’re not even communicating—not a single text through the whole second day of the festival. None of that matters. I feel fragile for entirely different, Mark-unrelated reasons.

Except I will always wonder what he thought of my choice for the heart of Italy. Did I redeem myself in his eyes as a visitor to Italy? And the question I vow not to ask, ponder, or investigate—what was his picture of?

Gia is staring at me, expectant. “Well, who won?”

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know.” I clench my hands in my lap. If she asks more questions, this is going to get awkward and emotional superfast, like the explosion from opening a pressure cooker too soon.

“Anyway.” Gia brushes the subject away. “My point is that you and I make a good team.”

Oh thank goodness we’re moving on. “I agree. We planned and executed.”

“Yes, but you were phenomenal in swerving from the plan when needed. That is not my skill. The live painting session idea you came up with, for example, became one of the hottest events of the day.” She pauses, and I feel the drama swelling like the climax of an aria. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

My eyes pop wide. That isnotwhere I was expecting this conversation to go. “Like, work here in Italy?”

Eat at Luca’s restaurant whenever I wanted. Run into Santino at the Trevi Fountain. Hire Mariella to decorate my apartment for me.

Gia smiles and gives me a figure that makes my jaw drop. Double what I’m earning in Boston. “We could work it out so that Julie runs the company out of Boston, like a merger, and you would mostlywork in Rome as a liaison for English-speaking clients, scouting venues, and marketing to the international crowd, directly under me.”

I’m still speechless. Live in Rome. I can’t even ... wildest dreams that I never ... liaison...

Mark.

My daydreaming comes to a screeching halt. I’m a mess right now, exhausted from the festival, about to fly home, and reeling from the sudden blow-up of a weeklong romance. Probably not a good time for big decisions.

I take a deep breath. “Thank you, Gia. That sounds amazing. Could you give me a few weeks to consider? I need to talk it over with Julie.”

“Sure. I’ll be in touch about the details. By the way, the printer forwarded me the email he received for the reception programs. It’s the one with the hot air balloons, but the email I sent him shows the JPEG I sent as the cityscape we agreed on. It’s like the image changed in cyberspace. I talked to the tech guys and they threw their hands up too. No explanation. Weirdest thing ever.”

I give her a weak smile. “Thanks for checking anyway.”

We shake hands and I walk out of her office, way less self-composed than when I came in, and that’s saying something.

I rush to the hotel and pack, then take an Uber to meet the Gallos at the address they gave me. I finally understand Mark’s nervousness before seeing Mom’s painting—just knowing I’m minutes away from seeing the temple has me strung tight.

As the car jostles me through the streets of Rome, I remind myself for the fiftieth time it was a good thing that I was so busy with the concerts and events all weekend that I didn’t have a chance to stop by the other museum. After my fight with Mark, it would probably only make me feel worse to have seen his bet picture and know the final tally of votes.

The car stops before a large, ancient house, its walls pockmarked, plaster crumbling. Grand in its dimensions, sad in its age. Low storm clouds add a dreary mood. I place the memory of Mark’s blueprints over what I see, and sigh. He would make it glorious.

Mrs. Gallo emerges from the front door and gestures toward me. “Through here, Lexi. Quick, before it starts raining.”

I follow her through the house, glimpsing room after room of peeling wallpaper and broken furniture, out to a marble patio and short staircase. The gardens, like the palazzo, are an abandoned mess. We high-step through the overgrown grass, through a small forest, and then I’m standing in front of the temple I’ve stared at over Mom’s bed my whole life.

Mr. Gallo is regarding it, arms folded, frowning, but he waves when he sees me.

They’re right. The temple-pavilion is decrepit, slanting precariously, and the five columns have huge chunks of concrete missing.

“Not in quite as good of shape as when your mom painted it.” Mrs. Gallo gives me a sad smile. “Pity.”

I circle the temple, taking a few pictures. Mom’s painting was full of life and beauty, but the real version is ... dead.

I lean closer.

“Don’t step inside it,” Mrs. Gallo warns.

I close my eyes and envision what this place looked like when Mom painted it. I’m breathing the same air, standing in the same place. I can almost will it back to its glory days.

I reach out and touch the weather-roughened concrete, as if that will connect me to my parents, heal the hole in me that seems even deeper today than ever. “Are you sure you can’t preserve it? Restore it?”