He shifted and stretched his legs out. I settled between them, pushing back until I rested against his chest. The lanterns hanging from the trees above swayed in the breeze, making the light dance across the page.
“I saved one, you know.”
I stopped, setting the chalk down on the blanket beside us. “Saved what?”
“A painting that you had left behind,” he said, pulling my dress strap down.
“Marcello, I—”
“At first I kept it for you for when you returned. Then you didn’t come back and I kept it for me. But you are here now.” He paused, turning me in his arms so that I straddled him.
“I’m here now,” I said before I hugged him, slipping my fingers through his hair. “I’m not leaving.”
Laying me back onto the blanket, he covered my body with his and propped himself up on his elbows. The papers crumbled beneath us, pastels cracked against my back and under his hands.
The lantern was shining next to him, making the pain in his eyes pronounced. Palpable.
Marcello looked every bit like my greatest love and my biggest regret.
He lifted his hand, smiling at the sage-green dust on his palm and smoothed it across my forehead, brushing my hair back.
I felt a pastel near my right hand. Clutching it, I rubbed it into my palm. Bringing my hand up to his face, I cupped his cheek, leaving a slight pink imprint there.
He pulled off his shirt, tossing it to the side. Unbuttoning my dress, he opened it like a gift, laying the sides on the blanket.
“Belissima.”
We took turns, each taking the broken pieces and painting the other with them. A stripe of cobalt across his stomach. A streak of yellow on the inside of my thigh. An abstract green heart over my breasts and the word love in purple across his chest.
“You promised me a kiss under the stars,” I whispered, my hands slipping to his belt.
I WAS BACK IN ROME after a weekend in Pienza. With my Italian. Who loves me!
And his family. Who also loves me!
I didn’t have a class today, I didn’t have to work today, so I was taking myself shopping.
Via Condotti. Like Bond Street in London, or Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, every major city had a street with all the best stores: Gucci, Ferragamo, Zegna, Bulgari, Prada of course, but also Jimmy Choo, Louis Vuitton, La Perla, the best. At the foot of the Spanish Steps, the Via Condotti could be hopelessly touristy unless you shopped early, before the crowds arrived.
Huh. Look at that. I’m avoiding tourists.
Normally I’d also have avoided the area entirely, preferring the trendier stores in the Monti district, but today I wanted to revel a little bit, I suppose. There was one store in particular that I wanted to visit. I felt like celebrating.
An email from Daniel’s attorney this morning had confirmed the news I’d been waiting for. Daniel wasn’t contesting the divorce, and not only that, he wasn’t contesting my settlement requests. I’d had mixed feelings all along about alimony. What it represented, whether or not I agreed with the concept, but the bottom line was that I’d given up my career to make his career possible. I’d supported him 100 percent. I made the home and hearth habitable, I kept the schedules and catered the parties and bolstered the connections and played my part so that he could soar. A high-delivering lawyer in an established law firm was compensated fairly, and all I wanted was the same.
I’d waived the option of requesting to be paid until I’d married again, as if the only way I’d be okay was if I found another husband to take care of me. Five years was all I’d asked for. Half the proceeds from the house (neither of us wanted to live there again), the title to my car (especially since the brand-new Mercedes was probably a penis gift), and five years of a monthly stipend. I could have asked for more, and he could have fought harder to provide less, but in the end he agreed that the sooner this was over, the better.
His family was furious. My family was concerned.
He was moving on. I was blissful.
Since coming home from Pienza, the wonderful words that Marcello had said still filled my heart with puffy white clouds of happiness, and things had been truly blissful.
And I was treating myself to some bliss today. I wandered past all the stores, gazing into the window displays, stopping a bit longer outside the La Perla store and making some mental notes for another day, until I found the store I’d been looking for.
Hermès.
I’d been dying for a fix. Not normally someone who goes in for labels, I justified my Hermès scarf addition as not so much buying into fashion as it was honoring a fashionable history. Audrey Hepburn, Sophia Loren, Grace Kelly—all iconic women who wore these iconic scarves.
I sailed past the Birkin bags on display. I had very specific feelings about the Birkin. My mother-in-law had two. Daniel had tried to buy me one, had in fact purchased it from the store on Boylston Street. I kissed him, thanked him, then sent him back to return it. I felt it was ridiculous to spend fifteen thousand on something you carry your phone and tampons in.
But an Hermès scarf? Maybe it’s because my mother gave me my first when I graduated from high school. Maybe it’s because she wore them to church every Sunday, color coordinated with her purse and shoes. Maybe it’s because my grandmother had dozens, collected over the years as she traveled the world with my grandfather, each scarf commemorating a different adventure.
I had my eye on a particularly fetching cashmere scarf, beautiful pink and red shot through with swirls of orange.
I was on an adventure, in a different country, and about to successfully divorce my husband amicably. A trifecta!