I wasn’t sure whether it was open or not; there didn’t seem to be anyone there. I walked through the little outside courtyard
and cracked open the door. The dimly lit interior, filled with closely spaced, red-clothed tables, was empty, too. Of course;
like most Roman restaurants, it probably didn’t open until at least eleven, if not later.
I sighed and turned away. I was just about to leave when Marco came bustling out of the kitchen, balancing a tray full of
dishes and whistling as he swooped out through the swinging kitchen door and made his way to the busing station. He put the
tray down, picked up a towel, and, still whistling, began drying dishes. He didn’t even look up.
I watched him for a moment. I couldn’t help admiring, as I had the other day, the smooth contours of his tanned face, the
way his broad shoulders filled out his crisp white shirt, the way his black pants hugged his hips beneath his apron. He looked
so happy, so content, that I almost didn’t want to disrupt him. The longer I watched, though, without saying anything, the
sillier I felt. This was stupid. What was I doing? It had been a mistake to come.
I began to back up toward the door, hoping to tiptoe away unnoticed. Unfortunately, in my hurry to escape, I managed to smash
into the hostess stand, sending a stack of menus crashing to the floor with a tremendous thud.
Marco looked up in surprise, and as his eyes met mine, he blinked a few times in recognition. I held my breath, waiting for
a reaction.
“Cat!” he exclaimed. He broke into a huge, infectious grin. “You’re here!”
“Um, yes,” I confirmed unnecessarily. I bent down to pick up the menus, my leather shoulder bag flopping to the floor beside
me noisily. I couldn’t have felt more conspicuous. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I hastily gathered the menus into a stack.
Marco crossed the restaurant quickly. He bent down at my side and touched my shoulder. “It’s fine, Cat,” he said. “That’s
a terrible place for the menus anyhow, don’t you think?”
It sounded almost patronizing, but when I snuck a look at his face, his eyes just looked kind, and a little amused. I swallowed
hard.
“I’m sorry,” I said, still squatting awkwardly in the center of a pile of menus. “I shouldn’t have come in. You’re obviously
closed, so—”
“Cat, it is nice to see you,” Marco interrupted firmly. He scooped the remainder of the menus into his arms and smiled at
me. “Please, why are you worrying?”
I straightened up and handed Marco the menus I’d gathered. “I, um, just wanted to say thank you again,” I said hastily. “So,
um, I’m sorry. I’ll be on my way now. It was nice to see you.”
Marco looked at me for a moment with a half smile on his face. Then he said patiently, “Cat, stop being silly. Have a seat.
I’ll brew you some coffee, and we have a wide assortment of pastries. Okay?”
I hesitated. “But you’re closed.”
“And now we are open,” he said right away. “For you, anyhow.”
I opened my mouth to protest again, but he cut me off with a raised hand and a smile. “Stop,” he said. “You are here now.
No reason for you not to eat. You look hungry.”
I began to protest, but Marco was already picking up my bag from the floor and gesturing for me to follow him across the restaurant
to a seat by the window. “What do you carry in here, Cat?” he asked as he walked. He pretended that the bag was pulling him
down with its weight, and he turned to grin at me over his shoulder. “It feels like you are walking around with a ton of bricks!”
“It’s a camera,” I mumbled, feeling silly.
“You are a photographer?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly, embarrassed. “I mean, it’s just something I like to do for fun, you know?”
Marco nodded. He pulled out a seat for me and waited while I sat down.
“I’ll return in a moment with your coffee.”
“You really don’t have to—” I began.
But Marco cut me off again. “I never do anything because I have to,” he said. “I do things because I want to. You should,
too.”
His words silenced me long enough for him to walk away. I watched him go, my heart pounding.
Marco returned a moment later with two cups of hot, steaming espresso. “Princess Ann,” he said formally, winking at me as
he set mine down in front of me. He eyed the chair opposite mine. “Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not,” I said.
He smiled and put his mug down. “Wonderful,” he said. “What can I get you for your
prima colazione
, for breakfast?”
“Oh, no, just the coffee’s fine.”
“I insist. We have many pastries. What will it be? How about a cornetto?”
“If you’re sure…”
“I am.” He got up and returned a moment later with two cornettos. He handed me one and put the other plate beside his coffee.
He sat down and regarded me seriously. “So, Cat, what brings you here this morning?”
I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said. I took a bite of the croissantlike pastry, which was perfectly flaky and, oddly, reminded me
a little of Karina’s lasagna from last night.
“You were taking photographs?” he asked, nodding at my bag. He took a bite of his own croissant and leaned back in his chair,
looking perfectly relaxed.
I hesitated and nodded. “Yes. Of Santa Maria sopra Minerva Church near the Pantheon. Do you know it?”
Marco smiled. “Of course. It’s beautiful. Did you see the Michelangelo?”
I nodded. “It’s amazing.”
“Sì.”
He paused and gestured to my bag. “May I see? The photos?”
I hesitated. “They’re not really that good.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.”
I paused and shrugged. I dug into my bag and pulled out the camera, feeling silly. I handed it to Marco, who took it out of
its case and examined it carefully, turning the camera over in his hands a few times.
“This is nice,” he said.
“Do you know cameras?” I asked.
He nodded. “A little. I took a course at university. Photography has always interested me.”
“Me, too.”
He smiled at me and turned on the camera. I showed him how to access the images, and he began flipping silently through the
pictures I’d taken that morning, pausing for several seconds on each one.
His silence made me nervous. I sipped my espresso, wondering what he was thinking or what he’d say. I shouldn’t have cared
so much; it wasn’t as though I was a professional photographer or anything, or that he was a photography critic. But somehow
his opinion seemed very, very important to me.
He reached the end of the morning’s shots and studied the last one longer than the others. Then he handed the camera back
to me and looked at me for a long time.
“What?” I finally asked with a nervous laugh.
He shook his head.
“You hated them, right?” I guessed. “You thought they were terrible? That I did a really pathetic job of capturing the most
beautiful church in your city?” I laughed to soften the words.
But Marco just shook his head again. “No,” he said finally. “The photos are amazing. I’m astonished.”
I was taken aback. “Astonished?”
He nodded. “They are very professional. The kind that someone would hang on their walls to remember a trip forever. The kind
that a stranger would buy because the colors reach out to them.”
I swallowed hard. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I admitted.
Marco laughed at this. “That can’t possibly be true, Cat. I am just speaking the truth. You shouldn’t be so modest.”
I looked down at my lap, feeling silly and a little overwhelmed. “Well, thank you,” I said after a minute. I took my camera
back, turned it off, put it in its case, and placed it into my bag as he watched me curiously.
We sipped our coffee in silence.
“What time do you open?” I asked after a moment in an attempt to change the subject.
“Usually? Noon,” Marco said. “But this morning was a nice exception.”
“So you have to get here early and set things up?”
He nodded. “The staff is very small. But you did not come here to talk about the operation of Pinocchio, did you?”
I laughed. “No. I suppose not. I came to say sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“For the other night. It was a really weird situation to put you in, and it was incredibly nice of you to take me home with
you the way you did. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Yes, well, I suppose another Joe Bradley would have come along,” Marco said, regarding me in amusement.
“I told you I haven’t seen that movie,” I said.
“Yes, about that,” Marco said. He leaned forward. “You must be the only American who has ever come to Rome without seeing
the film.”
I shrugged. “So?” I realized I sounded defensive, and I tried to soften the sharp word with a small smile.
Now Marco looked intrigued. Too intrigued. “Why?” he asked simply.
“Why what?”
“Why haven’t you seen it?”
“I just haven’t gotten around to it.” I averted my eyes.
Marco shook his head. “I don’t believe that. What is the real reason?”
I considered this for a moment. The real reason sounded stupid to me, and I had no doubt it would sound stupid to him, too.
“I just don’t like Audrey Hepburn.”
Now he was staring at me like I was completely insane. I regretted saying anything. He wouldn’t understand. No one would.
“What?” Marco asked with a laugh. “How can you not like Audrey Hepburn?”
I shrugged. “I just don’t, okay?” I mumbled.
Marco looked skeptical. “No,” he said. “Not okay. There must be a reason.”
I shrugged and looked down.
“You don’t like her haircut?” he asked.
I laughed, despite myself. “No, her hair is fine.”
“She’s too small, and small people make you uneasy?”
I laughed again. “No.”
He thought for a moment. “She reminds you of a woman you once loved?”
I looked up sharply. He was grinning at me, obviously kidding. The smile fell from his face after a moment, though, when I
didn’t respond.
“Oh,” he said. He looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean. I mean, I didn’t realize…” His voice trailed off and he fiddled with
his espresso cup for a moment. “I mean, I just assumed you liked men.”
I laughed, despite myself. “I do!” I assured him.
“Oh,” he said. He looked confused. “Um, and women?” he asked.
“No!” I exclaimed. I shook my head. “It’s not like that.”
I could see from the expression on his face that I wasn’t explaining myself well enough; he obviously thought now that I’d
had a torrid love affair with an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. “Okay,” he said uncertainly.
I sighed and closed my eyes. “My mother,” I said finally. I couldn’t believe I was talking about the woman for the second
time in the space of twenty-four hours. I hardly ever mentioned her, and most of the time, I succeeded in banishing her from
my mind.
“Your mother?” Marco asked. He looked just as confused, but at least he didn’t seem to be creating any imaginary lesbian scenarios
for me anymore.
“Yeah,” I said. I glanced at him. He was looking at me intently, waiting for me to finish. “My mother’s name was Audrey,”
I said finally. “Her parents were both extras in
Roman Holiday
. They lived here in Rome, and they met on the set. My mother’s mother, my grandmother, I guess, apparently idolized Audrey
Hepburn. When she became pregnant, she had to marry my grandfather quickly to avoid a scandal. They named the baby Audrey,
after their favorite movie star. In fact, her middle name is even Hepburn. Audrey Hepburn Verdicchio. How about that? And
strangely enough, she grew up looking a lot like her namesake.”
I felt a strange pang as I said the words. It was the story my mother had told me many times during my early childhood—minus
the out-of-wedlock pregnancy part, which my father had filled in later. My mother had always said it was the most romantic
thing in the world. And she had worshipped the ground the beloved actress walked on. When I was younger, I had begged to watch
the movies my mother talked about so often, especially
Roman Holiday
, of course. But she’d told me I was too young and could see them when I was a teenager.
Of course, my mother had disappeared from our lives a year before I turned thirteen. And by the time she came back, I had
sworn off Audrey Hepburn forever, illogically lumping her in with my mother as someone who was to be avoided at all costs.
I looked up at Marco after a moment.
He still looked confused. “That’s interesting,” he said finally. I could tell he didn’t understand but was trying to.
I hesitated again. “My mother left us when I was almost twelve,” I said.
“Oh,” Marco said. His eyes looked genuinely sad, which touched me in a strange way. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged.
“Where is she now?” he asked. “Back here in Rome?”
I sighed. I hated having to say the words. “She died,” I said simply. “A long time ago.”
“
Dio mio
,” Marco said softly. He sat back in his chair without taking his eyes off me. I was suddenly aware of how still and silent
the restaurant seemed. The quiet made me uncomfortable. I shifted nervously, waiting for what he had to say. “I’m so sorry,
Cat,” he said finally, his voice soft and his eyes wide. “I had no idea.”
“It’s fine.” I waved my hand dismissively.
“No, it is not,” Marco said. “And I made it worse by insisting on talking about
Roman Holiday
with you.
Che idiota
!”
I smiled. “You’re not an idiot. How would you know that I had some weird issue with Audrey Hepburn?”
He groaned. “You must have wanted to hit me.”
“No! Not at all.” I paused and smiled again. “I just didn’t know what you were talking about. So see? I really
wasn’t
trying to be Princess Ann or whatever. And I still have no clue who Joe Bradley is, although I’m assuming he’s a character
from
Roman Holiday
.”
Marco smiled. “Yes, he is.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe I’ll watch it someday.”
“Yes?” Marco looked skeptical.
I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe,” I said finally. “Maybe it’s time to stop letting my life be ruled by ghosts.”