Sunrise in Florence
KATHLEEN REID
Sunrise in Florence
by Kathleen Reid
© Copyright 2019 Kathleen Reid
ISBN 978-1-63393-976-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
AS ROSE HEADED OUT the front door, her boss and Bellfield’s headmistress, Catherine Oberlin, embraced her.
“I’m so happy for you, dear. What a beautiful adventure you have ahead.”
“You have no idea how much that means to me, Catherine. This was a difficult decision and one I really struggled to make.”
“Of course. I’m disappointed to lose you. Another chapter awaits, but you will always be welcome at Bellfield. You’re an excellent teacher.”
“Thank you, Catherine.”
“Zoey has accepted our offer to become dean of the Upper School, of course. We couldn’t be more pleased.”
“That’s great news!” said Rose, her feelings bittersweet. It was scary giving up job security and a promotion without a plan. With mixed emotions, she headed to the local coffee shop less than a block from campus to get a latte to help jump-start the day.
“Rose?” said a distinctive male voice behind her in line.
She turned and came face-to-face with Ben Pierce, who she hadn’t seen in years.
“Ben,” she said nervously, caught off guard by his hazel eyes. “How are you? I thought you were in New York.”
“I moved back here a couple of weeks ago,” he said with a wide grin as if he were the proprietor of the best-kept secret in Charlottesville.
“Uh, great,” she said stupidly for lack of a better response. Her stomach twisted into knots as she recalled a fleeting image of a sandy beach at dusk when they were in high school. The intensity of that kiss and the way he made her feel was something she would never forget.
They both grew up on the same street, and he was her first love in high school. Their parents were friends, and her mother had always shared bits and pieces of his life over the years. As she recalled, Ben had successfully climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, run the New York City Marathon in under three hours and regularly spent winters skiing the powdery slopes in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. And, most importantly, he had married a model and had a daughter. Their messy divorce was all over the society pages, which Doris, her mother, had followed like a hawk in search of its prey.
The woman behind Ben cleared her throat, and Rose got hold of herself and quickly ordered a latte. As she waited patiently for her order at an adjoining counter, she studied Ben’s perfect profile out of the corner of her eye, noting his cargo pants and flip-flops. When he smiled at something the cashier told him, Rose thought, He’s even better looking than I remembered. He was now an accomplished entrepreneur at thirty.
Recalling their teenage years, she felt a slight blush stain her cheeks. He’s just being nice, she reminded herself firmly, taking out her iPhone and checking emails to keep herself from staring at him.
“Hey, you should have let me buy that for you,” he offered, coming up to stand beside her.
“Not necessary,” she replied, trying to take a sip of her steaming coffee. Some foam must have rubbed off on her upper lip because he reached over and wiped it from her mouth easily, as if they were still connected. At her look of surprise, he laughed and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You were always so adorable and now you’re all grown up.” He paused, looking at her, his gaze resting a touch too long on her collarbones. “I’m back for the summer,” he announced. “I’m researching a book.”
“You’re a writer? Last I heard, you ran a hedge fund on Wall Street.”
“I sold that business two years ago; too many greedy people in one location,” he joked. “Seriously, after almost ten years, I decided I didn’t enjoy working in finance, so I went a different direction. I’m researching a book on Jefferson and came home to write. My life has changed a lot. How about you?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I teach art history down the street at Bellfield.”
“Ah, the Bellfield lions. I’ll bet nothing’s changed.”
His comment touched a nerve. Of course nothing had changed in this small Southern town where predictability was the cornerstone of life.
“Hey, I’ve gotta go. Great to see you again.”
“You too. I’m hoping you’ll help me catch up on things around here,” he said, walking beside her to the door, which he held open for her.
“Sure thing. Bye,” said Rose as she moved into a slow jog, not sure why she felt in such a hurry to distance herself from him. After all, this was just a chance meeting. Although he was awfully easy on the eyes, Rose didn’t dare spend any more time with him; he was a part of her past.
Suddenly, she recalled that she had once named her ficus tree plant in his honor. It brought back a host of other memories that made Rose laugh aloud. Ben Pierce was the ultimate success story; he was not only brilliant but a star tennis player at the University of Virginia. Rose made a mental note to tell her mother that she’d run into him. Scratch that idea, she thought with amusement, since Doris was more up to date on social gossip than Rose could ever hope to be.
Rose sat at her desk to enjoy her coffee and go over the lesson plan for the day. Stacy Billings walked in with her blue plaid skirt artfully covered by a long, white sleeveless sweater.
“You know, Miss Maning, it would really help my relationship with my parents if you’d give me a better grade. I’m under a lot of pressure to get into a name college.”
“Well,” said Rose, telling herself to give the non-anxious response. She really wanted to say “You can’t be serious.” Instead, she replied, “You didn’t put enough effort into your term paper. My classes are about more than just getting good grades, Stacy. They’re about expanding your knowledge of art history and teaching you how to research and analyze a topic.”
“I think I deserve better than a B- in your class. Besides, I didn’t like writing about the Renaissance.”
“I understand you’re under pressure,” said Rose. “So, I’d suggest you rework your term paper and focus on one artist, say Michelangelo. Tell the story of how he came to win the block of marble for the David and carve one of the greatest sculptures ever made in Florence.”
“How long?”
“Well, since today is the last day of classes, I want th
ree pages of your best work by this weekend.”
“Will you change my grade?”
“Maybe you should focus more on the learning part.”
“My grades are the main thing that determine the college I go to, Miss Maning.”
“I see,” said Rose, resisting the urge for sarcasm. Students like Stacy were challenging, ultimately affirming her decision to leave Bellfield and pursue her dream of becoming an artist. Stacy is spoiled, thought Rose. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to write another paper. It’s not going to change the way she views art history.
Rose reminded herself to stay positive. She had really enjoyed being a teacher, and hopefully her love of Renaissance art rubbed off on some of her students.
Rose couldn’t help but notice the gorgeous pink azalea bushes as she gazed out the window. Spring in Charlottesville is always beautiful, she thought, wondering what the future held for her. She was scared, but also excited.
Hurrying to her last morning assembly, Rose was stopped by one of her best students.
“Hey, Ms. Maning,” called Lori, coming up to walk briskly beside her. “Say it isn’t so,” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe you are really leaving us.”
“I can’t believe it either, but someday you’ll understand that you have to take risks in life.” She stopped to look at her. “You can always visit me.” They embraced. “So, how is your term paper on Michelangelo coming along?”
“I read last night that Michelangelo used to study dead bodies in order to make his figures more lifelike. That’s totally disgusting!”
Rose giggled. “It’s all a matter of perspective, Lori. He was a genius.”
“Come on, Ms. Maning. He had to be kind of weird. Would you really ride down to the morgue and spend your day studying a dead person’s arm to understand how to draw muscles and veins? Ugh!”
A vision of Michelangelo’s David formed in her mind. Lori was right. Michelangelo did study corpses, which was forbidden by the Church in fifteenth-century Italy. But it was only in doing so that he was able to create one of the greatest sculptures of all time. She thought Lori’s paper on Michelangelo would allow her to tackle politics and art in Rome in a more engaging manner. After all, Michelangelo was caught between the powerful Medici family in Florence and the pope in Rome. His life and art were shaped by these two ruling forces.
***
Rose had made printouts of the David and handed them out to her students in class. In her usual manner, Rose began her discussion with a question. “What do you think? Would you go to this extreme to pursue perfection?”
“If I could create something this beautiful,” said Christine, “I would definitely consider it. But it’s pretty gross if you really think about it.”
“Lori, you’re the one that got me thinking this morning. Why are you so appalled?”
“Ms. Maning. Really? You’re going to go there . . . ”
Everyone laughed.
“I am,” said Rose.
“I just don’t get it,” said Lori. “I’m not sure I have that kind of passion or intensity for anything. Michelangelo started having all of these health issues because he was hanging out with dead people.”
Sherry chimed in. “Clearly, Michelangelo had a gift and he did what he had to do to create lifelike statues. But that’s what made him unique and it’s why we’re still talking about him.”
“How far would you go to pursue your passion?”
Rose smiled shyly. It occurred to her that, oftentimes, one needed to take risks in order to get what they wanted. An apartment with a balcony view in Italy flashed in her mind. She sat at her desk.
“I hope all of you are so passionate about your research paper topics that you’re willing to go the extra mile to achieve perfection.”
A collective groan filled the room.
“We’re going to miss you, Miss Maning,” said Lori sweetly. “I’ve loved being in your class.”
“Me too,” said a chorus of girls.
“I expect every one of you to keep in touch,” said Rose cheerfully. “Once I buy a place, I’ll give you my address so you know where to find me.”
The girls cheered and Lori said, “I hope you mean it, because I’m coming to Florence!”
“Absolutely.”
After the bell, Rose received lots of good wishes and hugs. After her students filed out into the hallways, she paused and glanced out the window, admiring the redbrick facade of Bellfield Academy.
Three years earlier, she garnered a coveted teaching position at her alma mater, a private high school known for academic excellence and rigorous sports programs. There was a sense of comfort wrapped in the school’s 100-year-old traditions, or so she thought at first.
As Rose surveyed her classroom, she caught sight of a painting of her created by this year’s graduating seniors; the picture of her with long yellow hair conjured up the moment that the girls voted her “best teacher” at the spring banquet. It was something she’d never forget.
“Hey, Ms. Maning,” called Sophie. “Great dress!”
“Thanks!” replied Rose as she headed to the faculty lounge, watching the sprightly girl dash down the hall. I’ll miss them, she thought sadly.
“There’s enough there for another cup,” said Zoey, an English scholar with long dark hair and tawny brown skin. “But hurry up and grab it before I get greedy.”
“This is a two-cup morning,” said Rose, filling up her mug. “Thanks for thinking of me. You’re my favorite person.”
“Flattery always works for me,” said Zoey. “I’m suddenly having a vision of Forster’s A Room with a View. Perhaps you’ll fall madly in love with two men in Florence.”
“Spoken like a true English teacher who looks like a model,” said Rose, who admired Zoey’s jewel-toned embroidered tunic. “I’m sure every girl here is going to want to know where you got that top.”
“Anthropologie,” she countered. “On sale.”
“Okay, so, unlike the story, I’m not engaged to a handsome British aristocrat and torn between two suitors.” She shifted her gaze to look out the window at the lush green courtyard. “All I know is that I’m so excited to go apartment hunting in Florence!”
“I still can’t believe you’re leaving!”
“You know, my dad always encouraged me to put down real roots abroad. He’s the reason that I can follow my dream and afford to buy a place. I miss him every day.”
“I wish I’d known him.”
“I wish you’d known him, too. He had an adventurous spirit, unlike you-know-who,” Rose said, referring to her mother.
“Doris only knows how to be Doris, and besides, it’s not her life!”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s kind of complicated. Mom has always favored Jack, who can do no wrong. My big brother married a beautiful Southern girl, bought the perfect house in North Carolina for his adorable family.” She paused. “But you know I’m in love with Florence.”
“What’s not to love?”
“Every time I think about actually living there, I imagine waking up and looking at the Arno in the morning, drinking an espresso and soaking up all of that Italian culture. I would love to have the Duomo in my backyard. Or go visit Botticelli’s Venus at the Uffizi whenever I want. We both know Doris will blow a gasket when I actually buy a place rather than rent one.”
“I hope escaping your mom isn’t why you are so hell-bent on owning your own place,” Zoey said. “She’ll always be your mother for better or worse, and no matter where you live.”
“You know me better than that. I want to be in Florence because of my memories of it, because I’m still enchanted by it.”
Rose recounted the times she had visited Florence with her father, and later as a student, and then while vacationing. Her most recent visit had been two years earlier. On that trip she visited the studi
o of Antonio Romano, who was both a sculptor and painter. His works were sought after, and he was considered one of the greatest instructors in Italy. He was also a scholar of Renaissance artists, which was how Rose learned of him. Antonio’s wife, Valentina, restored the works of great Florentine masters. Rose asked a studio attendant whether Antonio held workshops.
“Occasionally, Antonio accepts a student with exceptional talent, but the waiting list is long,” Rose was told. Rose was forlorn, but not surprised. As she was about to leave the studio, Valentina approached.
“American?” she asked.
“Yes, art history teacher.
“Do you draw or paint?”
“I do, but not formally. Just a dream of mine,” Rose confided. “I am more of a student of art than practitioner.”
“Me too,” Valentina said. “But understanding art is not enough. You must find the artist in you.”
Those encouraging words motivated Rose to draw and paint in her spare time in her little house across from Bellfield Academy, hoping that her dream would come true.
“The most amazing thing about Antonio and Valentina was that they were madly in love for more than forty years,” Rose said. “I knew when I saw them together that was the kind of love I wanted.”
Rose shared other stories about Florence, especially those involving her dad.
“Did I ever tell you about the time my dad made Jack and me climb to the top of the Duomo when we were in middle school? I got scared when I looked down at the altar and then up into that dark staircase at the top. When I refused to go any farther, he grabbed my hand and said, ‘Don’t ever let your fears stop you. We’ll count the steps together.’”
Rose smiled at the memory.
“When we reached the top, I looked out over the city and it all seemed so magical. I’d forgotten that story until I took my students to the same spot two years ago. It was so weird. I felt this sense of calm come over me.” Rose paused as tears formed.
“I just know in my heart that Dad would want me to buy a place abroad. He was upset that I gave up my semester abroad in Florence when he was diagnosed with cancer. I stayed with him instead and have never regretted that choice for a moment. During those months, he shared so many personal things about himself and life in Poland during the war. My grandmother survived a concentration camp and his family came to America to have a better life.”
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