“Your dad sounds amazing,” Zoey said.
“I lost my hero, and now, for the first time ever in my people-pleasing life, I’m doing something that I want to do. Not what I think I should do.” Her voice rose a notch. “I’m not going to let anyone, or anything, stop me this time. Not my mother or stepfather. And certainly not my fear.”
“Well, you go, girl! Seriously, I’m so glad to support you, even though it means losing my bestie. I know you. You’ll do your homework and make an informed decision.”
“Thank you, dear friend,” said Rose, giving her a hug; she was definitely inspired and so appreciated Zoey’s efforts on her behalf. “I’m so glad you’re going to help me!”
“Well, my help is completely self-serving. I’m going to make sure you have a sleep sofa because I’m booking my visits. Spring break is a given!” Zoey checked her watch. “Hey, I need to get going. The girls want me sitting at my desk so they can complain relentlessly about last night’s homework.”
“What did you assign?”
“I asked them to analyze how a foreign setting drove a bunch of kids crazy in Lord of the Flies.”
“Oh, I don’t like that book either,” exclaimed Rose.
“You can’t say that!” Zoey grinned.
“Today is my last day as a teacher, so I can tell the truth. Oh, did I tell you that I’m having dinner with my mom and Eric tonight? I’ll try to behave and keep the conversation light.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
Picturing the wrath of Doris now that she had finalized her plans, Rose felt a momentary pang of remorse. But then she envisioned seeing Michelangelo’s David at the Galleria dell’Accademia, the Basilica of Santa Croce with its frescoes by Giotto, and tasting her favorite chocolate almond gelati again. The sound of the bell prodded her back to the present as she walked out to the hallway filled with the almost deafening sound of teenage chatter. She really was going to miss her life at Bellfield.
***
That night at her mother’s dinner table, Rose foolishly mentioned that she and Zoey were planning a bike trip through Tuscany.
“Why would anyone want to bike in Tuscany?” her mother said, breaking off a chunk of white roll and pushing it in her mouth. “That sounds awful.”
“I think it’s all part of the adventure,” said Rose, who eyed her stepfather, Eric, looking for moral support. He winked at her, suppressing a grin.
“I still don’t get it,” said Doris. “You have a lovely life here in Charlottesville and a great job. Rumor has it that you have some news that you haven’t told us.”
Rose shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The fried chicken suddenly felt like a ball of grease in her stomach. The table was silent as she tactfully ignored the comment.
“There’s no need to be shy, Rose. You’ve been on the fast track for years. You would be the youngest ever dean of the Upper School. It’s crazy that you don’t consider the offer.”
“How did you find out? It’s not public information yet.”
“I’m certainly not the public,” she sniffed, getting up to lavish more butter beans on Rose’s stepfather. As always, Doris garnered his support through her home-cooked meals.
“Thank you,” said Eric kindly, greedily placing a heaping spoonful in his mouth. “That’s wonderful news. I’m sure Rose will tell us more when she’s ready.”
“Well?” asked Doris. “Are we to stay in suspense all evening or can you give us a hint?” Her hot-pink manicured nails deflected the aggression in her tone.
Suddenly capitulating, Rose said, “Um, well, I was somewhat shocked that they offered me the position.” She paused for another moment.
“Congratulations, Rose,” said Eric, raising his glass. “It’s always good to be recognized for a job well done.”
“Well, I don’t see any point in rushing off to Florence now. You’ve got a wonderful opportunity right here and you’d be a fool not to take it.”
“I turned it down. Zoey is going to get the job.”
“What?” said Doris huffed, looking like an angry Himalayan cat. “How could you be so irresponsible? You’re making a huge mistake, young lady, and this whole thing is going to be a disaster.”
“I’m moving to Florence whether you like it or not.”
“You sound just like your father.”
“I assume that’s a compliment,” she shot back. Her father was her hero and the one person who had always believed in her. Annoyance set in, and she wasn’t in the mood to placate her mother.
Rose stood and raised her glass. “Cheers to foolish me!” she added. “I really appreciate all of your support,” she said sarcastically, before excusing herself.
***
As she turned into the driveway of her tired-looking faculty house, Rose felt as if she’d been run over by a truck. Her nerves were shot, and she needed to calm down. Taking a deep breath, she decided to try out some new ideas on canvas.
Rose changed into comfy jeans and a T-shirt. The urge to paint was overwhelming, and she settled into her makeshift studio that acted as an office, guest room and storage space. Boxes lined the walls, but she didn’t much care since it was a temporary rental.
Calm descended over Rose as she took out a crisp white canvas and some oil paints. With broad strokes, she began to draw the angels in a Roman floor mosaic that she had recently photographed at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. Hours swept by as she fashioned an olive tree in the background. As she drew the curly locks of an angel, it occurred to her that she could copy original artwork well. While her drawing wasn’t perfect, it was rather good, she concluded.
Suddenly, her mother’s voice came to mind, and she remembered that day in seventh grade. Rose had come home from school and announced that her dream was to be a famous artist. Her mother had looked disdainfully at her artwork.
“Rose, you’re not an artist and you never will be. Don’t waste your time. Your father and I are not spending all this money on private school for you to starve. Be smart.”
Rose had cried for hours and then shredded all of her pictures in a fit of anger. That moment may have, in fact, been the genesis of her desire to teach; it was extremely important to her that she use her talent to empower others, not demean them.
Rose had never talked about the roots of her career choice, and that painful night Doris shattered her dreams, until she had opened up to Zoey.
Rose was having dinner with Zoey and Stan at their apartment. Stan worked as a bartender on weekends to support his music. He played local clubs and was gaining a large following in the city with his amazing voice. His passion for music was tangible. Rose saw his eyes light up whenever he talked about writing songs. They all got to talking about finding one’s bliss in life. Maybe it was the white wine, but Rose finally shared her middle school story, trying to make light of what happened. Zoey got angry, informing Rose that she needed to reignite her passion for painting. Thanks to her encouragement, Rose slowly began drawing and working on canvas.
Fatigue won out, and she emerged from her studio feeling decidedly less stressed. Fortunately, her workload was light; she would dig in tomorrow and get going on grading those final term papers. She made herself a cup of lemon tea and opened the folder of potential apartments in Florence. The pages were filled with notes she had scratched on the sides and ideas. The colorful printouts pictured very attractive one-bedroom apartments, which to buy would cost roughly 350,000 euros, depending upon the exchange rate. “Thank you, Daddy,” she said aloud, as tears misted her eyes.
The first place was located right near the Uffizi and was a clean white renovated space with a beautiful balcony, which was clearly its best feature. Rose practically gasped when she saw a picture of another Medici apartment with a fireplace, beamed ceiling and updated master bath. It was a mix of the old
and the new. A third picture showed a two-floor apartment with a water view, and an old-fashioned curved staircase leading to a lower level.
Visions of the Duomo danced in her mind. Sun-dipped terra-cotta rooftops pervaded her consciousness as she envisioned herself with an easel, setting up to paint by the Ponte Vecchio. Since that school-sponsored trip to Florence, her longing to go back to the city was almost palpable. Florence always evoked memories of her father.
“My favorite city is Florence,” her dad had often said. “If I could pick anywhere to live, it would be there.”
Whereas her mother was controlling and pushed Rose toward what was expected, Rose’s dad nurtured her intellectual spirit. He loved to hear about her passion for the Renaissance and discuss art and culture. Doris, on the other hand, was more interested in the next Junior League party.
Rose glanced at her inbox, and a red-flagged reply was there. Clicking on the icon, she saw the message was from her new realtor, Lyon Walker in Italy.
Dear Rose:
Buon giorno!
I’ve just learned about a price reduction on another very special apartment that you must see. I am going to set up an appointment on the third of June at 10 am. It would be very hard to change this date so please try to make it! I have selected two other options to show you as well!
Please let me know if this will work.
Sincerely,
Lyon
Rose confirmed the house appointment and forwarded the email to Zoey with a bunch of smiley-face emojis. She also congratulated Zoey on the new position and told her about the chance meeting with her old boyfriend, Ben Pierce. Was fate whispering into her ear when she ran into him after all these years? A pang of sadness swept through her, but she pushed it aside. With renewed determination, Rose planned to follow her dream and embark on the best international house hunt ever!
Chapter 2
DESPITE A LONG FLIGHT and Uber ride into downtown Florence, Rose was still full of energy, and she wanted to get outside and breathe some fresh air. She peered thoughtfully out the window of their hotel room overlooking the Arno River and observed the Ponte Vecchio bridge in the distance. Calculating the time, Rose estimated that she had nearly three hours to walk around. Suddenly hungry, she rummaged through her purse to find a granola bar tucked into a side pocket.
“You’ve got that David look on your face again,” Zoey said.
“What’s a David look?”
“All dreamy eyed. I’d say you’re in love with that statue.”
“And Firenze! I can’t wait to get outside and explore.”
“I’m exhausted and completely jet lagged from the trip.” She punched the pillow and put her head down. “I need to take a nap for two hours. Then I should be good to go.”
“I may go out and walk around a bit. I’m so excited to actually be back here!”
“Don’t tell me; you’re going first to Galleria dell’Accademia to see the David.”
Rose laughed. “Boy, you know me too well.” She looked at her watch. “I was thinking we’d have some dinner nearby around sevenish and keep it simple.”
“Sounds like a plan. Night night,” said Zoey, stretching out on the bed, and she promptly fell asleep.
Rose gingerly changed into a fresh pair of slip-on sneakers and brushed her hair. No jacket was necessary; it was a sunny, warm afternoon. As she made her way downstairs, Rose was pleased with the hotel that she had found online. It was located in the heart of Florence and in walking distance to nearly everything she wanted to explore. With its black-and-white marble tiled floors and white sofas, it boasted a frescoed ceiling adorned with angels. A white alcove to the right of the front desk contained a statue of a Roman leader with a black pot of white orchids at his feet.
Florence was draped in terra-cotta, and had the most incredibly beautiful monuments that existed, or at least Rose was convinced as much. She used her iPhone to help guide her to the Galleria dell’Accademia where there was a much shorter line than she expected. Relieved that her feet were comfortable, Rose took her place in line, keeping her travel pass handy. This would probably be her most focused sightseeing adventure before the house hunt began tomorrow morning.
The David towered over the crowds, and his perfectly formed body made Rose ponder how many hours per week Michelangelo worked to create this exquisite sixteenth-century masterpiece. She recalled that oftentimes he labored from dawn until late in the night with little food or water, fueled only by his creativity. David was a biblical hero and a favorite subject of many Florentine artists because he was a reminder to all about faith and the power to overcome.
While on the plane, Rose had read an abridged version of the story, which told how the Israelites and the Philistines were at war with each other during the reign of King Saul; God chose young David, a shepherd boy, to unite the two sides and become the future king of Israel. As the story unfolded, young David was chosen to beat Goliath, a nine-foot giant Philistine. Everyone thought that this boy didn’t have a chance against a seasoned warrior, but young David trusted that God would lead him to victory. The boy used a slingshot with stones to hit the giant in the eye, ultimately winning the battle.
As Rose craned her neck to stare up at David’s face, she was inspired by his courage and the triumph of beauty that could change the earth.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” said a woman in a red scarf.
“Revolutionary,” replied Rose. “You know, Michelangelo was the first artist to depict David before the battle. He looks tense, courageous and confident.”
“He’s larger than life in some ways, small in others.”
They both laughed.
Rose walked around the seventeen-foot statue again, staring at the slingshot in David’s hand and his contrapposto stance, which had him with one foot in front of the other, ready for battle. This extraordinary male nude commanded attention even without the gory head of Goliath.
Rose recalled that Michelangelo was actually the third sculptor to try his hand at this huge block of marble. The original commission came in 1463 when the members of the woolen cloth guild, the Arte della Lana, a very influential group, wanted to commission a series of twelve biblical figures for the buttresses of the Florence Cathedral. This project started with the great Donatello, who began the figures using terra-cotta to fashion them. The guild then asked Florentine sculptor Agostino di Duccio to create a David, likely under the direction of Donatello, and they provided him an enormous block of marble. Agostino used the marble and began the semblance of legs. Everything stopped when Donatello passed away.
Nearly ten years later, Antonio Rossellino was commissioned to finish what Agostino had started. He was soon fired from the job, and the marble lay dormant in a quarry for more than twenty-five years. Local Florentines had named the stone The Giant, which Rose thought was entirely appropriate. Michelangelo, at the young age of twenty-six, would ultimately earn the right to take on such a major feat. His reputation had preceded him. He began carving on the thirteenth of September and spent more than two years to complete the masterpiece.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there silently contemplating this treasure until someone stepped on her foot. Rose moved to observe the statue from the side and stood beside a group of French tourists, listening intently, pleased that she understood more than half of the tour guide’s descriptions.
Hours flew by at the Galleria dell’Accademia, and Rose decided to make her way back to the hotel; she walked alone and felt deliriously happy in the evening light, eagerly peering in some brightly colored shop windows. A small leather store at the far end of the Ponte Vecchio caught her eye, and she looked at all of the meticulously crafted handbags displayed in the storefront window. Rose entered, smelling the tangy scent of new leather. She observed two young women sewing in the back area behind the counter. A young salesgirl asked if she needed help, and Rose focused in on a ta
n suede bag with leather trim.
“You have good taste,” said the clerk.
“It’s gorgeous. Are these bags made in Florence?”
“Right over there,” she said, pointing to the two women who were discreetly working on new creations. One dark-haired girl looked up and smiled and then immediately returned her attention to the task at hand. “Ariana and Becky are artists who recently graduated from the leather school.”
“I love that. How much is this bag?”
“One hundred and twenty euros.”
“Hmmm,” said Rose. “I’m a former teacher, and that bag is not in my budget!”
“I understand,” said the strawberry blond–haired girl with the freckled face. “I’m Nicole and my parents own this store. They’re Australian transplants here. Anyway, let me see if I can come up with a few similar options at a lower price point.”
“That would be great. I’ll try to come back in a few weeks to check them out.” Rose liked Nicole’s friendly demeanor, and she seemed to be roughly her age. It occurred to her that she really wouldn’t have any friends or family in Florence, which was intimidating.
“Sounds good.”
“I’m going on a house hunt and thinking of buying a place. It’s always been my dream to live here.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve lived in Santa Croce for the last four years. I can’t imagine moving back to Australia. I’d be happy to offer suggestions if you need something. Just drop in whenever.”
“Thank you so much! I really appreciate it. See you soon.”
“Ciao.”
An hour later, Zoey had showered and dressed in faded jeans and five-inch stilettos, ready for the evening. Her hair was pulled up in a sleek bun, and she wore large gold hoops.
Sunrise in Florence Page 2