by Nichole Van
I hadn’t known to mentally prepare myself for this pain before leaving my hotel today. To anticipate the pounding waves of raw grief. Grammy’s death was still new, and I was a novice to this form of sorrow. I had yet to learn its valleys and cliffs, its ebb and flow . . .
I had simply thought to enjoy a leisurely stroll through downtown Florence, become reacquainted with my long-time-no-see boyfriend city. Let Firenze soothe away my nerves before my hopefully career-resuscitating meeting in an hour.
But, of course, I couldn’t escape my problems so easily.
Instead of comfort, Florence had ripped the Band-Aid off my heartache.
I stared at the Palazzo Vecchio, memories swamping me. Grammy had marched over to its massive front doors and pretended to swoon in front of Michelangelo’s David. (Replica. Victorian.) And then she had snagged some poor guy to take a photo of us both, waving our arms like idiots. Looking as if we could embrace the whole world.
It was a talisman, that photo. I took a copy of it with me everywhere. A reminder that, at one point, I had been thoroughly loved just as I was.
Something I needed, now more than ever. What with the harassing texts at all hours and that scathing, mega-viral video. All due to Pierce, my former fiancé, who I was going to see this morning for the first time since becoming spectacularly dis-engaged.
For the record, Grammy had never liked Pierce.
I drained the last of my coffee and tossed the empty cup in a nearby garbage can. Checked the time on my phone. Just under an hour before my potentially life altering meeting.
Suddenly, my neck prickled with awareness. That jungle-sense of being invisibly watched. My nerves flared to high alert.
Please. Not today. Not now.
Carefully, I turned in a circle. Looking for the tell-tale glare of a camera lens aimed my way. People talking and pointing.
What I saw instead was a wrinkled gypsy woman, staring intently. Ragged loose skirt, head scarf, wooden cane. Completely anachronistic.
We locked eyes. Her dark gaze drilled me, wispy strands of gray hair escaping to flutter in the slight wind.
My breath hitched. I instinctively wrapped a firm hand around my purse, pulling it tight against my body. I had seen too many tourists robbed over the years.
“It begins again,” the gypsy called in heavily accented English. She regarded me with unnerving directness.
I blinked.
“It will repeat.” She smiled, maniacal and toothless. “Ripetere.”
What?!
The gypsy lady winked and waved a gnarled hand my way. Before I could react, she turned and hobbled off, swallowed up by a group of Indian tourists.
Okay.
That was . . . weird.
Somewhere on the scale between ‘Beware the Ides of March’ and a movie trailer for Borat.
I stood, frozen. Still clutching my bag across my chest. I thawed my spine enough to scan the people around me, half expecting another gypsy to make a grab for my purse.
Nothing.
I swallowed. Told the pulse in my throat to settle down.
My parents—Lisabet and my step-dad, John-Baptista—are flamboyant installation artists and former stars of their own reality TV show on IFC. (Canceled after one season. Producers said they were too ‘nutty.’ I repeat: My parents were deemed too crazy for reality TV.)
Basically, weird and out-there have always been par for the course in my life. So an old gypsy lady yelling nonsense at me in the middle of Florence?
Usually, I would just file that under ‘quirky.’
But given the hell of the last six months, it was hard to brush things off anymore.
Courage isn’t a lack of fear, Grammy had always said. It’s hefting Fear onto your back and trudging forward into the dark.
I was so tired of Fear.
I would live my life.
To that end, I lifted my chin and walked farther into the sun-drenched piazza. One more scan for gypsies. Seeing nothing unusual, I pulled out my phone. Framed my face. And took a selfie.
Me. The Palazzo Vecchio. Michelangelo’s David.
Just to be clear, I’m not usually into selfies. I find them a bit fratgirl-narcissistic.
Grammy, on the other hand, had loved them. I’ve decided selfies move from vain to awesome once you’re over fifty.
Today, selfies in our boyfriend-city felt like a fitting homage to my grandmother.
Some people build memorials or start charitable foundations to commemorate a loved one.
I take selfies.
Phone in hand, I walked across the Piazza della Signoria and onto Via dei Cerchi heading toward the Duomo. The medieval streets closed in, buildings rising four and five stories above me.
I paused now and again to take a selfie. The act of taking photos calming me. Allowing me to leash my grief (Grammy), my anxiety (weird gypsy ladies) and my nerves (code-red-critical meeting).
Which was good. I would need deep reserves of serenity today. I had to keep my cool during this meeting. Remain professional no matter how much Pierce taunted me.
Only the combination of a career meltdown and impending financial disaster could force me to deal with my former fiancé in any capacity. But this meeting could result in a job—an extremely well-paying, career-resuscitating job.
I kept walking, moving through the narrow, pedestrian-only streets, a tight hand on my phone and my purse. Heaven knew, I couldn’t afford to replace either if they were stolen.
I’ve always been poor and struggling. Famous parents do not equal moneyed parents—infamous parents even less so. Mine are both and, therefore, eternally one foot ahead of bankruptcy (or behind, depending on the year).
I work as a fine art appraiser and authenticator. Out of grad school, I got a job with Whitman Auction Services, met Pierce Whitman and finally felt like things were on track. I was the appraisal wonder-kid, building a strong professional reputation.
But six months ago, Grammy died of cancer.
It happened so fast. She was with me one week and then gone the next. Cancer does that sometimes. Devastated doesn’t begin to describe the blackness of my grief.
I had lived with Grammy through most of high school and college, as my parents didn’t have the time or money to deal with me. Grammy’s arthritis made housework difficult, so I did the cooking and cleaning. We thrifted and budgeted and laughed and somehow made it on her small pension.
Grammy taught me the art of rich-slumming—you know, shopping sales and outlets, cultivating style over expensive couture . . . basically, maintaining a facade of having cash. It’s critical in my line of work. Rich clients prefer to work with stylish peers, not charity cases.
But after Grammy died and Pierce . . . did what he did . . . money evaporated right along with my professional credibility.
The meeting this morning was my hail-Mary pass. The last-minute buzzer basket. I was pinned to the mat and about to be counted down-and-out.
I paused, trying to think of another cheesy sports metaphor.
Basically, I needed this job or I was benched.
Reaching the edge of the Piazza del Duomo, I spent a moment drinking in the enormous white-marble cathedral and its distinctive red dome. (Renaissance. Victorian facade.) It never failed to impress. I took a few more selfies and kept walking.
Ten minutes later, I arrived in the Piazza della Santissima Annuziata, stopping short of the palazzo that was the location of my potentially life altering meeting.
The piazza was all charming Firenze, with overhanging arched loggias running the length of the buildings on three sides. A fountain and small gated monument decorated the middle.
I’m one of those people who would rather be a half hour early than two minutes late. But there is such a thing as too early and that currently described me.
In an attempt to calm my nerves while I waited, I flipped into my phone’s camera roll and opened my first selfie of the day.
Me, across the street from my hotel. Standing
on the bridge Ponte Santa Trinitá with the Ponte Vecchio and its precariously clinging medieval houses behind me.
I stared at the photo. Surprised.
And then gave a much-needed smile.
A man stood smack in the middle of my selfie.
The best part? He was dressed like Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Completely legit.
Top hat, olive-green tail coat, fawn-colored breeches, waistcoat, snowy cravat, tasseled knee-high boots, gloved hands holding a polished walking stick.
His hat sat low, shadowing his face and eyes. I got the impression of dark hair, long nose and full lips.
Okay. Score one for awesome randomness.
Was there some sort of Jane Austen festival going on today?
Or was this a little gift from Grammy?
No one would have appreciated a guy dressed up like something from BBC central casting more than her.
I chuckled and sent a mental thank you heavenward. I had desperately needed this boost.
What is it about guys in Regency era costume? It’s like insta-toe-curling hotness.
I’m not going to lie; I spent a solid thirty seconds staring at those tight breeches. Because da-yum.
And whywhywhy hadn’t I seen him when I first took the picture?
I would have taken a second, third and, let’s face it, fourth photo.
And then walked across the street and asked if I could take a selfie snuggled up close. Would he smell as good as he looked?
This mysterious Mr. Darcy felt . . . electric. Thrilling.
Which was too bad.
I had sworn off thrilling and exciting men many years ago.
And in the last six months, I had given up the steady, boring ones too.
Cold sober. That was me.
No men.
Not just a temporary boycott, as Grammy would have called it. Nope.
You have a management crisis. I could hear her laugh. Time to become officially emancipated. Write yourself a proclamation, sweetheart.
I had vowed to never trust men again, especially after Pierce—
I swallowed. I still had twenty minutes before scurrying down that rabbit hole. No need to jump into it voluntarily beforehand.
I gave Mr. Darcy one last longing look (and maybe even blew him a kiss . . . from Grammy, of course, not me.)
And then swiped to the next photo.
Stared.
Swiped to the next.
The next.
And the next.
Breathe. Just breathe.
He was there.
Mr. Darcy.
In Every. Single. Photo.
Walking toward me along a medieval street, sun streaming behind.
Standing in the middle of Piazza della Signoria, tourists eddying around him.
Paused beside a boutique storefront, head angled my way.
Resting a shoulder into the white marble facade of the Duomo, hand on his walking stick.
It was this zing with each image. Something about the man seemed . . . monumental.
As if he could see me. As if he knew me, to my very inner self.
My hands shook, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
How had I not noticed someone following me?
I whirled around, scanning the piazza—the hum of passing tourists, the roar of a motorcycle, the occasional voice yelling in staccato Italian.
No historical romance novel models in sight.
I closed my eyes.
Breathe. Calm down. Reason your way through this.
I was simply paranoid. Trauma does that to you. Turns you into someone who sees danger in the innocuous. First an old gypsy lady yelling bizarre things. Now a costume-inclined man with a fetish for photo bombing.
Weird, sure. But hardly threatening, per se.
Besides, what idiot would stalk someone in plain sight dressed like a Regency era nobleman? No one, right? That was nutty even by my skewed standards.
Most likely, Mr. Darcy had just been heading my direction and thought it amusing to pop into my photos.
The reality? This meeting was too critical for me to lose focus; I needed this job.
If Mr. Darcy had an issue with me, he could take a number and get in line.
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