“I’m working on these for the show at the museum on the fourth.”
“Ah, yes, the one where we pay for a bunch of expensive frames to showcase your hobby.”
It was a word he had certainly used before. A word I had come to dislike. In Ty’s eyes, a label that made what I loved to do worthless. I guess that’s the moment when I realized that’s exactly how he saw it—a nice little pastime for me that kept me from being too unhappy when he came home at this hour of the night on a regular basis.
I hate to admit it, even now, because doing so casts me in a light I would rather not see myself in. A woman who started her adult life and her marriage with a clear identity, a very defined picture of who she wanted to be and how she saw herself getting there. The shoreline of that vision had really started to erode a long time ago. The waves small and so unobtrusive at first that I hadn’t recognized the erosion. Over the years, the waves had continued to grow in size, eating away at my goals and ambitions until that moment in our dining room when I realized they no longer had any value at all, at least in the context of my marriage.
I can blame Ty for not realizing what his words did to me. I can blame him for thinking those thoughts in the first place. But I can’t blame him for my own reaction to them. I can’t blame him because I caved to them like a hollowed-out stretch of beach that finally redefines itself into the shape the ocean has forged for it.
I let myself be changed by Ty’s point of view. I began to see myself as he saw me. Spending too much time each day, too much energy, too much money on something that really didn’t and wouldn’t ever matter very much to anyone but me.
I backed out of the show, never discussing it with Ty, just removing it from our family calendar with the click of a delete button, gone. Insignificant enough not to be noticed or questioned by either my husband or daughter.
I don’t know why I brought my camera on this trip. I haven’t touched it in years. Maybe it was just one more outward sign of rebellion against Ty and his defaulting on our plans.
I study the back of the woman’s head again; note the regal arch of her neck. I decide then and there that I have been missing out on too many beautiful moments. It doesn’t matter if anyone else ever sees my pictures or not. They are for me, part of who I am and how I express my interpretation of what I see in this world. I’ve been silent too long.
~
I PAY MY CHECK and start walking back to the hotel, adamant now that I will not pass one more beautiful thing in this city without my camera to remember it by.
At the hotel, I step into the lobby, respond to the doorman’s hope that I have enjoyed my day so far. We exchange pleasantries, his ability to express them in English far better than mine in Italian. He gives me a smile of approval at my willingness to try.
I head for the elevator, and out of the corner of my eye, spot a tall, instantly familiar figure at the front desk. I stop before it even fully registers that I should keep going.
The desk clerk looks up at me and smiles, causing the man to glance over his shoulder. He’s wearing a ball cap and dark sunglasses. Maybe that would fool a lot of people, but I am as certain of who he is as I am certain of my own name.
He meets my surely shocked gaze, and for what feels like an incredibly long stretch of seconds, we merely look at each other in silence, recognition clearly in place.
I feel my lips part with the intent of speaking. But something in his face stops me. He holds up a finger and says, “Wait. Please.”
I actually glance over my shoulder to see if there is someone else behind me who he’s talking to. His beautiful supermodel, perhaps. But there’s no one there, just the elevator doors. And so, I stand waiting while he signs a piece of paper, hands it back to the clerk, picks up his bag and walks toward me. He nods his head at the elevator door and indicates for me to follow him.
I do, mute, even though I cannot begin to understand my own actions. He might be a rock star to the rest of the world, but I don’t know him, and I’m not in the habit of following strangers into elevators, which is exactly what I do when the doors slide open, and he waits for me to step inside. He walks in behind me. The doors close.
“Hello,” he says.
I try for the same, but the first attempt doesn’t come out. My “Hi” is hoarse at the edges, and there’s a question mark at the end of it.
“You’re still here,” he says.
I try for a millisecond to figure out what that statement could possibly mean. So many things—and clearly none of them could be what I’m thinking. That he came here looking for me? Right.
“Yes,” I say. “I am.” I had forgotten to push the button for my second-floor room, and we glide to a stop on the fifth floor.
“Can you get off here for a moment?” he asks.
“Here?”
“Here,” he says with a half-smile on his mouth.
“I . . . okay,” I say, and follow him into the hallway.
He checks his key, glances at the numbered plaques on the wall indicating room direction and starts to the right.
“Ah,” I say. “I really should get back to my room.”
“Come inside for a second?” He holds up one hand as if to indicate harmlessness. “I’d rather not stand out here in the hallway.”
I’m assuming by that he means he doesn’t want to risk being recognized. Against the common sense I should certainly be exercising, I nod once and follow him silently to the end of the hallway where he opens double doors into a room quite unlike mine. I love my room, but this is something else altogether.
It occupies the front corner of the hotel. It’s enormous, three sofas, several very cushy reading-type chairs, glass-pane doors that open out onto a terrace. Another set of doors lead into what must be the bedroom, and I deliberately avert my gaze from there, settling instead on the terrace.
He steps behind me to close the door. At the click of the lock, I jump a bit.
He looks at me as if he has noticed my unease and says, “I’m not stalking you.”
I laugh a little. “Shouldn’t I be the one stalking you?”
He shakes his head and says, “I didn’t want you to think I followed you here with some evil purpose.”
I try to frame a response at the same time I struggle to process exactly what he has said. But the two are in conflict, and what comes out is something between a laugh and a question. “You followed me here?”
He shrugs. “I kind of got out of Rome fast. When I got to the train station and the agent asked me where to, “Florence” just came out.”
“Oh,” I say, as if I understand now, when in actuality, I am even more confused. “Did something bad happen there?”
“Something normal,” he says. “I’m trying to get away from normal for a little while.”
I slide my hands down the skirt of my dress, a casual flimsy thing I had slipped on this morning with very little thought as to whether anyone would notice it or whether I would care if they did. I’m finding right now that I do care.
“Well, Florence, it really is an awesome place. Room service here is wonderful. American coffee is incredible.” I break off there, realizing I sound like an infomercial with selling points that he’s probably already aware of.
“All right then. I should be going. I actually came back to the hotel to get my camera before I finished my afternoon walking tour.” Walking tour? Did I just say that? I sound like I’m at least eighty and traveling with the AARP.
“Where are you going?”
I feel my eyes widen at the question. I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to say. Is he asking out of polite interest? “I . . . to see David. You’ve been?”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s pretty amazing.”
“Great. Well, I hope you—”
“Would you mind if I come along?”
Is he serious? There has to be a punchline in here somewhere. “Are you sure you want to do that?” I ask, grappling for reasons why this would be a bad idea. �
�I mean you might be spotted or something.”
“I’m good,” he says, “if you are.”
“Ah, sure,” I say. “I need to run downstairs and get my camera.”
“Meet you in the lobby in five minutes?”
“Okay,” I answer.
“See you then, Lizzy.”
My hand is on the doorknob when he says my name, and I feel a shock of pleasure at the realization that he has remembered it. Just as quickly, I push that away and open the door, stepping out into the hallway.
I walk, more like run, to the elevator, press the button repeatedly, as if that will make it arrive faster, until it glides to a stop. The doors swish open. I step inside and push the second-floor button, realizing I’ve been holding my breath since leaving his room. I let it out and then breathe in a deep pull of air.
What. Just. Happened?
I have no idea.
It’s as absolutely unlikely as any fantasy scenario I might ever have created for myself.
At my room, I insert the key and push open the door, letting it slap closed behind me. I drop my purse onto the floor and press my palms to my cheeks, feeling the heat there.
I walk to the mirror across from the bed and look at myself. My wavy blonde hair has refused to remain in submission to the taming I gave it with my flat iron earlier this morning. Curls have reasserted themselves. My lips are as pink as my cheeks, and my eyes are a little glazed as proof that I’m having trouble believing the past ten minutes of my life.
Maybe he won’t show up downstairs and will avoid running into me for the rest of his stay here.
This scenario makes sense. He seems like a nice enough guy, on the surface. Maybe he’s trying not to hurt my feelings?
I go into the bathroom, reach for my toothbrush and brush my teeth until I no longer taste anything of the wonderful lunch I’d consumed an hour or so ago. I wrangle a brush through my hair, consider quickly plugging in the flat iron, glance at my watch and decide against it.
Of course, if I’m operating under the assumption that he’s not going to actually show up, I should use the flatiron. What difference will it make if I’m a few minutes late?
Something inside me raises an unwelcome flag of hope, and I settle for the meager repair work of my hairbrush. I pull a tube of lipstick from my makeup bag, put some on, a subtle pink that brightens up my face and at the same time doesn’t scream “I’m trying way too hard.”
In the bedroom, I pull my camera bag from the drawer where I had stored it, slip it over my shoulder, grab my purse from the floor and head for the door.
The mirror stops me, beckons me to look. I do. And I’m not even sure I recognize who I see there looking back at me.
12
Ren
I WAIT FOR HER in the lobby of the hotel. I stand away from the door with my back turned to anyone coming in. I can see the square outside the window, and I watch the faces of other people laughing, talking, and eating. Two girls walk past, glance in at me. I pull my cap lower so that it’s shadowing most of my face.
I look at my watch and realize it’s been twenty minutes since I left my room. It occurs to me that maybe she won’t come at all. Maybe she’ll decide it was a crazy request on my part to ask to join her. And an even crazier response on her part to say that I could.
I think about that taxi ride out of Rome and how I’d had no clear picture of where I was going. Not until I’d actually boarded the train and watched the Italian countryside flowing by outside my window. I knew that I was in a bad place and that despite my protest to Stuart, I didn’t really want to be alone. I wanted to be away. But not alone.
Alone is dangerous. Alone means I have to trust myself to leave that bottle in my leather case.
But sometimes, the temptation is so great that I can barely resist it. I know that what’s in that bottle will bring oblivion, freedom from my thoughts. Sometimes, I crave it to the point that it is all I can think about.
On the train headed toward Florence, I had actually let myself play through the scenario. It would be so easy. I know how many pills I would have to take. I know how long before that amount would be likely to stop my heart. There’s something I can only describe as comfort in this hidden knowledge. It’s like a concealed weapon that I carry to protect myself from the bad stuff. Only the irony is that the bad stuff doesn’t exist in the form of some lunatic hijacking my car or shooting me when I open the front door of my apartment. The bad stuff exists within me, and those pills are there to protect me from myself.
I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see Lizzy Harper stop several yards away from me, as if she’s afraid to come closer. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies back, clearly nervous.
We study each other for a second or two and then start to speak at the same time. I stop and let her speak first.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks.
“Wherever you were headed before I asked to come with you.”
I see the questions in her face, and if I were a kinder person, I would say something to address them. But what explanation could I give her that wouldn’t have her calling for the nearest psychiatrist?
And would I even blame her?
No. I wouldn’t.
13
Lizzy
I AM WALKING down a street in Florence, Italy, with Ren Sawyer.
Granted, no one else would know he’s Ren Sawyer.
Between the hat, the hoodie and the sunglasses, there’s little chance of anyone recognizing him.
Clearly, that’s his intent.
My stomach is so full of butterflies that I actually feel sick. I don’t think I could make a coherent sentence come out of my mouth right now if my life depended on it.
My brain ends everything that starts to my lips, disqualifying it as inane, boring and not even remotely in the ballpark of anything a rock star would talk about.
As for me knowing what that might be, he could belong to another species. Which, actually, I guess he does, if you’re dividing human beings into groups of like and unalike. People who live on similar planets. And people who don’t.
I settle for a question. The most obvious one. “Why would you want to do this?”
“What?” he asks. And I can tell he’s stalling.
“Come with me. Don’t people like you have bodyguards, guided tours and stuff like that?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Although it gets old pretty fast.”
“Just warning you, if a crowd gathers, and they get a little crazy, I’m probably not going to be much of a bodyguard.”
He laughs at this, and when I glance at him, I really have to wonder if he’s as surprised by the laughter as I am. I don’t know what it is. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but there’s this air about him that feels heavy and weighted, a curtain put in place to prevent others from seeing in.
His laugh is like a break in that curtain, through which I glimpse someone very different from the guy in all those pictures generated by my nosy Google search.
As quickly as it had appeared, the smile slips away again, and in its place, his former seriousness returns. “That’s okay,” he says, “I won’t expect you to.”
“Does it happen often?” I ask.
“What?”
“Things getting out of control when people recognize you.”
“Not as much as it used to. I’ve gotten a little wiser.”
“Ah,” I say, as if I know exactly what he means when how could I possibly have any idea? “I was headed to the Accademia this afternoon. We can do something else if you’d rather—”
“No. I’d like to go.”
We cover blocks and blocks then without speaking further, just walking, like two people who might know each other well enough not to need conversation, except that the explanation for our silence is something altogether different.
When I start to become uncomfortable with it, I pull my camera from its bag. I loop the strap around my neck; settle one h
and on each side, remembering how much I love the feel of it.
“Nice,” he says, looking at it.
“Thanks. I haven’t used it in a while.”
There’s a stand up ahead operated by an older man with gray hair and a sun-lined face. His cart contains clear cups of deep red cherries. Next to that is a display of sliced coconut on ice. Enormous lemons line the top of the cart.
A sign says Fresh-Squeeze Lemonade.
His setup is small and simple, but utterly beautiful. My fingers itch to capture that beauty. I raise the camera, adjust the zoom and click. It is the first picture I’ve taken in years. Just like that, I feel a little piece of myself pop back into place. Like a joint that’s been dislocated and then returned to its correct fit.
I don’t think I realized how truly painful giving up my photography has been, until now when I once again feel the satisfaction it gives me.
I’ve snapped at least twenty shots when the man running the stand smiles at me and says, “You like?”
“Very much,” I say.
“I am in one?” he says.
“Yes. Of course,” I answer, smiling.
He doesn’t pose, merely works at arranging the cups of fresh cherries at a better angle, adding slices of coconut to the ice. His white apron makes a nice offset against the vibrant colors of the fruit. He looks up once and smiles at me, his very white teeth gleaming against his sun-bronzed skin.
A customer walks up to buy a cup of cherries. The proprietor nods at me and says, “Thank you for me to be in photograph.”
“No. Thank you,” I say, stepping back. I bump into someone and turn suddenly, realizing that it is Ren, and at the same time becoming aware that I had truly forgotten he was standing there. I think he can see this in my face because I sense his surprise. I would imagine it’s a response he doesn’t get very often.
“You really love that,” he says.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long.”
“Don’t be. I enjoyed watching you.”
That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There) Page 6