“Juliet. Juliet Accordi.” I gaze up at him through my long lashes, captivated by his intense brown eyes holding my gaze. “It’s nice to meet you.” I notice that his face is cold, and his voice devoid of emotion.
“Likewise,” he says as he leans in to kiss my right cheek, then my left. The hair on the back of my neck stands up at his touch. “Are you enjoying your studies here?”
“Oh, yes,” I assure him, and my flesh tingles with mixed feelings, on the one hand excited and yet scared on the other. I have no idea what is triggering this fight or flight response. I want to follow my body’s urge to run and leave immediately, but I don’t want it to look obvious.
He turns his attention back to Ava and chats with her for a minute, but I can’t help feeling he’s watching me even though his eyes are clearly on her.
There is something about him, but I can’t put my finger on it. He’s observant and a man of few words, which implies he’s either very smart or he’s used to playing things close to his chest.
He’s definitely sure of himself, his posture exuding strength and virility. I bet he has us both committed to his memory, and he probably has me pegged right down to my black bikini underwear.
“Would you ladies like to join us for an espresso?” he asks, looking at both of us as the church bells from the Duomo chime and echo down the streets of the city.
We wait for the bells to finish before resuming our conversation.
“Thank you, but we were just heading out,” I explain, putting my arm firmly through Ava’s.
“Another time then, perhaps,” he says, wishing us a good afternoon before he nods and walks away with the dean in the opposite direction.
After we exit the courtyard, I turn my head to take one more look at the handsome stranger when I overhear him asking the dean about the art program and the future funding needed, but I can’t catch any details after that.
“That was weird.” I still have my arm through Ava’s as we hit the narrow sidewalk, making our way to our favorite park near the Arno River. The sky is partially cloudy, so the water will not look blue today, which is a pity. I’ll have to tweak the color later. I hate the look of muddy rivers.
“What? He seemed perfectly fine,” she replies as we step inside the café on the corner for a quick espresso.
“Due espresso, per favore,” I pull euros out of my knock-off Gucci purse that I wear slung from my shoulders and across my chest to prevent it from being ripped off by a professional pickpocket. The city is rife with them.
I had to teach Ava how to do these things or she would have lost her good camera on her first day of sightseeing.
I pay the man behind the counter for our drinks and buy a bottled water as well. I can feel the day heating up and moisture is starting to build on the nape of my neck.
“Do I look flushed?” I stir a packet of sugar into my espresso and turn to face her.
“God, I’m addicted to this.” Ava lets her drink cool for thirty seconds before downing it in two gulps and checking out my face. “Nope, you’re fine. Maybe it was that hot Italian dude making you sweat,” she snickers.
“Well . . .” I fumble for words as I remember the chance meeting.
“Well, what? Hottie! He had an air of mystery or danger about him,” she volunteers. “You have everything here in Italy—hot men, coffee, food, tons of antiquities to take in, it’s amazing. I love it.”
“We’re pretty lucky.” I’m grateful for the distraction off of the mystery man, and we stroll down to the park. We need an entire bench to ourselves as our art supplies fill up all the empty space between us.
Birds chirp in the lush trees overhead as Ava asks me how to say ‘happy birthday’ in Italian. I teach her and she tries to say ‘buon compleanno’ but botches it terribly, and we both laugh at her attempts.
I appreciate that she’s trying to learn, but honestly, foreigners can get around easily without knowing any Italian, at least in the city. Most waiters will know English so they can earn better tips and many of the under thirty-year-olds speak English because it was integrated into the schools three decades ago.
But it helps to know some Italian if one wanders outside of the tourist areas. Granted, the train stations sell tickets from kiosk or red machines with English signage at the press of a button. But tickets for the city buses are sold in Tabbachi’s—small shops that carry items like newspapers, candy, cigars, and cheap souvenirs. Typically they are run by one person who speaks Italian and the native language of his home. So, I’ll teach Ava enough Italian to get around.
3
Dante
Riccardo remains on the street, inconspicuously leaning up against the stone building while I walk under the Roman arches and inside to my appointment with the dean.
I find him sitting in his office behind an antique desk that’s probably older than he is. Standing as I walk in, we shake hands, and he offers me a tour of the immediate campus.
Funny how a busy dean is suddenly available when the word ‘donation’ is dropped into his lap like a fresh baked cookie. I keep my conversation light and superficial, as if I’m here on a whim.
There’s no reason why I can’t become a patron of the arts. Most people in my circle assume that means opera, ballet, or theater, but I’m of the opinion that art is art, and what’s wrong with helping a school that might inspire a sculptor or painter who goes on to become famous? Or at the very least, make a living doing what they love? For an artist, that’s tough.