Marilyn leaned forward, took her hand. “Of course you do. And your best friend wants it for you. And so do I. And so does anyone who cares about you. But if I’m being honest, I think we all want that only because you haven’t given us an alternative. I think everyone around you is waiting for you to accept yourself as you are now, so we can as well. And the bitch of it is you’re waiting for everyone to accept you as you are now so you can accept yourself and, sorry, but love, it’s your move. You’ve gotta go first.”
Sewanee’s head bowed, as if physically unable to stay upright under the weight of her mother’s words. She knew it was her turn to say something. But she was saved by Marilyn leaning toward her daughter’s head and repositioning her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “You have a gray hair!”
Sewanee’s head popped up. “What? Where?!”
“Right in the part.”
“Well, yank it out!”
Marilyn chortled and pulled away. “Ohhhh, no! Nope.” She stood. “You’re going to leave it be. You’re a tiger and you earned that stripe.” She bent over, kissed the top of Sewanee’s head, right where that stripe had sprouted. “I think you should rest. Take a few hours, we’ll come back at seven to take you to dinner.” Marilyn’s eyes flicked toward the lobby and Sewanee now saw Stu had stationed himself in a chair there, reading a book. “A delightful little trattoria. And tomorrow night, there’s a place Stu is trying to get us a reservation at but it’s one of those six-month-out situations.” She shrugged. “If he can’t, well, we’ll be forced to wander the canals eating gelato.”
“Quelle horreur,” Sewanee murmured.
Her mother affected a perfect Italian hand, fingertips up and together, a garlic bulb. “Che orrore,” she enunciated. She winked and settled her pashmina more securely over her shoulders. “Ciao, bella!”
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, after a nap as solid as if she’d been anesthetized for surgery, Sewanee met her mother and Stu in the lobby and they left the pensione, the night air warm for March. They walked to a picture-perfect restaurant and slipped into a tight corner table. The scent of garlic and wine cork captured her, the feel of white linen under her fingertips comforted her, the taste of Barolo calmed her. She leaned her shoulder against the wood plank wall and watched the candlelight play in her mother’s eyes and over Stu’s capable hand as he dished up side-plates of the house’s special fish risotto. The pleasures of other patrons wafted through the restaurant and combined with the ambient hum of conversation. When their plates had been cleared and they’d shared an affogato, they squeezed themselves past the other diners and slipped back out into the now-chilly night.
Marilyn and Stu insisted on walking her back to the pensione. Getting lost in Venice wasn’t difficult, it was a given. She had no idea where they were, might as well have been in a maze. They turned left, made a sharp right, walked down a street that was narrower than a hallway, down a flight of tiny steps, under some arbitrary and beautiful wood beams, and there they were: back at the pensione’s garden gate.
She was even more surprised by the figure standing in the shadows about ten feet in front of them.
She stopped walking. Stared. “What are you doing here?”
Nick’s hands went out to his sides. “This is the grovel.”
He looked wrecked. He carried a single backpack, his hair stuck up in a few different directions, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in days. He wore black sweatpants, a gray Trinity College Dublin hoodie, and glasses. She didn’t know he wore glasses. He’d never looked worse and she couldn’t believe how attracted she was to him. This is how he would be on a Sunday morning when he was long past trying to impress a woman. He was alluring in a suit, he was devastating in a tux, but he was dangerous like this.
“How did you find me?”
“Mark. After you e-mailed Jason, he called me and said, ‘what did you do?’ You weren’t answering your texts, so Jason told me to try Mark. I drove to the studio and, once I explained who I was, Mark, too, said, ‘what did you do?’ He grilled me for an hour before telling me where you were.”
She pulled her sweater tighter around her body.
“Can we talk?”
Sewanee turned slightly and his eyes darted to the two people standing behind her. She was about to introduce them, but her mom jumped ahead of her. “Hi, I’m Marilyn, the mother.” She looked entirely too pleased for Sewanee’s taste. “And this is my partner, Stu Hart.”