“All right. Roman.” Something had him upset. He must be stressed about getting the project done. He’d told Hector he wanted it done pronto. Grace took a step back. “I’d better let you get back to work. I’ll call the hotel and clear things up for Hector. And the door chimes.” She headed for the door.
“Grace. When Talia calls, as we both know she will, tell her the paintings are almost done. She can pick up two on Wednesday, and I’ll finish the other before I head for San Diego.”
ROMAN, AGE 21
Roman shoved his backpack into the overhead compartment of the Boeing 777 and slid into his seat. He stayed awake long enough to feel the rush of takeoff, coming to somewhere over the Atlantic, just in time to lower his tray as the flight attendant served dinner. He fell asleep again while the two middle-aged women to his right went over their week’s itinerary in Rome.
Sergio Panetta had given him directions to the Cremonesis’。 He got lost, but several nice-looking girls who spoke heavily accented English guided him to public transportation. Once in the right neighborhood, he walked the narrow streets with laundry hanging on lines outside windows. There were many more bicycles and motorcycles here than in San Francisco or Los Angeles, but he knew how to survive traffic.
Baldo and Olivia Cremonesi didn’t speak English, but they embraced him in welcome and jabbered rapidly in Italian. Within an hour, their home was packed with relatives eager to meet the American who had painted a fresco for their rich cousin in Hollywood. A dozen Cremonesi aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces, not to mention Santorini neighbors, crammed into the house. Olivia fretted over Roman not eating enough and kept pushing food at him. The table was laden with dishes he’d never seen before, and all of it smelled good. But a man can only eat so much. Younger members of the clan practiced their English on him, peppering him with questions about America and about Sergio, who had become a family legend with his success as an import-export business owner.
Roman had hoped for quiet lodgings for a day or two until he could learn his way around the city and find a good hostel, but the Cremonesis had the next few weeks of his life all planned out. They’d even appointed a relative to act as guide to the Eternal City. Luigi was young, out of work, and eager to show their American guest around. Grinning at Roman, he raised his wineglass. “We go tomorrow. I teach you everything you need to know.” He winked. “We look for girls.”
Olivia smacked Luigi on the back of the head and erupted in excited Italian while waving angrily at Baldo, who hollered back. Luigi laughed. Baldo raised his hands in surrender and cried out, “Olivia!” Others laughed, too, saying things to Luigi with glances at Roman.
Roman didn’t like being the center of attention. He didn’t like being in a crowded room among strangers who had no qualms about hugging and kissing him the minute they walked in the room. He didn’t want anyone making plans for him for an hour, let alone days. And he didn’t want anyone showing him the city. He hadn’t come to Rome so people could take over his life. He’d rather sleep on the streets than stay in this house.
The longer the evening wore on, the quieter he got. Olivia noticed and spoke to him in Italian. She put her hands together against her cheek and pretended to sleep. He saw an excuse to separate himself from the throng and nodded.
Olivia called Luigi and waved toward the stairs. Luigi told Roman a bedroom was ready upstairs and down the hall to the left. “I pick you up at noon.”
As soon as Roman closed the door, he pulled a sketch pad from his backpack. Leaning against the headboard, he drew rapidly: Olivia in the kitchen with Baldo leaning against the counter, an adoring look on his face. He wrote Grazie at the top and signed Roman Velasco at the bottom. He stuck the picture in the dresser mirror and looked out the window. It was a straight drop to a cobbled alley. He wouldn’t be escaping that way. He’d have to wait for the party to end and the Cremonesis to go to bed.
He pulled out his guidebook on Rome and studied the city map. By the time the house was quiet, he had memorized the city layout. He felt a twinge of guilt leaving in the middle of the night, but not enough to change his mind. He closed the front door quietly behind him. Filling his lungs with the air of freedom, he let it out in relief. He could find his own way. He’d been doing it since he was seven.
It was a couple of miles to the heart of the city, with several places to stay. He walked quickly, putting some distance between him and the Cremonesi house. Mopeds were locked in racks or chained to trees. He remembered what Jasper had said about traveling Europe on a motorcycle. He might buy one if the opportunity presented itself.