Page 45 of The Roman Holiday Rule

I’ll take that. All I need is to get him involved, and his passion will kick in and do the rest.

“Let me know what you find on your end. Thanks.”

After we hang up, I perch on the stone balustrade at the banks of the river and call Ms. Accardi. She offers to meet with me for a few minutes around lunchtime at the Keats-Shelley House, where she’s finishing restorations. It’s about a forty-minute walk from here, so I head for the Piazza di Spagna at the base of the Spanish Steps.

By the time I reach the gridded city blocks in the center, instead of plotting my dad’s involvement in the project the way Ishouldbe doing, my thoughts take a left turn back to Lexington and how to get her lira to her without revealing my part in retrieving it. Because the chances of her not stiff-arming me for how rudely I left the restaurant yesterday are as small as the hole in the coin I keep fingering in my pocket.

I make my way up the narrow street, skirting double-parked delivery vans, potted trees, and outdoor restaurant tables.

Mariella could pass the lira to Lexington. That makes the most sense. She’ll be in the office this afternoon. Easy.

Except maybe I don’t want the easy, anonymous way.

Twenty-Five

Lexi

My third day in Italy,and I cannot wait to get started. Today, I’m keeping to my schedule no matter what. Research, plan, and execute.

After I finish a few tasks on the computer for the festival, I slide the envelope labeledSpanish Stepsinto my bag with my journal. Donning my silver aviator sunglasses, I step out of the hotel, stomach growling.

A half block before I arrive at the open door ofIl Dolce Far Niente, the air starts to whisper a song of honey and espresso, like an intense, swelling symphony.This cafe isn’t the closest to my hotel, but thanks to its name (The Sweet Idleness) and its ambience with industrial lighting, tiny wooden tables, and a massive brick wall, it’s become my habitual morning stop.The more routines I build into my time in Rome, the more Italy will feel like something deeper than vacation.

I order a cappuccino and amaritozzo, Rome’s signature pastry, from the barista. Today I choose the fluffy bun with chocolate-flavored whipped cream.

“Oh, you didn’t enjoy the honey and raisin one?” The baristaand I chatted yesterday. His name is Cassio, and he grew up a half mile from here.

“I loved it, butleave no stone unturnedis my motto. And by stone, I mean maritozzo.”

“It’s the only way to find your favorite,” he says, nodding at the credit card reader.

I hover my card over the device until it beeps. “What’s yours?”

“When I was a kid, it was the chocolate. But now, I prefer the savory choices.” He pulls a pastry from the display. “Not that your palate isn’t mature, but I don’t need everything sweet like when I was little. Life is all kinds of emotions.”

I drop a few euros into the tip basket. “And a maritozzo should echo our emotional mood?”

He flashes a wide smile. “Of course. Or create it. That, and time with family, is what food is all about.”

I wish. You have to have a family for that.

We talk for twenty minutes, a few locals joining our conversation at the bar, before I head into the city center. Every piece of Rome’s culture I soak in is a joy to me.

The Spanish Steps lead from the Piazza di Spagna up to a church, and they’re impressive. Wide and smooth, flanked by historic buildings, palms, and lamps, the stairs split halfway up to create a picturesque landing. The travertine stone sparkles in the sunshine, and the fountain at the bottom in the plaza tempts giggling children.

It’s not a tourist site, it’s Mom’s famous watercolor of the Spanish Steps, it’s the envelope in my hand she sent me to open here, it’s the lack of her in every experience.

Did she talk to baristas? Did she eat Italian breakfast? Did she find a favorite cafe?

That is the shadow that follows me.

I climb the stairs and stop, taking a moment to commit the watercolor scene on the envelope to memory before I open it. The painting is of a narrow street and laundry hung between buildings, a typical Italian vignette. She’s captured the feeling of a brisk crosswindflapping the shirts, white socks, and an apron with yellow dots and tiny cherry blossoms.

I can’t wait any longer to read what she wanted to say to me.

Dear Lexington,

You remember my obsession with the Romantic poets, right? One of my favorites, John Keats, lived in the house on the corner of the Spanish Steps.