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I get to my feet. “I am glad we talked. I’m glad we cleared the air. But any attempt to fix this would be just as likely to blow up in my face. I don’t want another fifteen minutes of fame, even for the right reasons. I’m fine.”

“You’re living under an assumed name. You gave up your career, your talent.”

“I’m living under the name on my birth certificate.

No, I’m not a concert violist. I didn’t graduate from Juilliard.

Those are the dreams of an eighteen-year-old girl, Isabella.

I teach music, and I play in a quartet and a small symphony, and I love it.

I have a wonderful apartment and an amazing boyfriend.

I won’t lie – I would also love to be free from the lies – but I don’t see a way to do that without risking the great life I already have.

It’s not a gamble I’m willing to take. I’m sorry. ”

I start for the door.

“Lucy,” she calls.

I turn. She’s still there by the sofa.

“Will you think on it?” she says. “I’ll do the same. I understand your concerns, but I believe we could work something out. A strategy to give us what we both need.”

When I don’t answer, she sees opportunity and pounces with, “Lunch tomorrow. I know you’re tired. You need time alone. Join me for lunch, and we’ll talk, and if we can’t come to a solution that satisfies you, then you’ll go back to Rome, and I’ll just be happy that we had this chance to talk.”

I pause and then say, “I’ll get back to you tonight.”

“Thank you. Let me give you my number.”

When I get downstairs, the car is pulling in, summoned by Isabella.

I’m barely a mile from my hotel, and it’s faster to walk.

I want to walk. Even as I step out into a light rain, I don’t change my mind.

That car belongs to Isabella, and within its confines I remain under her control.

I need to get away from that and collect my thoughts.

I’m so wrapped up in those thoughts that I overshoot my street.

As I take out my phone, I scan shop names so I can orient myself on my cell-phone map.

The one right beside me proclaims Authentic Italian Iced Treats.

One glimpse at the candy-colored gelato has me sniffing in disdain.

I chuckle. I have become an Italian, who knows that this neon-bright whipped stuff is not proper gelato.

As I gaze at that shop, my mind tumbles back to an afternoon last month, meeting Marco after a Pantheon tour and having gelato at Giolitti.

Sitting at a rickety table on the cobblestone street, we shared an insane dessert of chocolate ice cream and custard zabaione, entirely encased in a globe of whipped cream.

Marco was telling me about studies that upend the prevailing theories on the Vesuvius eruption.

The movie Pompeii shows people drowning in lava and perishing in a rain of fire, but any tour guide knows that’s Hollywood hyperbole.

It’s long been presumed that people suffocated from the volcanic ash.

New studies, though, suggest their brains may have exploded from the heat.

Marco was explaining this new theory to me, his enthralled audience…

until we caught the horrified looks of the tourists beside us, who apparently didn’t consider brain-boiling a proper dining conversation.

So Marco switched to I talian… and got the same horrified looks from the locals on our opposite side.

Now I’m standing in the rain, staring at this fake gelato place, and I’m back in that sunny afternoon in Rome. I hear Marco’s animated chatter, and then our stifled snickers and giggles as we realize we’ve inadvertently driven off our dining neighbors, leaving us free to continue the discussion.

I remember what that moment felt like. Sharing our crazy dessert. Basking in the sunshine. Rapt in our conversation. I’d sat there looking at Marco and felt…

Happy. Giddily, unbelievably happy. I could scarcely believe this was my life. This beautiful, bewitching city? Mine. This gorgeous, fascinating man? Mine. All mine.

What I felt that day wasn’t mere happiness. It was love , God help me. Love for that life. Love for that city. Love for that man.

I inhale so sharply I startle an old woman, who mutters at me in Korean before tromping into the gelato shop.

I watch her go, and I breathe, just breathe, until the stabbing panic subsides.

When it does, I know my answer for Isabella.

I understand that she wants this thing, and I want to give it to her, in apology, but I truly cannot take the risk.

I will need to meet with her again, though. She has the power to upend my life, and I must talk to her face-to-face and bring her to fully understand what she’s asking me to do and why I cannot do it.

I text her, warning that my position hasn’t changed but accepting her invitation to lunch. We arrange to meet at her hotel suite at noon tomorrow.

Then I text Marco. As much as I’d love to call instead, tourist-season weekends are insanely busy for him. He won’t be in bed yet, but he’ll be exhausted.

Me: It’s me. Busy day here, but I’m sure yours was busier! I just wanted to check in and say ‘buonanotte e sogni d’oro.’

The reply comes right away.

Marco: Yep, long day, but never so long that I’m not up for a chat. FaceTime?

I hesitate, my fingers over the keypad. I’m on a busy New York street in the rain. Not the place for the conversation we need to have. I can probably get to my hotel in about fifteen minutes but…

My heart pounds, as if I’ve been asked to publicly perform a new song from sheet music. I’m not prepared. I need to be prepared.

Me: I’m out, having taken a wrong turn, and it’s raining. Not a good look for me.

Marco: I’ll be the judge of that.

I snap a photo and send it.

Marco: Bellissimo. But, yes, not the environment for a video chat. Tomorrow?

Me: I’ll be up by six, and I don’t have anything before eleven. That’s between noon and 5 p.m. your time. Anything work there?

Marco: How about nine your time?

Me: Excellent. And… it won’t be a short talk. I really do need to speak to you.

Silence. Then:

Marco: Those ominous words again. The same conversation, I presume? More urgent now?

Me: Just an overdue conversation that became more pressing after I left Rome. Nothing ominous, I promise.

I’m not sure he buys that. I’ve said it twice now, and a dozen possibilities will be flying through his head.

We’re getting too comfy – I need you to back off a little.

I’m moving to the US.

I’ve met someone else.

I love you and want to have your baby.

Okay, he knows me too well for that last one.

I try to reassure him by goofing around, asking for a photo of him now that I’ve sent one of me. He sends one of him reclining in bed with a book, and I tease that it doesn’t show nearly enough. I get another picture… of his head and bare shoulders.

We go on like that for a while as I walk to the hotel, and ultimately, I get a full body shot…

with the book strategically placed. I laugh at that, but I don’t ask for more.

We’re old enough and savvy enough not to exchange X-rated pics.

I’ll reciprocate tomorrow with something equally sexy and PG-13.

After we have the conversation, though. Better not send him a boudoir photo right before telling him that, with the right online search terms, he can find pictures of me topless in a hot tub, straddling Colt Gordon.

I sigh. That is not going to be a fun conversation. None of it is, and I wish I could retract my promise to Isabella, fly home tonight and tell Marco in person.

I’ll do it by video chat tomorrow, and maybe that’s best, giving him time alone to assimilate everything before I come home.

Right now, though, I have another call to make. To my mother.