Page 1 of The Roman Holiday Rule

One

Lexi

When the executorof your mother’s will hands you four sealed envelopes to open ONLY in Rome, you hop on the next plane to Europe.

Except that’s not how this played out.

All things considered, it’s impressive that it only took a year to get to this point: the check-in line at Boston Logan airport, ready to go, every single detail in place.

It all started with a sticky note on one of Mom’s paintings that said,Marked for Rome.

So now, not only was I flying to Rome for myself and Mom, I would be dedicating her artwork to the people of Italy while there.

That’s when things escalated.

And look, we’re both to blame here, Rome and I.

Rome (or more specifically, Gia Castelli, the head of the Department of Cultural Activities) decided a discreet handover in a stuffy museum wouldn’t do for a Reena Brooke original. Gia insisted a citywide art festival would be the appropriate setting for the unveiling. With a dedication speech given by Reena Brooke’s daughter, yours truly.

Gia then hired my marketing and event agency to co-plan the two-day event, and there was no way my business partner Julie and I could refuse the chance to expand internationally.

For my part, I took my usual Lexi approach to everything: over-research, over-plan, and perfectly execute.

Brushing up on my Italian. Reading articles on Italy every spare evening. Emails and phone calls, charts and schedules. Poring over city maps.

To make matters even more intense, this work trip is also a bucket list trip Mom and I wanted to take together. I haven’t peeked at the letters, as tempted as I’ve been, but on the cusp of embarking, I’m a very brittle combination of nerves, stress, and excited anticipation.

I think that pretty much sums it up.

So it’s not overkill that I’m reaching into my pocket-organized travel purseagainto feel for the stiff passport nestled against Mom’s envelopes. The passport that was supposed to be for our mother-daughter trip years ago is finally getting its moment of glory. We should have a party, the little blue book and I. During the flight, I’ll raise a plastic cup of ginger ale in its honor.

Julie—my best friend since the day I traded my role in the fifth-grade play for her assignment as backstage director—pulls my suitcase inches forward in the check-in line, groaning at its supposed heaviness.

I laugh and reclaim the luggage handle from her. Her overblown drama never fails to entertain my literal tendencies. “It’s exactly at the weight limit.”

“Try twenty pounds over.” She’s an intensifier, andlive bigis her motto. I mean, one look at the massive fuchsia flowers on her fifties-style vintage dress and hoop earrings so wide they eclipse her layered blonde bob should tell you that.

She sweeps her curtain bangs to one side and sighs at the gathering crowds. “It’s getting busy. I’ll snag us a table at the coffee shop while you finish checking in.”

“My treat,” I call after her. It’s the least I can do to compensate forthis past year, for putting her through what she terms my “obsession.” I call it thoroughness, but potato, po-tah-to.

It was necessary, though. Mom’s fans are rabid about the mysterious painting that’s been in our private family collection and never publicly shown. They’ll demand to know the location in Rome that inspired it and what significance it held for her.

Believe me, I’ve tried to figure that out. The draft of my dedication speech has some pretty big blanks. I’m hoping the letters in the envelopes tell me. If not, I have a week in Rome to solve that mystery.

The stakes are Alps-high. So while I envy the curly-haired guy in the back of the line relaxed and absorbed in his Asimov paperback, I have no capacity for focusing on anything but Italy, my mom, and the task before me.

Behind the counter, the petite, frazzled employee wrestles to keep her duty-smile in place while an irate traveler argues that he’s flown with his e-bike battery in his checked baggage on other airlines and should be allowed to do so now. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is already springing free from her tidy airline bun by the time he demands to talk to a representative “with more authority.”

When it’s my turn at the counter, she doesn’t look up from her computer screen. “Passport.”

I set the little book in her outstretched hand. “Thank you for keeping us safe.”

She glances at me, eyes wide. “Exactly,” she says, her voice a dark shade of justified ferocity. She jabs buttons on her keyboard. That computer system willreallyknow my information. With a side-eye peek at the biker stomping toward the customer service office, she adds, “How hard is it to understand that the rules to keep people alive are more important than his sport?”

“You were amazing. If it had been me dealing with him, I would have pulled a lithium battery move.”

She pauses her violent typing and looks up at me quizzically.