Page 33 of The Roman Holiday Rule

I track its flight over a tiny park whose trees look like they’ve had a buzz cut on top. The bird banks to the right and flies over afour-lane road. Drivers weave in and around one another without any rule exceptif you fit, fine.

I stand at the curb, stymied, as the bird flies off. There goes that lead.

The brick wall along the sidewalk leads me to an open wrought-iron fence. I pass under a brick arch. Up ahead, a small crowd fills an enclosed piazza and I exhale with relief. People.

They’re lined up in front of a closed door, waiting. It’s late in the morning for a museum or gardens to be opening. I join the end of the line, planning to ask directions. A tall woman about my age with thick, dark hair stands in front of me, and I tap her shoulder. “What is this line for?” I ask in Italian.

She dimples, and something in her smile reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on who. “The view.”

What view? It’s a closed door.

I peek around her to the front of the line. The first person is bent over, face smashed to the wood. I let out a surprised laugh.

We’re standing in line to peep through a keyhole? This is a first.

The person at the door steps away, and I jolt. The paint around the spot is scuffed. The doors are green. Paneled. The color from Mark’s picture came out different, but this is the place from the photo he showed me.

I spin. I found it on day two. How is that possible? I don’t even know wherehereis.

I check my phone again and it’s located my position. We’re near the Church of Santa Maria del Priorato owned by the Knights of Malta. The green doors lead to the private gardens of the church. My heart races.

What just happened?

I made a wish at Trevi Fountain and here I am.

Impossible.

The line moves forward a few feet. A shiver passes down my spine. Coincidence. This is only a weird coincidence. Beginner’s luck.

Ten minutes later, it’s my turn, and I squeeze one eye shut, bend over, and peer through.

I gasp at the world through the keyhole. There’s ivy, well-tended trees and bushes in a garden, and framed by clipped hedges in the background is the faraway domed St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. It’s the tiniest, most perfect view, a miniature realm. The most glorious example of how beautiful a good plan can be. I could stare through here forever.

Lifting my phone to the hole, I aim the camera lens at the spot and attempt a picture. Blurry. I try again, but it doesn’t do the view justice. It would take a photographer with a much better camera and a much better eye than me to get this shot.

Someone like Mark.

I can imagine how perfect that picture would be. If he uses it for the bet, I’ll lose.

Because this is the heart of Italy, right here, symbolically and aesthetically. A small, architectural, historical miracle, pointing to one of the most famous churches in the world.

I hold back the urge to call him and rave about the once-in-a-lifetime view through this keyhole, that I found the answer even though I can’t get a picture of it. He’s biased against me and off-limits. So why am I wishing he were here?

Sightseeing by myself isn’t ideal. When faced with uncommon beauty, the human instinct is to share it, even with someone who would consider my joy as being shallow.

I was supposed to be here with Mom. Instead, besides my always-rushed business colleague Gia, the only one I slightly know in the whole country, the whole continent, is Mark No-Tourists-Dot-Com Russo.

Italy loves irony.

Shaking my head, I step back and let the people behind me have their turn.

The woman from the line hovers to the side and gives me a smallwave. “I was at the pre-festival soiree on Saturday and heard your speech. You’re Lexi Walker, right?”

“Oh, that’s why you look familiar. Are you one of the artists?”

“No, just guilty by association.” She grins, then cocks her head. “I’m sorry if this too personal, but ... you have an American last name, yet you speak Italian?”

Yes, it’s personal, but she has kind eyes and I want to tell my story. “I’m from Boston. My mother and I planned to come together to Italy someday so she could show me the city where she met and fell in love with my dad. To prepare, I studied Italian, and for the last year, an elderly Italian gentleman tutored me.”