Page 51 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Engaged! And he lives in Italy. Even friendship is practically impossible.

My emotions play tug-of-war. It’s like finding a hundred-dollar bill while sleepwalking to work in pajamas, suddenly rich but inappropriate and mortified. Not that I’ve personally experienced either of those events. I’m guessing. Really, I promise.

A text from Gia dings.

Where are you?

It forces my feet to move, but my steps toward the museum seem to clap out one question. Mark, Mark, Mark?

By the time I open the door to the Palazzo Colonna museum where Gia waits with her tablet, I’m a shredded rope.

Gia jumps straight into our shared to-do list as she leads me through the museum, which we’ve employed as our headquarters. “I marked what I’ve done, and I saw that you already sent me the crowd-flow maps. I just forwarded those to the authorities.”

I follow a step behind. Gia’s rapid-fire instructions fade as I take in the sparkling Baroque palace. Everything from the painted ceiling to the polished, intricately designed marble floor deserves attention.

I spin in wonder that Mom’s art will sit among these masterpiece paintings, tapestries, and sculptures from Rome’s long history,andright where they filmed the final scene fromRoman Holiday.She would love that, and I’m so proud of her.

Which of Mark’s many smiles will show on his face when he sees Mom’s final painting for the private preview he won? Will he appreciate it?

Gia snaps her fingers, bringing me back to attention.

“I’m sorry Gia, I missed the last thing you said because”—I sweep my arm to indicate the entire palazzo—“Italy.”

She gives me an indulgent smile and unlocks a large storage room. Boxes and festival supplies fill the room, except for a workbench inthe middle and a thin path to a second door in the back. It looks like chaos but on closer inspection, Gia’s organization method emerges.

The rhythm of work—troubleshooting festival issues, making calls to confirm last-minute details, and stuffing the gift bags for our artists and volunteers—narrows my focus and helps me block out the rest of my thoughts. (Mark. Mark is The Rest.)

I glance at Gia, who is texting someone on her tablet while talking into her cell phone smashed against her cheek with her shoulder. She hangs up. This is the rare, quiet moment I’ve been waiting for. “Hey, remember the program design we decided on for Saturday’s reception? With the cityscape? I liked that, but the reworked design was on brand too. Where did you get the graphics for it?”

Nice and casual. No need for Gia to see my crazy.

She opens the cardboard flaps of a large box of banners that will stretch across the city streets and makes a note on her tablet. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I mean, the new ones were brilliant, but I was surprised you made the switch without consulting me. It wasn’t you?”

“No. Or Julie.” That’s just downright odd. “It was identical to a personal drawing my mom made for me.”

Gia frowns. “I’ll call the printers and see what happened.”

With everything on her plate, I doubt she’ll get to it anytime in the next few days, but I shouldn’t go over her head on this. The printers were her contacts.

Gia and I break for coffee, then work another few hours training the festival volunteers. Still, we reach a stopping point an hour later than I’d hoped.

She hands me the bag of cardboard packaging. “Do you mind dumping this in the recycling bin outside on your way out? More sightseeing today?”

I take the bag. “Sort of. I’m hunting for the site of my mom’s painting. Is the painting here or in your office?”

“It’s locked behind that door, still in its shipping packaging. Ican’t wait to see it—it’s burning a hole in my self-discipline minute by minute.” Gia shivers in delight and waggles her eyebrows.

I grin and drop the trash bag, stepping toward the small door. “Come on. I think you’ve earned a peek.”

Gia squeals and rushes forward, punching a code into the electric lock. Opening the door and flicking the light switch, she stops in front of a large package propped against a table. She claps, breathless. “You open it. I can’t, I’m too excited.”

I cut through the tape with scissors from the storage room while she hovers near, peering over my shoulder. “Careful, Lexi. You don’t want to nick the frame. Watch out at the corner there. Maybe just pull that . . .”

Gia’s excitement is a small taste of what the reveal will feel like, with hundreds of Mom’s fans eager and curious. I would feel so much more prepared for my speech if I had any information about what place in Rome inspired this painting.

I lift the heavy 3x5 foot painting so Gia can help me get it out of the packaging. The ornate gold frame and oil painting look no worse for wear after the international shipping. Still, we’re both holding our breath for every second of the slow move to prop it back against the table. After what seems like ages, I safely lower the bottom of the frame to the floor. My shoulders loosen and I stare at the piece that brought me to Rome.

Sometimes we stop truly seeing things when they’re a familiar sight. Now, with Mom’s painting in Italy, in a palace alongside the Italian masters, I can’t even breathe, wishing she were here. It’s like seeing the artwork for the first time, even though I’ve grown up with this painting hanging above my mom’s bed and I’ve stared at it so many times I know every detail by heart. A small, ancient temple. Five columns holding up a circular domed roof. The skyline of ancient Roman buildings peeking through the trees behind the temple. A vine winding up one of the columns, its purple blooms caught at the moment of opening wide.