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She still hadn’t touched the papers.
“Do you … want to read it?”
She looked between the pages and me before taking them from me. Hopeful, I watched as she skimmed through the pages at lightning speed. I never knew someone could read that fast. Once she was done, she handed back. “It was great.”
“What was your favorite part?”
She sighed. “What?”
“Your favorite part.”
“Oh, I didn’t have a favorite part. It was all great.” She walked past me, but I stopped her by saying, “Mom.”
She slowly looked back at me. “Yes, Fran?”
“You didn’t really read it, did you?”
A flash of guilt spread across her eyes before it disappeared. “No. I did. I just …” She slumped. “Honey, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I just don’t have time to read something you wrote. There are more important things. I need to go see how Antonio is getting on with his homework.” And with that, she left the room.
I stared down at my carefully hand-written pages until a wet stain appeared, making the ink blur. I was crying. Before Emilia or Gemma could notice, I fled to my room, crying the entire way there.
* * *
Emiliaand I go to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which is filled with paintings I’ve never seen before and painters I’ve never heard of before. It’s filled with everything from impressionist paintings to abstract to surrealism.
I’m in heaven.
Every time I see a painting I like, I gasp and hurry over to it. Emilia follows, breathing heavily but not complaining.
“Do you need to sit down?” I ask her, nodding at a bench.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry. I want be here. And besides, it’s good for me to walk around. Helps get circulation to my ankles.”
“Are you sure you’re ok with this?”
“Fran.” Emilia gives me a pointed look. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. Besides, I want to see you happy. So, look at however many paintings you want. If I need to sit down, I will.”
Ten minutes later, she sits down, motioning me to go on ahead and enjoy all the art. I spend some time looking at a cubist painting when a man comes to stand beside me. With a quick look at him, I can tell he’s handsome. Tan skin, dark hair, blinding white teeth when he smiles at me, catching me looking at him.
I firmly cement my eyes to the painting.
“I’m Henry,” he says, holding out his hand. “I don’t mean to be forward, but I know who you are.”
I freeze. “Uh …”
Realization dawns in his eyes. “Oh! Sorry. I work for your brother-in-law. Henry Wilson.”
“Oh, ok. I’m Francesca.” He still has his hand out, so I shake it.
“What are the chances we’d both be here?”
“I don’t know.” I frown, realizing I don’t know how he’d recognize me. We’ve ever met before. “How did you know who I was?”
“I’ve been to Marco’s house. I’ve seen your family pictures on the wall. I would recognize a Moretti sibling anywhere.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you.”
I start to walk away from him when he asks, “What’s your favorite art style? Mine is abstract.”
