Chapter 30

It's been twoweeks back home, and I can't seem to lift myself out of my funk. At first, I thought it was jet lag, but that would have worn off by now. It doesn't help every time I walk down the hallway of Granite Scholastics someone cheerfully asks me about my trip. I'm depressed, is what I am.

Cara bailed Barbara out of jail during my flight back home and immediately transported her to a local rehab center her friend Tony recommended, where she will stay for the next month. I am allowed to see her at the end of this week for our first family therapy session. I'm honestly surprised she hasn't checked herself out yet. Perhaps she's finally seen the light…but I'm not holding my breath. We've been through this before.

Lorenzo and I have texted back and forth a few times. Each text like a lifeline to my heart, but it's getting to be busy season at the farm, and his messages lately have been quick and distracted sounding. I get it. It's impossible to keep a relationship going when you live in two different countries, and he's nine hours ahead. Cara doesn't think it's healthy for me to continue this charade, and she's probably right, but I can't seem to let him go.

"Knock-knock, Summer. Mr. Krantz would like to see you." Betsy, Allen's assistant, sticks her head in my cubicle.

"Okay, thanks, Betsy." I smile briefly before I get up from my desk. Please don't walk with me. I'm not in the mood to chitchat.

"Right this way," she singsongs, like I've got amnesia and can't remember where my boss's office is after fourteen years of working here.

I tuck my laptop under my arm while Betsy zings me with a dozen questions.

"How was Italy? What was your favorite thing to do there? Did you meet any handsome Italians?" She waggles her eyebrows. "I bet you have like a million pictures. Didn't you do a bike tour? That sounds like so much fun, but I think I would die on a bike, but you have great legs so I'm sure it was easy-breezy for you. I've always wanted to go there, but Mike complains the flight is too long. Was it bad?"

Jesus, does anyone talk to this poor woman during the day?

"Uh, no, I slept through most of it."

"Oh, I'd be way too excited to sleep. What was the most amazing food you tried over there?"

Memories of Fiore's cooking burn the back of my throat as tears threaten to spill. I reach out to knock on Allen's door, praying he isn't on a phone call. "The pizza was great. Thanks for coming to get me."

"Oh, I loooove pizza—"

I enter without waiting for Allen to call me in and close the door on Betsy. I can still hear her talking on the other side of the door.

Allen looks up. "Summer, thanks for coming in. Please sit, I'll be just a second."

I take the chair across from him while he finishes writing something. I can't stop staring at the florescent light glaring off his bald head. He puts his pen down and laces his fingers together, smiling blandly.

"Summer, I wanted to check in and see how you're doing. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, I'm good. Excited to start the new project." I try to push some cheer into my voice, but it falls flat.

"Are you, though? Because I get the sense that you're unhappy. A colleague reported you were crying in the women's bathroom the other day."

Crap, I thought I was alone in there. "I, um, received a phone call from my mother. It was upsetting."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. "Jeremy mentioned you snapped at him when he asked you if you had the New World Algebra chapter ready."

I want to roll my eyes but keep them focused on Allen. "With all due respect, Allen, Jeremy was asking me about the copy an hour after I received it. I'm fast, but not that fast."

Allen waves a hand, chuckling. "He is a little intense at times, but I've noticed you've been wearing black every day, like you're in mourning." He leans forward and smiles again, like he's offering a kid a lollipop if they'll be good. "Granite Scholastics wants a positive experience in a fun environment. Bright colors and cheerful attitudes. Can you do that for me, Summer?"

"Yes, of course." I glance down at my black t-shirt and leggings. I hadn't even realized I was wearing black every day.

"Also, I'm assigning Jeremy as project manager on the Chemistry for College project."

I bite back the groan wanting to escape and sit back, but I must have not covered my disappointment well. Allen waves his hand.

"I know, I know, but I think if you all work together and communicate, it will go smoothly."

Jeremy Wells has a reputation among the design team as being a demanding tyrant, sending text messages on Saturday evenings at eleven p.m. asking when he can view the layouts. It's a college textbook, Jeremy, you're not Anna Wintour editing Vogue magazine.

"Can you be a team player, Summer?" Allen asks.

I nod my head.

"Great." He clasps his hands together. "How about we call him in now?"

"Oh, okay, great," I mumble.

Allen picks up his phone. "Betsy, can you send Jeremy in? Thanks."

He makes small talk while we wait. "So how was Italy? My wife and I went about…oh, five years ago. We stayed in Rome. It was very hot and crowded."

The last thing I want to do is reminisce with Allen about my time in Italy. "It was great. I didn't make it to Rome, though."

"Ah, well, next time, right?"

There won't be a next time, Allen, but thanks for the stab in the heart.

The office door opens and Jeremy strides in like a used-car salesman on the brink of closing the deal on the new Cadillac. He rubs his hands together before pulling out the chair next to me and winks. "Allen, Summer."

"Jeremy, thanks for joining us. I was discussing with Summer that you will be point man on the Chemistry for College textbook series project—"

"Yes. I'm really excited about this. I think we can dazzle them, don't you, Summer?" His knee bounces like he's hopped up on Red Bull, and it takes all my self-control not to put my hand on him to still it. I try to match his enthusiasm, but let's be honest, how much can you really dazzle when it comes to a chemistry textbook?

"Sure…" I paste on a smile.

"Excellent, glad you're being a team player on this one."

Wait, what? I'm always a team player, consistent with making my deadlines. Allen nods enthusiastically, missing the passive-aggressive barb. As Jeremy drones on, my mind wanders to golden sunlit hills and Lorenzo standing in front of me, bending to kiss my bare shoulder.

"Don't you think, Summer?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, we can have this done within two weeks, right?"

"As long as the graphics are JPEGs at three-hundred DPI resolution and the copy has been proofed, we should be set."

"I'll have them send you the files immediately," Allen says, leaning back in his chair. "Great to have you two working on this together."

"It's going to be the bomb." Jeremy holds out his hand for me to high-five. I slap his hand because I am a team player.

"Thanks, Allen." I scoot my chair back. "Anything else?"

"I think we're good. Jeremy?"

"I'll check in with you later, Summer," he says.

"Sounds good." I exit the office and return to my cubicle to pack up for the day. I have a missed call from my mother's attorney and one from Cara. I'm supposed to go over to her place for dinner tonight, but all I want to do is crawl under my covers. I can't even watch Under the Tuscan Sun anymore without crying hysterically and throwing cookies at the television screen while Frances turns on the water. Happy endings don't exist in real life.

I call Cara on my way home.

"What's going on, Italy?"

"Damien, why are you answering Cara's phone?"

"She's on a call in the office. You coming over for my fabulous attempt at shrimp scampi?"

"Yeah, about that…"

"Nah, you're coming over. I've been slaving over this for an hour."

"But I'm tired."

"You can put that whine next to my beer—you're not backing out. See you in an hour." He hangs up before I can say anything else.

I pull into my driveway and stop short as my headlights flash over a large rectangular package leaning against the garage door. I park the car and get out. I can't believe someone didn't steal this. It's addressed to me, and the return address is from Italy.

I drag the package up to my tiny front porch and tear the paper off. I gasp when I tear back the bubble wrap from the canvas. It's the painting of the olive grove. The exact one I wanted to purchase in the gallery but couldn't afford.

"Oh my God," I mutter, running my fingertips over the oils swirled on the canvas. "I can't believe he did this." I check the time, but it's two in the morning in Italy. I unlock my door and haul the painting inside and carefully cut off the rest of the packaging. A little notecard is attached to the back of the frame.

Tesoro, a little piece of me for you. Come una stella cadente nel cielo, ti cercherò sempre. Con amore, Ren

I quickly translate the Italian and sigh. Treasure, a little piece of me for you. Like a falling star in the sky, I will always look for you.

Memories from the night of San Lorenzo crash into me, and I crumple to the couch and sob, holding the notecard to my chest. After a while, I sit up and blow my nose. I wander over to the painting as memories of us beneath the old olive tree make my heart clench. I read the card again. A little piece of me for you.

"Goddamn it, Ren, how do you expect me to ever get over you?" I squint at the tiny signature on the painting and gasp. L Rossi. No way…

I back away from the picture and slowly sink back down on the couch. It all makes sense. The gallery and art studio beneath his apartment. All the paintings he has around his house. The beautiful mural in Nonna's old house.

Why didn't he ever say anything? He could have easily said, yeah, I painted that, but he didn't. I check the time and jump to my feet. I'm late for dinner, and I still need to shower. I rush out of the room, contemplating what the painting means and why Lorenzo never said he was the artist.