Chapter 4
Love,
Mara
Nobody spoke for a while.
Then Maya tugged Julian’s sleeve.
“Do you want lemonade?”
He looked down at her.
“Is it safe?”
“No.”
Marcus coughed.
Sofia protested.
And somehow the moment opened.
Not disappearing.
Just making room for laughter beside sadness.
That evening, six of us ate dinner beneath the lemon tree.
Sofia made pasta with tomatoes, garlic, basil, and enough Parmesan to impress even Maya.
Leo sat in a borrowed high chair although he was still too young for the food and spent most of dinner attempting to eat his own bib.
Marcus took three phone calls from security staff and one from somebody called Donovan who appeared deeply concerned that Julian Vale was eating dinner in an unsecured courtyard.
Julian ended the final call with, “There are two locked doors and Marcus is here.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“No, the three-year-old is not a security concern.”
Maya looked offended.
“I could be.”
Julian covered the phone.
“I stand corrected.”
It was the first dinner I could remember in months where I did not measure every sentence before speaking.
That realization hurt.
Then it comforted me.
Both could be true.
Later, after Maya fell asleep, I sat alone in the courtyard.
Sofia joined me.
“You’re angry with Helen.”
“Was.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
“A very mature answer.”
“I was hoping Rome would make me mysterious and sophisticated.”
“Give it a week.”
I smiled.
Then asked the question that had been following me all day.
“Why didn’t Mom tell me any of this while she was alive?”
Sofia considered carefully.
“Perhaps she should have.”
That surprised me.
I had expected her to defend Mom.
“She loved you,” Sofia continued. “But love does not always make people wise. Helen worried that every time she advised you, you moved further away.”
“She thought silence was better?”
“She hoped leaving a door open would be better.”
I looked toward the upstairs window where Maya slept.
“I wasted so much time being angry with her.”
“Then do something useful with the anger.”
“What?”
“Understand your daughter differently when she grows old enough to disagree with you.”
I looked at Sofia.
She shrugged.
“That is how families improve. Not by becoming perfect. By allowing the next conversation to be better than the last.”
For the following four days, life became unexpectedly ordinary.
My suitcase arrived.
Maya developed an obsession with the goldfish.
Leo learned that screaming was no longer required to make six adults respond to him.
Julian discovered the café at the corner sold excellent coffee for less than three euros and seemed personally offended that nobody had informed him sooner.
Marcus became Waffles’s official bodyguard.
And I began making plans.
Real ones.
Sofia had offered us the room for as long as we needed, but I refused to let indefinite kindness become my financial strategy.
I contacted three hospitals in Rome about nursing positions available to English-speaking staff.
I learned that transferring credentials would take time.
I contacted an international maternal health clinic.
They agreed to interview me.
Then I called someone in Columbus I had avoided for almost a year.
My former supervisor, Denise.
When she answered, she said, “Claire?”
My throat tightened.
“Hi.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
The word felt different now.
Not entirely true.
But becoming true.
“I’m in Rome.”
There was a pause.
“Of course you are.”
I laughed.
“I need a reference.”
“You have one.”
“I haven’t even explained.”
“You were one of the best nurses on my floor.”
The simplicity of that sentence nearly undid me.
“I left suddenly.”
“You had a life outside that hospital. I figured someday you’d remember you had a life inside yourself too.”
I closed my eyes.
“Denise.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Send me the forms.”
The interview happened two days later.
The clinic occupied the third floor of a medical building near Villa Borghese and served families from embassies, universities, international companies, and local communities needing multilingual support.
The director, Dr. Elisa Conti, studied my résumé.
“You have been away from clinical nursing for almost three years.”
“Yes.”
“Why return now?”
There were dozens of polished answers.
I chose the true one.
“Because I miss being useful in a way that belongs to me.”
Dr. Conti considered that.
Then smiled.
“We can work with that.”
I walked out with an offer for a transitional patient-coordinator role while my Italian licensing requirements were reviewed.
It was not glamorous.
It did not pay a fortune.
It was mine.
I sat on a bench outside and cried for exactly forty seconds.
Then I called Sofia.
She screamed loudly enough that three pigeons flew away.
When I returned to Casa Bellini, Maya ran into my arms.
“Mommy got a job!”
Apparently Sofia had explained.
“I did.”
“Do I get a job?”
“You’re three.”
“I can help with goldfish.”
“That position may already be filled.”
Behind her, Julian stood holding Leo.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“I know several healthcare organizations in Rome if you ever—”
“No.”
He stopped.
Then smiled.
“I was going to say if you ever need information about credentialing.”
“Oh.”
“I am capable of learning.”
“Apparently.”
He shifted Leo.
“I also have something to ask you.”
The wording made me cautious.
“What?”
“I need to return to Boston next week.”
“Okay.”
“My company expects me to resume working.”
“That seems unreasonable. Companies are notorious for that.”
He ignored my sarcasm.
“I’ve decided I’m not returning in the way I originally planned.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fewer hours. Less travel. A regional president can handle most daily operations.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It sounds terrifying.”
“Also healthy.”
He nodded.
“I’m looking for a pediatric nurse to travel with us occasionally and help while I restructure things.”
There it was.
I folded my arms.
“Julian.”
“I am not offering you the job.”
“Oh.”
Again.
He looked pleased.
“I wanted your advice on what qualifications I should prioritize.”
I stared at him.
Then laughed.
“You really are learning.”
“Painfully.”
We spent the next hour creating a list.
Not simply certifications.
Temperament.
Respect for boundaries.
Experience supporting single parents.
Someone who would care for Leo without trying to replace Mara.
That last part came from Julian.
I wrote it down.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“Can I ask something personal?”
“You can ask.”
“Are you staying in Rome?”
I looked across the courtyard.
Maya was sitting beside Sofia shelling peas.
Marcus, off duty for once, was reading a newspaper with Waffles propped beside his coffee cup.
Rome no longer felt like escape.
That mattered.
“I think so.”
“Because you love it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then why?”
“Because I want to find out.”
He smiled.
“That sounds like something Mara would have understood.”
Over the next six weeks, Julian and Leo moved between Boston and Rome.
Not because of me.
I was careful about knowing that.
So was he.
Casa Bellini had become part of Leo’s life because Mara had asked for it.
Julian rented an apartment nearby rather than taking an entire floor of a luxury hotel.
He complained about the plumbing.
Sofia told him adversity built character.
He bought a coffeemaker.
Sofia told him the café downstairs built community.
He returned the coffeemaker.
He and Marcus argued about security.
Maya continued believing Marcus was a giant.
And I worked.
The first time I put on scrubs again, I stood in the staff bathroom staring at myself in the mirror.
Same face.
Different woman.
May you like
Or perhaps the same woman returned.
I thought of Mom’s letter.
