“Absolutely nothing, Mom. I just need to figure out what I want first this time and really let myself have it. And this is a great shot at that.”

Dad patted her hand. “She needs this, dear. You know it and I know it. Besides, we can always visit. Right, Avery?”

I breathed a grateful sigh of relief. Of course they both wanted the best for me. “I can’t wait for you to visit! I’ll make a list of places for you to check out online. You’ll lose your minds over the food, the landscapes, and the shopping.” I dangled the final carrot for my mom to focus on.

“I just worry about you, Avery,” she said, putting on a brave face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

* * *

MY FIRST DAY OF WORK felt like my first day of kindergarten. Would they like me? Would I make friends? Would I destroy the eighteenth-century frescoes and be deported?

It was a very advanced kindergarten class . . .

I bought a bewildering array of bus maps, highlighted the best and fastest route out to Grottaferrata, and bought my weekly ticket from the tobacco shop down the street. It felt official. I was ready for work. Something I hadn’t done in almost a decade.

Nine years is a long time to be away from something. To be missing that passion that you felt every day when you really loved what you did. I was ready. More than ready, and I couldn’t help but feel that this was my second chance. My new start, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it.

With a tote filled with a sketchbook, pencils, and some other necessities, I was off and waiting at the bus stop. I even packed myself a lunch. My journey to work wasn’t without a slight mix-up, of course. I was lost in my thoughts, doodling an image of Marcello’s shoulders in the book on my lap, and I almost missed my stop.

Maria was there waiting for me when I arrived. “As I said, we didn’t do any of the tests yet. This is a big job, Avery. I need a detailed plan from you first, your list of recommendations, and your best estimation on the time needed. We’ll discuss it with the office. For today, cleaning tests are really the only thing that you have time for.”

The area had already been taped up with the plastic covering, the scaffolding was still in place, and tall stands topped with work lights were spaced out around the area. I wondered what was in store for me behind the curtain. I saw from the project schedule she’d given me that we were already a few days behind with the delays over finding a restorer.

I set up shop in my little corner of the villa. Tools, brushes, long Q-tips, pails, and clean rags were spread out. My chair was puffy and padded for when I needed it, but for now, I sat on the floor and stared up at the wall.

What was under there? I wondered. Pulling out my notebook, I began my list. Overpainting dominated most of the wall. It looked like someone tried to remove it themselves, leaving some damaged areas. Taking pictures of the spots in question, I kept a record of them for reference. They’d need more time, care, and delicate touches.

With pastel, I drew a section over my testing area in five quadrants to show the levels of overpaint and damage.

I detailed my report, including the cleaning process and how it would involve swelling the top layers of paint and then lifting them away from the wall. Layer by layer in what was sure to be painstakingly time-consuming work, we would finally get to the last layer of paint that would have to be dissolved with natural solvents as to not further damage the painting beneath it.

After that, we’d varnish and touch up any spots that needed it before a final sealer was applied. Given the size of the wall and the length and width of the mural on it, we were looking at what was at least two weeks’ worth of work.

* * *

WHEN MARCELLO CALLED AROUND MIDDAY, I was bursting with pride.

“I love everything about this job.”

“I want to hear it all.” It was hard to hear him; I’d forgotten he was at a construction site today. Loud Italian screaming mixed with loud Italian noise didn’t make it easy for me to explain my morning. But I gave it a shot, gushing on and on about the people I’d met, the detailed frescoes I was working on, and how I’d already found three new restaurants I was dying to try in the neighborhood.

He chuckled, shouting something at a worker before what sounded like a door closing. “I’m proud of you. You are like a true Roman. Now, if I could only get you to use a Vespa.”

“Nope, no way, no how. Riding on one of those is one thing, driving is something completely different.”

“Just think of how much faster you’d get there,” he explained, while I popped biscotti into my mouth.

“No way,” I mumbled, thinking about me zipping in and out of traffic with a little red helmet on.

I looked out the arched windows onto the courtyard below and counted fifteen scooters. Clearly I was the only person here with a problem with the zippy little bastards.

“Are you busy?”

“Not now. I’m taking a break and reading up a bit on this villa. The family had documents from previous owners lying around that are fascinating.”

“Like what?”

I tucked the phone closer to my mouth and whispered, “Did you know someone was murdered here? A few someones, apparently, but the bodies were never found!”

My mind went to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Casque of Amontillado,” where an Italian man buries his former friend alive behind a wall in his wine cellar. I made a mental note to be extra careful with the wine cellar’s frescoed wall.

“I can hear how excited you are,” he purred, and all thoughts of Poe went out the window. “Tell me, what do you plan to do later?”