ROGERS
cotton. “For my best girl,” he said. Terry led us through the garden, but I recognized the route. “Have you been here before?” “No.” He stopped at a plaza whose center was dominated by a fountain, where creatures were immortalized into its bowl and spout. “My parents married here,” I told him. “You’re not from here, though,” he said. “Neither are you.” He grinned, a simple gesture that loosened his stern features. “My mother is from Ireland,” he said. “My father is South African. I went to school in London—for a bit anyway.” “Your accent could pass for American.” “I don’t like being easily identified,” he said. “Now, what is an American girl with Italian eyes doing at this museum?” “I’ve spent every summer here since I was six. It’s my second home.” “With your parents?” “They’re dead.” A heart attack killed Mother when I was an infant. It was very tragic, Nonna said. It broke my father’s heart, though he did his best to disguise it from Nonna—and from me. This town was my father’s home. He planned to take me to Assisi the summer that he died. He was supposed show me the fountain, this fountain, where I stood with Terry now. Instead, I came with Nonna after his funeral. I shadowed Paula around the museum for a month and listened to her enunciate history lessons to travelers. Nonna and my zia hauled me to the basilica each morning to pray for my father’s soul. My father’s father, a solemn Italian who was called Signore Benedetti by everyone, even me, did not go to church. He sat with me 62