mind.”
“Trust me. This way’s much better for our marriage. Less communal shopping is a good thing.”
“For the good of our marriage, then,” he said as I bit back a smile of pure victory. “Go.”
That victory, however, was sadly short-lived. Because the moment Stuart flopped back on the mattress, Timmy lurched up. He thrust his arms out and a cry of “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy” sprang from his lips.
I rushed to scoop him up, catching a glimpse of Allie’s head making dramatic contact with the doorjamb. I wasn’t unsympathetic, but I also couldn’t abandon my little guy.
“Okay, okay. I’m up, too.” Stuart punctuated his words by getting out of bed and stretching. “For the best anyway, I guess. Don’t all the travel books say you should avoid napping? Better to slug it out and then go to bed at a reasonable hour. Gets you over the jet lag faster.”
“Adults, maybe. But cranky toddlers? Maybe we should try to put him down again? Allie and I can come back in an hour. Even a little nap could make all the difference.”
Stuart eyed me. “You’d rather we stay behind?”
“No, no. Of course not.” I was glad he was up. I was glad Timmy had wakened. This was Rome , and I loved this city, and I wanted to share every square inch of it with my family. I did .
And yet . . .
And yet I didn’t. Because “every square inch” would mean Forza. All of Forza . Not just the tour, but the truth—what I needed to know. What I needed to learn.
“Every square inch” meant bringing Stuart into the loop. Maybe I hadn’t realized there was even going to be a loop when we boarded the plane in California, but I knew it now. And I knew I wasn’t ready to tell him. I knew from the way my mouth got dry and my stomach clenched and the words seemed to die on my tongue. I needed to share with my husband; any marriage counselor in the world would tell me that sharing is the path to healing.
Needed to. But didn’t want to. Because I didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet.
It broke my heart to admit it, but I couldn’t run from the truth any more than I could ignore a rampaging demon.
I’d have to tell him the truth soon—I got that. But soon wasn’t now. And so Allie and I waited with varying levels of impatience as Stuart and Timmy got ready. All things considered, they didn’t take too long, and we were down the stairs in less than fifteen minutes, ready to do some serious sightseeing and shopping. I knew this because Stuart had his earmarked copy of Frommer’s Guide to Rome under his arm. “You may know the city,” he’d said to me on the plane as he highlighted section after section. “But I want to make sure we don’t miss something exceptional.” Apparently Stuart had as much faith in my skill as a tour guide as he had in my cooking.
“Go get the stroller,” Stuart said to Allie when we reached the foyer.
I held a hand up to stop her. “That thing is a leviathan,” I said. “Do we really have to take it?”
“He’ll last three minutes walking, and I won’t last much longer than that carrying him.”
“I have an idea,” I said, then went in search of Mrs. Micari. Three minutes later we were armed with directions to the Roman version of Babies “R” Us , just a little over a block away, right across from an ornate and ritzy hotel I’d been inside only once. A Syrian diplomat had died in the penthouse apartment, and a demon had taken advantage of the opportunity. Eric and I had climbed the fire escape to the roof, shimmied down some old piping to the balcony, broken in, and taken care of that little problem.
It had been my most James Bondian mission.
And I have to say that it’s one heck of a nice hotel.
We lucked out and found a cheap umbrella stroller in a sale bucket right in the front of the store. Within half an hour we were back on the street and heading toward the Via Cola , one of my absolute favorite places in the Borgo Pio . “We don’t have to do the shopping
“Trust me. This way’s much better for our marriage. Less communal shopping is a good thing.”
“For the good of our marriage, then,” he said as I bit back a smile of pure victory. “Go.”
That victory, however, was sadly short-lived. Because the moment Stuart flopped back on the mattress, Timmy lurched up. He thrust his arms out and a cry of “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy” sprang from his lips.
I rushed to scoop him up, catching a glimpse of Allie’s head making dramatic contact with the doorjamb. I wasn’t unsympathetic, but I also couldn’t abandon my little guy.
“Okay, okay. I’m up, too.” Stuart punctuated his words by getting out of bed and stretching. “For the best anyway, I guess. Don’t all the travel books say you should avoid napping? Better to slug it out and then go to bed at a reasonable hour. Gets you over the jet lag faster.”
“Adults, maybe. But cranky toddlers? Maybe we should try to put him down again? Allie and I can come back in an hour. Even a little nap could make all the difference.”
Stuart eyed me. “You’d rather we stay behind?”
“No, no. Of course not.” I was glad he was up. I was glad Timmy had wakened. This was Rome , and I loved this city, and I wanted to share every square inch of it with my family. I did .
And yet . . .
And yet I didn’t. Because “every square inch” would mean Forza. All of Forza . Not just the tour, but the truth—what I needed to know. What I needed to learn.
“Every square inch” meant bringing Stuart into the loop. Maybe I hadn’t realized there was even going to be a loop when we boarded the plane in California, but I knew it now. And I knew I wasn’t ready to tell him. I knew from the way my mouth got dry and my stomach clenched and the words seemed to die on my tongue. I needed to share with my husband; any marriage counselor in the world would tell me that sharing is the path to healing.
Needed to. But didn’t want to. Because I didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet.
It broke my heart to admit it, but I couldn’t run from the truth any more than I could ignore a rampaging demon.
I’d have to tell him the truth soon—I got that. But soon wasn’t now. And so Allie and I waited with varying levels of impatience as Stuart and Timmy got ready. All things considered, they didn’t take too long, and we were down the stairs in less than fifteen minutes, ready to do some serious sightseeing and shopping. I knew this because Stuart had his earmarked copy of Frommer’s Guide to Rome under his arm. “You may know the city,” he’d said to me on the plane as he highlighted section after section. “But I want to make sure we don’t miss something exceptional.” Apparently Stuart had as much faith in my skill as a tour guide as he had in my cooking.
“Go get the stroller,” Stuart said to Allie when we reached the foyer.
I held a hand up to stop her. “That thing is a leviathan,” I said. “Do we really have to take it?”
“He’ll last three minutes walking, and I won’t last much longer than that carrying him.”
“I have an idea,” I said, then went in search of Mrs. Micari. Three minutes later we were armed with directions to the Roman version of Babies “R” Us , just a little over a block away, right across from an ornate and ritzy hotel I’d been inside only once. A Syrian diplomat had died in the penthouse apartment, and a demon had taken advantage of the opportunity. Eric and I had climbed the fire escape to the roof, shimmied down some old piping to the balcony, broken in, and taken care of that little problem.
It had been my most James Bondian mission.
And I have to say that it’s one heck of a nice hotel.
We lucked out and found a cheap umbrella stroller in a sale bucket right in the front of the store. Within half an hour we were back on the street and heading toward the Via Cola , one of my absolute favorite places in the Borgo Pio . “We don’t have to do the shopping
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