Page 13 of Marry Me in Rome

“You haven’t steered me wrong yet,” I said casually. “I guess we can spare a few minutes to see this bridge of yours.”

As we crossedthe last few blocks, we passed a church with a crowd gathered out front. A couple emerged from the doors, embracing each other and waving to their loved ones. The bride positively beamed. Two brides in one afternoon? That had to be lucky.

“A church in Rome,” I pointed out. “That’d be such a romantic wedding.” I glanced at Matteo, but he only frowned. “You don’t agree?”

“My parents were married in a church,” he said as if that explained everything.

“And . . . that’s a bad thing?”

Matteo slowed his stride and gave the church another look. Or a scowl, more like. “It was, from the start. They didn’t love each other—it was more a merger between two powerful companies in the export and import business. My father never said so, but I think he was in love with someone else. Perhaps as a result, he never really gave all of himself to my mother. They lived practically apart in the same house.”

“That sounds terrible.” I couldn’t decide which would be worse—a divorce like my parents’ or needing to divorce but staying together instead. “Are they still married?”

“My father passed a while back. Left the business to my mother, so she finally has the role she was born to fill. Does a good job of it, too. Needless to say, I try to stay far away from churches.” The bitterness in his tone said there was more to the story, but clearly he didn’t want to talk about it. “The bridge is just ahead, past that group of people.”

“This is your favorite bridge?” I’d already seen bridges far more elaborate, and the view wasn’t amazing, either. Pretty by American standards, perhaps, but not Rome’s. It didn’t even look that old.

“It isn’t the bridge, exactly,” he admitted. “It’s the tradition that takes place here every first of January. It supposedly started when Jupiter demanded that the ancient Romans sacrifice a member of their family by throwing them into the Tiber at the beginning of the new year. Hercules convinced families to use lifelike puppets instead, and it worked for a long time. The tradition was eventually forgotten until 1946, when a random guy decided to throw himself in and start the tradition up again. It was believed that every time he came back up to the surface unharmed, it meant we’d have a good year. Now a bunch of daredevils jump in at noon every January First while crowds cheer them on.”

I shivered, looking over the stone parapet to the water’s depths below. It seemed really,reallyfar from here. “That’s the weirdest tradition I ever heard.”

“Your country believes that groundhogs can predict the changing of seasons,” he said flatly.

“That’s fair. I still think it’s weird, though. Have you ever done it?”

He laughed. “No, and I don’t intend to.”

“Why not? It sounds fun.” I cocked my head. “Oh, yeah. You aren’t the spontaneous type.”

“Nothing wrong with preferring firm ground to frigid water.”

“But aren’t you the least bit tempted?” I didn’t know why I was pressing the issue, but I couldn’t help it. I really wanted to know the answer to this. “When those guys stand up there and throw their arms out and step off the edge—don’t you wonder if you’d have the guts to do it too? There’s a reason this is your favorite bridge, Matteo. I think it’s because you secretly know you’re meant to join them someday.”

He blinked. Watched me for a moment. Then said, “No.”

A one-word answer after all that. Something I said must have hit home, or he wouldn’t be so resistant to it. I shrugged and pulled out my camera, feeling his gaze still heavy on me. Like he was trying to sort something out in his mind.

Let the guy think his deep, brooding thoughts. I had some photos to take of this section of the city.

I leaned on the stone railing, rising to the tips of my toes, but couldn’t quite get the angle I wanted. Lifting my camera over my head, I managed to only get the corner.

He stepped up and placed his hand over my camera lens, gently lowering it. “You still aren’t seeing Rome properly.”

“I’m trying. Now if you’d just give my camera back?—”

“If there’s a lens between you and the view, you aren’t really seeing it. Rome isn’t just captured visually. You have to experience it with all of the senses.”

“Thank you, Robert Frost, but I’m good. I simply want to experience this moment in a way that my followers can enjoy it too. Or is that not allowed?” I climbed onto the stone handrail and perched there, trying to keep my balance. If a bunch of daredevils could stand up here, so could I. Gazing over the city, I found the spot.Finally.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“I’m a photographer. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get the shot.” Did I have to explain everything to him?

“Is that so?”

“Sorry, but this shot is too good to miss. I’ll be down in a sec.”

I had good footing, and the parapet was plenty wide. I lined up the skyline of Rome in my camera screen and squealed. The lighting was nearly perfect. I pressed the button slightly and adjusted the focus. The photo snapped into place—a postcard waiting to be taken. My finger pressed down ever so lightly, capturing the moment with a satisfying click.

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