Page 64 of The Road to Home Base
ROME’SHOMETOWNsat only two hours from Lexington and the traffic gods smiled down on us, blessing us with a relatively easy trip. Rome devoured his dinner in the first ten minutes before we could get to talking. With a full belly, he stretched out his long legs in the passenger seat. I didn’t mind a two-hour drive—his car was nothing but luxury and it floated down the pavement like a skater on ice.
We got into a light spat during the drive. Rome had repeatedly tried to pry into why I, conveniently, had five days of no client appointments. He insisted that I didn’t rearrange my career for him, that just because he had time off didn’t mean that I needed to pull myself away from prior engagements. I put up the obligatory objections to let him know I was free to make my own choices. Little did he realize howmuchI had rearranged my career for him.
For me. For us. I had to remember that. It wasn’tjustfor him.
Rome also walked me through the fight again, this time with more animation and remorse. Once more, he reiterated his pacifist nature and the innate desire to never do harm to someone else. Both Joeandmy brother Devin—who I found outescorted him off the field—independently contacted me to let me know how mortified Rome was of his actions and how I might react.
About an hour into the drive he had finally calmed. He held my hand and traced the veins along the back. He quizzed me on the members of his family (by my request) so I wouldn’t have to struggle with names when I met them tomorrow. Apparently, he had texted his mother and everyone dropped everything to meet me for an afternoon barbecue. There were three Valentinos, which would be interesting to discern. Only two Sofias, thankfully.
A half hour out from our destination, I had Rome back to his usual self. The air of self-loathing and disappointing had vacated his body like an unwanted spirit. I got him prattling on about mundane things and the lighthearted, defaulted jovial nature of Romolo Moretti had finally returned.
I felt warmth blossom in my chest at the sound of his happiness. A genuine elation spread through me as I realized this. The sound of Rome’s voice filled me with a kind of joy I only found in a favorite song that reminded me of happier times. How strange that a newfound love could make me feel nostalgic, as if he had always been there, waiting. Sure, the perks of Rome’s career and lifestyle were great. But the essence ofhimrewarded my soul more than money or things ever could.
Throw it all away. Every penny. Every gift. All the jets and all the cars and all the houses. I just neededhim.
I realized then how profoundly I had fallen in love.
“Alex?” Rome said.
Shoot. He had been prattling on. We were on his family’s street, the one I had heard about where half the Moretti clan lived.
I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Okay, so right here is where my sister Sofia lives…”
Evening had set and all the streetlamps were lit. Not the harsh telephone pole overhead lighting, but buttery yellow bulbs encased in glass and wrought iron. Each house had a short front lawn, no more than ten yards deep, with a cobbled walkway leading to the front door. I assessed the homes using my experience taking photos for real estate agents and knew how a picture from the front of the house alone would sell the place. Sitting on Narragansett Bay, they had to beat leasta million plus apiece.
Rome pointed to a house on the right side and told me to pull into the driveway as he pressed a garage door opener on the underside of the rearview mirror. The headlights flashed over a newly constructed, three-story Dutch Colonial. The gray shake siding with white and black-framed windows fit the theme of the street as well as the short gravel drive bringing us into the leftmost bay of a two-car garage.
I cut the engine as the door slid shut behind us. Rome had been smiling as we got out of the car. I popped the trunk.
“Home sweet home,” Rome said.
“How much time do you actually spend here?”
“If we make postseason, usually two months. But the whole family goes back to Sicily for Christmas every year for about two weeks.”
I shook my head. The jetset lifestyle of a wealthy Italian family still amazed me. “Do you ever get out here in the thick of summer though? This would be a great place for a Fourth of July party.”
Rome shrugged as he ascended the three steps from the garage to the door that led into the house. “If there’s a sufficient break during regular season, sure.” He paused when his hand touched the doorknob. He turned and looked back at me. “Why, are you already planning a big ol’ shindig for us next year?”
I grew a sly, lopsided grin. “I may have a few things in mind.”
Rome chuckled, turned the knob, and pushed inside. An automatic light kicked on.
We entered through the kitchen, a modern layout with a sizable island capped with quartz and high-end appliances with beautiful brushed-gold finishes. Rome dropped our bags on the island and proceeded through into the open concept first floor comprising a family room with a gas fireplace and large, beige furniture. He flipped a switch next to the fireplace and it flicked to life with a suddenwhoosh.
My mouth dropped open as I blatantly ignored the fireplace and beelined it to the four-window wide wall overlooking the back patio with a stunning view of the sea. The sliver of a crescent moon hung over the bay with a smattering of stars around it. I put my hand on the window frame and gave myself a moment.
Million-dollar home. Million-dollar man. Million-dollar view.
Rome slid up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I fell back into him and absorbed the moment as if I could keep it forever.
“How could you ever leave this place?”
“I’ll retire here one day,” he said gently in my ear. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. “I am a Rhode Islander through and through.”
“Rhode IdiotsI believe is our New England term,” I said through a light chuckle.
