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turned left again.
    Tom hesitated for a moment, though he wasn’t sure why. They were in a passage so narrow Tom guessed traffic couldn’t get through.
    Alex, sensing Tom’s hesitation, laughed. “This is an alleyway calledArco di Santa Margherita—it’s a shortcut to the restaurant. It’s perfect for me.”
    The alleyway ended at the front door of La Taverna di Lucifero, on a quiet side street that also ran into Campo dè Fiori.
    Alex explained that the restaurant was built around a column from Pompey’s gladiatorial arena.
    The restaurant itself was busy, but the owner knew Alex and showed them to a quiet table in the back. After they ordered, Tom asked, “So, how’d you get into archaeology? You don’t seem like most of the graduate students I’ve known.”
    “It’s a long story.”
    “We’ve got time.”
    “My father was an Italian diplomat and my mother’s an art historian, born in the United States.”
    “No wonder your English is so perfect.” Almost without realizing it, Tom was leaning forward, just slightly, over the table to catch every word Alex spoke. He was having a great time. She, too, seemed totally engaged in their conversation. At one point, Tom caught himself, wondering if he had been served yet, then looked down and saw his plate empty of food, waiting to be picked up by their waiter. Alex saw Tom gaze downward, realized what he was thinking, laughed, and said, “Yes, we’ve eaten and are waiting for coffee.”
    She laughed. “Thanks for your compliment about my English. I appreciate that. My mother and my father eventually divorced when my mother found out that my father was not only a very good diplomat, but that he turned out to be devastatingly attractive to younger Italian women, too. My mother left him and returned to live in New York. She never remarried. I am an only child, and, when they divorced I bounced between New York and Rome. I know living in New York and Rome sounds glamorous, but I never wanted to live that way.
    “I went to college in the States—Smith College, where I majored in European history. Afterward? I moved to New York City. I loved the city, but living with my mother turned out to be too claustrophobic for me. She’s wonderful, but she never got over my father.
    “So, I moved back to Rome. Every street goes back two—or three—thousand years. That’s when I really discovered history because I was living in the middle of it. For me, there’s so much to learn. I quickly decided to get my master’s degree in ancient European history at the University of Rome and that led to my working on my PhD.”
    Tom asked, “Is your father still alive?”
    “My father died five years ago. Despite his philandering, I loved him and enjoyed the meals we had together in his favorite restaurants. He left me some money, and I bought my house.”
    “You never married?” Tom asked, and immediately blushed. “I’m sorry—that’s pretty forward of me.”
    “I’m not going to take that as an intrusive question, which of course it is,” Alex said. “I’ve had plenty of opportunities,” she said, looking straight at Tom. “But, I’ve never found the right person at the right time.” Then she added, “I’m thirty-one, and my birthday’s March 1. I thought I’d save you the trouble of asking.”
    “Thanks,” replied Tom, blushing again. “I can congratulate myself for my discretion. But, I’ll persist, how did you become interested in archaeology?”
    “A man I met at the university is an archaeologist and last summer joined the team at the American Academy’s excavation in the Roman Forum. I was intrigued. This spring I signed on as a volunteer.”
    Tom asked, “Is this friend of yours on the dig as well?” He tried to sound casual.
    “I’m not seeing him, if that’s what you’re getting at. He’s in Greece at an excavation with the American School in Athens. Now I’ve told you my story, what’s yours?”
    “I’m forty-five, by the way,