I nod and open the door for her. When we get to the exhibit, I hand the doorman our tickets and we walk in. Holding Aria’s hand is what I would compare to holding a child’s hand who’s walking into Disney. She’s shaking with excitement, and with our fingers entwined, she’s trying to drag me along faster.
“Slow down, cuore mio,” I murmur. She grants me an eye roll in response and I chuckle.
We haven’t even walked fifteen feet in the door when Aria is squeezing my hand and gasping.
“That’s Cheri Vitelli,” she whispers, nodding toward an older woman, probably in her fifties, wearing a multicolored dress with…is that fruit? all over it. Her hair is up in a messy bun similar to the one Aria wears when she isn’t forced to actually do her hair.
“Let’s go say hi.” I pull her with me toward the woman and introduce myself. “My name is Giovanni Valentino and this is Aria Sutton. She’s a huge fan of your work.”
Cheri smiles and gives Aria a kiss on each cheek. “Oh, my sweet girl, I know exactly who you are.” Her words are heavily accented, English most likely not her first language.
Aria nervously laughs. “I’m pretty sure you have me confused with someone else, but your photos are amazing. The emotion that seeps through them is so heart wrenching and beautiful.”
Cheri gives Aria a confused look. “Grazie, but I could have sworn I saw…”
“You have the right woman,” I point out to Cheri. We’re just heading that way now.” I give her a knowing wink and she quickly catches on.
“Please, Aria, if you are ever in Florence, you must come and visit me.” Aria nods emphatically in complete shock as Cheri moves on to greet another fan.
“That was really weird, right?” Aria questions as we make our way toward the back. We stop several more times as Aria meets the photographers she looks up to. She’s completely enamored with every one of them. They all mention they know her, but I stop them each time before they can say too much. They each invite her to visit them and Aria is on cloud nine.
When we finally make our way to the exhibit she knows nothing about, I walk her through the narrow hallway and watch her as she gasps in shock, her hands coming to her mouth, as tears spill over the sides of her eyes and trickle down her cheeks.
“Gio! What did you do?”
Chapter Thirty-One
ARIA
As I lived out a dream come true, which had me mentally pinching myself to make sure this was in fact real life and not literally a dream, I felt like I was an outsider, like there was a secret everyone I came in contact with was a part of, one I wasn’t privy to know anything about.
That is, until Gio walked me down a hallway which lead us to a circular room, and as I looked around at the blown-up images surrounding me, all the comments suddenly made sense. Because surrounding me were my images. Shots of the hills where my mom and I used to hike, the beautiful boudoir shots of Holly and Natalie, images of the gardens in the back of the house. Some in color, some in black and white, all mine.
I walk into the room and twirl slowly, taking it all in. These are my photos. We aren’t the only people in the room. Several others are in here, all pointing at and discussing my photos. In the corner is a photo of me with a plaque, like the other photographers have, that reads: meet the artist.
“You did this, not me.” Gio’s arms go wide, pointing to the room around us. The hot tears falling down my face can’t be stopped as he pulls me into his arms. “You did all this, baby.”
“I don’t understand. How did you get my photos into this exhibit?”
“I might have snuck into your darkroom and stole a couple of your photos. I sent them to a few different galleries, and Blake, the exhibit coordinator, called me a couple days ago saying it was last minute but he would love to have your work featured as an up and coming artist.”
My heart feels so full at what this man has done for me. It’s easy to tell someone you support them, but it’s another thing entirely to go above and beyond—to take action. The last person who supported my art was my mom until she sided with Weston, saying it shouldn’t be anything more than a hobby, insisting I major in something with a future in college. I know my mom loved me—at one time she was my best friend—but she was sucked in by the false glamour of the world of politics. She lived for the sense of power that came with being a senator’s wife. She stopped supporting me to support him and I never realized until this moment how much I needed to feel supported.