From the top of the stone passageway, I could also see the rooftop terrace where Rose, the diplomat and go-between of the Serafino sisters, spent many of her summer afternoons in the 1970s, listening to opera from a small transistor radio and reading fashion magazines under a beach umbrella. There was always a tall glass of Aperol spritz beside her, an orange wedge floating on top, the glass full of ice and beading with condensation. She would routinely call me up there and have me read passages aloud from Italian Vogue. I could remember her enjoying my narration of Milanese or Florentine
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