Three months had passed since Pam’s trip to Rome.  Both the executives at McCloud and the owner of the Lenox loved her suggestions and concept drawings.  With some minor adjustments, the proposed restoration of the Lenox was approved.   Now covered in tarps and scaffolding, painters and builders were busy making Pam’s vision for the Lenox a reality.

Her last days in Rome seemed to have been stolen from a dream.  She hadn’t expected Jim to kiss her in front of the Mouth of Truth; it had literally taken her breath away.  She had figured he would have been furious at her, even frustrated to have heard her reasoning for leaving Scranton.   But when his mouth met hers, she lost all focus and her concept of reality disappeared.  Her heart swelled; she felt dizzy and her knees threatened to give out on her.  Her fingers latched onto his shirt, holding on to him in an attempt to keep her balance, pulling him closer.

As always, his warmth, kindness and humour only succeeded in compounding her attraction to him. That day Pam had abandoned all inhibitions and reasoning that had guarded her for those three years. Both let their once restrained emotions be put on display. Each kiss was replaced with another until each had become indistinguishable from the one that came before it. 

By the end of the day they had found themselves in Jim’s room tangled in a mess of sheets, her blackened capris discarded at edge of the bed, the red tint of dusk filtering through the window of his room.

As they had lain there, his fingers playing with the curls of her hair, they discussed what it all meant, what they’d hoped for and wanted from the future-- a future they saw together where all past mistakes were forgiven and forgotten.    

The following day they decided to explore the city as a couple who shared a new understanding.  They played ‘Marco Polo’ at the Castel Sant’Angelo, which garnered stern looks from the docents that guarded the maze of rooms.  On its roof, Jim had watched as Pam sketched the Vatican from a distance, the wind tossing her hair across her face. 

Later he helped her find Raphael’s grave at the Pantheon where it was encased in marble, yellow roses strewn across its ledge. Jim had listened patiently as she explained in detail the use of colouring and oil paint in Raphael’s La Velata. 

She followed him to the Circus Maximus, where they raced the length of the stadium.  When Pam had stopped midway-- short of breath in part from laughing for most of it-- he’d jogged back to her insisting she continue.

“You’re finishing this race Beesly.  Emperors don’t like quitters!” With that, he’d tucked his head between her arm and her waist and bent her over his shoulder.  He’d managed to carry her for several yards before she’d -- in an hysterical fit of laughter-- begged him to put her down. 

At Piazza Navona they each chose a different flavour of gelato, dipping their spoons into each other’s cups. When Jim had decided he liked her limone flavoured one better, he raised it above his head teasingly, preventing her from reaching it.  He’d relented when she’d begun to pout, but got even while she washed her hands, sticky from gelato, in the Fountain of the Four Rivers.

Just as she had been in the midst of suggesting they take a detour to the Coliseum, Jim reached into fountain, cupped his hand and launched the frigid water at Pam, successfully drenching her.

She’d shrieked so loudly in surprise that a group of nearby pigeons took off in fright. 

“Now look what you’ve gone and done: scaring harmless pigeons,” he had said, clicking his tongue at her.

“I hope they poop on your head,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes. 

“Isn’t that supposed to be good luck?” At that Pam took her revenge. 

When the nearby polizia asked them to leave the piazza, Jim’s t-shirt was completely soaked and Pam’s curly hair hung limply around her shoulders.

As the sun set over Lazio and the seven hills of Rome, their travels throughout the city led them to Pam’s room at Parco Tirreno.  Eventually Pam relented to Jim’s insistence that they discard their wet clothes in favour of the dry bed linens which locked in the warmth of their reddened bodies.    

On her last day, Jim held her hand, pulling her luggage for her through Fiumicino Airport.  He had waited in line with her as she checked in, and walked her to her gate.  He had at the last minute tried to change his ticket arrangements, but there were no available seats on her flight.  Resigned to meeting up with her in the States, he was forced to say goodbye.

“I almost forgot,” he said, his hands running up and down the length of her arms, unable to let her go just yet. “Did you ever figure out what I said to you that night at the festival?”

Smiling, Pam shrugged her shoulders.  “I tried to ask the guy at the front desk but he just gave me a shower cap.”

“A shower cap?” He repeated, laughing.

“Yep. I’m guessing that wasn’t what you said…”

Sono innamorata di te. The words had played over in Pam’s head for days.  She had been too afraid to ask him, embarrassed at what she’d assumed it meant.

“Do you still have the phrasebook?”

Nodding, she pulled it from her bag and handed it to him.  Jim opened the book and flipped through the pages.  After several minutes he eventually found what he had been looking for.  He turned the book open toward her.

There on page 120 was the phrase she had hoped, wished and wanted it to be. 

“I’m in love with you,” he said softly.  His eyes were heavy and cautious, awaiting her response.

“I’d hoped…” her voice caught in her throat.  Words escaping her, she simply pulled at his shirt collar, bringing his lips to her own. When they finally parted, breathless, she laced her fingers into his and whispered, “I’m so in love with you too.”

Her eight hour flight had been arduous, but with a renewed understanding and the promise of a future with Jim, she welcomed the return home.

Now in mid October, the cool temperatures of Buffalo and the changing season reminded her that Jim was still far away in Scranton.  As much as both of them would have preferred, they had been unable to see each other since their parting in the Rome airport. The beginning of construction on the Lenox occupied many of Pam’s weekends, and the Scranton branch of Dunder-Mifflin had the unfortunate luck of hosting the yearly paper convention.  Jim as the assistant regional manager was given the task of planning the event, in part due to Michael’s ineptitude and lack of organizational skills.

They tried to stay in contact through frequent phone calls and often Jim would tease her by posting a message to her Facebook wall.  Most were in Italian, forcing her to scour her phrasebook for the translation.

Usually the messages ranged from the hilariously inane, “Ti posso portare a fare un giro in moto?” (Can I take you for a ride on my bike?) to the sentimental: “Quando possiamo rivederci?” (When can I see you again?).  Some were just simply classic Jim: “Non mi dispiace guardare ma preferisco non partecipare” (I don’t mind watching, but I’d rather not join in). Regardless, they made her days go quicker but succeeded in making her miss him more.

Recently, Jim had taken to the habit of mailing her shower caps that he’d stolen en masse from the hotel where the convention had been held. For the past several days she’d come home to have Sara hand her a brown envelope, a shower cap within, the words “Ti amo” written in black sharpie. Pam had wasted no time in discovering its translation: “I love you.

That morning she came into her office to find a package sitting on her desk. When she tore it open, she found another shower cap; this time the words “Ti posso baciare?” were written across it in Jim’s familiar handwriting. 

Surprised at the new message, she turned the envelope over.  Strangely there was no address, no stamps, nothing aside from her name.  When she’d questioned her secretary about it, she had told Pam that a tall man with a black baseball cap had dropped it off for her.  She’d assumed he was a new courier.

When Pam tried calling Dunder-Mifflin to thank Jim for the newest addition to her collection of shower caps, the receptionist informed her that he’d left on a sales call in Wilkes-Barre. Repeated calls to his cell phone left her frustrated when he didn’t answer. 

Before she had a chance to check the translation in her phrasebook that she now dutifully carried in her purse, her project supervisor asked her to run an errand to the Lenox. Several architectural drawings had spatial errors and the construction team needed an artist to explain the particular trim design that was needed to highlight the walls of the lobby.  Pam, experienced in both tasks, had been chosen.

Armed with large rolls of drafting paper tucked under her arm, she headed for the hotel.

***
Hours later, darkness having fallen, Pam exited the Lenox, heading toward the parking lot.  The nearby blackened street was briefly illuminated by the headlights of a silver Saab as it passed, gravel kicked up from its tires.

As Pam climbed into her driver’s seat, she realized there was a sheet of paper trapped beneath one of her wipers.  Figuring it to be an advertisement from a nearby pub, she snatched at the paper.  As she was about to crumple it into the palm of her hand, she realized that her name was written across its fold. The penmanship matched the writing on the shower cap that sat on the passenger seat of her car.

Opening the note, she found a business card taped in the center, a long arrow pointing toward it, the words “GO HERE” boldly inscribed. As Pam pulled out of the parking lot, she found directions attached to the sheet; they were so specific that they elicited a laugh at every turn.

“You’ll need to turn right.  If you don’t turn right, you’ll drive into McDonald’s.  Pick me up a McFlurry if you choose to not to turn right.”

“You’ll come to a stop sign.  No, this is not time for you to stop in the name of love or to stop because it’s hammer time. And no, don’t stop, collaborate and listen.  Just stop because I’d feel really bad if you got a ticket.”

As she drove through the wealthy northeastern suburb of Amherst, she could barely contain her laughter at the next direction: “wave to the soccer moms as they climb into their SUVs.”

In less than an hour she found herself pulling into the parking lot of a Town Hall in the small suburb of Elma. Jim’s directions told her to enter by the door on the left and to follow the sound of music. 

Michael Buble’s “Everything” filled the corridor as she traced its source to a recreation room.  Inside she found several elderly couples hand in hand, following the dance instructions of a choreographer who clapped in time to the beat.

“And turn.  Feet out.  Back in.  Stella, head goes up.  And one and two…” he coached.

Off to the side she recognized a familiar face.  With his height towering over a more petite elderly woman, he turned to the side with his arm extended.  Returning to his partner, he took her hand and led her to spin under his arm.  Jim’s smile extended across his face, laughter hidden behind his eyes.

As the song ended, the couples applauded.  Pam, beaming, joined in.  As Jim turned toward the front of the room he noticed Pam in the doorway.  Within seconds he had crossed the floor and enveloped her into his arms-- her face pressed to his chest, her arms wrapped around his waist.  Pam could smell the faint scent of his cologne, which caused her heart to beat quicker.  Those short days in Rome, the years they’d been separated by misunderstanding and now the three months they’d lived two states apart made her desire to hold onto him all the more real.

“What’re you doing here?” She asked at last, barely able to contain her excitement.

“What’s it look like?” 

“I was going to guess that you were cheating on me for a much better dancer…” she joked.

“Busted!”  He laughed, shrugging his shoulders in mock guilt.

“Seriously… are you taking dance lessons or something?” 

“Jim?”  A grey haired woman tugged at his shirt sleeve.  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said smiling at Pam.  “Are you free for another go?” 

“Oh, Joan...” Jim said grinning.  “You know you’re just going to put me to shame again.  I can’t keep up with you.”

Joan laughed, reaching up to pull at his cheek.  “You’re impossible sometimes!” 

“Can I take a rain check?” 

“I’m going to hold you to it, Jim,” she said, wagging her finger at him.  “Is this who you’re passing me up for?”  Joan motioned toward Pam, giving Jim a wink. 

“Joan, I’m sorry to tell you this,” he began, his face desperately trying to remain serious.  “On my list of my favourite women…” Jim shrugged.  “Unfortunately you’re number two.”

“Ooh!” Joan smiled in understanding.  “Of course!  Then I’ll leave you be.”  With a knowing glance, Joan returned to the centre of the floor quickly finding a replacement partner.

“So I’m number one then?” Pam asked, her face flushed.

“Well, I was going to say Carmen Electra… but I suppose you’ll do…” He teased.

Narrowing her eyes, she poked her finger into his side.  “You’re incorrigible!”

“Those are some fancy words you’re using there Beesly.  I’m not sure I can associate with such a fancy schmancy girl,” he chortled.

“You’re going to associate with whomever I tell you to,” she bossed.  “Especially those of the fancy schmancy variety.”

Relenting, Jim placed a kiss on her forehead, his hands resting on her waist.  “If you insist.”

“Oh, I definitely do,” she murmured, losing herself momentarily. “Wait. You still haven’t answered my question.  What’re you doing here anyway?” 

“Obviously Pam- can’t you tell?  I’ve joined a traveling dance troop in my hopes of eventually running away to the circus.”

“C’mon!  Seriously!”

Jim’s eyes softened.  “Don’t laugh, okay?”

“I won’t,” she promised.

“I started to do some volunteer hours with ‘Serving Seniors,’ which then led me to their dance classes… and well I figured I may as well join in,” he shrugged.  “I wanted to be able to surprise you with my Gene Kelly skills,” he joked.

“Definitely surprised,” Pam remarked.  “But you didn’t have to take lessons.”

Jim gave a quiet smile.  “I was hoping it might come in handy on our next trip to Rome.”

“I don’t understand…”

Jim shrugged.  “We didn’t get to spend a lot of time together when we were there… and I just thought….” He paused, collecting himself.  “Maybe we could return again soon.”

Oh, Jim,” she said.  “You really didn’t have to…to do all this…”

“I know,” he paused.  “But I wanted to.”

As Pam looked up at Jim, she felt a surge of nervous excitement grow in her chest.  For years she had believed that she’d never have a chance again.  She’d long accepted that by leaving Scranton she had effectively abandoned the one thing she wanted above all else.   Yet, there he stood in front of her, his gentle smile sending a shiver down the course of her spin.  She doubted that even Jim realized the effect he continuously had on her. 

“But… but you’re here… in Buffalo?” 

“Truthfully, they have this insane competition with a Buffalo dance group… so you know…” he bobbed his head, smiling.

“You’re here to be the muscle?”  She teased.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” He clicked his tongue, as he ran his hands jokingly along his chest.

“Oh, totally obvious,” Pam laughed, rolling her eyes. “Very nice directions by the way.  I sort have got the impression that I was taking the more scenic route…”

“Ah, diversionary tactic used as a way to ensure that I was here in time to be able to collect.”

“Collect?”

“Didn’t you get my delivery?” He frowned.

“You mean the lovely shower cap with the mysterious words?” She asked.  “You’d think I’d be able to speak Italian fluently with the amount of cryptic messages I have to decipher.”

“So you haven’t translated it?” He smiled suspiciously as she shook her head.  “I know you’ve got that phrasebook in that super-sized purse of yours,” he said tugging at her satchel.  “So take it out.”

He knew her too well.  Laughing, she pulled out the phrasebook and handed it to him.

“You want me to show you?” He asked airily. She nodded as he teased:  “Fancy Beesly is not only fancy, but lazy too.”

“Damn straight,” she replied, smiling. “You’d think I’d have that book memorized with the amount of translating you have me doing…”

“Ah, it’s good for your health…” He flipped the book open and began to turn through the pages.  “So I transferred,” he added, absently.

“Wait!  What?” Shocked, Pam put her hand over the book, preventing him from turning the pages. “What do you mean you transferred?”  

“I asked for a transfer,” he repeated, his head tilting to the side waiting for her reaction.

“Where? When…?”

“I’ve been working on it for a couple of months actually.”

“I don’t understand…” she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. 

“About three weeks ago Dan Gore approved my transfer to his branch.”

“Dan Gore?  You mean the-”

“The manager of the Buffalo branch,” he confirmed with a soft, hopeful smile. 

Pam’s face only hinted at the many thoughts that were running through her head at that moment.  She was elated, ecstatic and overwhelmed.  Jim was going to be in Buffalo.

“When?” Her excitement barely contained.

“Effective immediately.  Part of the reason I’d started helping ‘Serving Seniors’ was to get some volunteer hours… I registered for night classes at Canisius College,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders.  “Figured I might as well get that recreation degree while I’m here.”

“Oh Jim,” she said, still entirely stunned, her voice barely above a whisper.  “Does this mean you’re going to be here?  Like full time…?” 

He smiled softly, nodding his head. “This morning I signed a rental agreement for a house in Kenmore…” 

Denying him the chance to continue, Pam threw her arms around his neck, peppering kisses across his face, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

“Pam Beesly: what’s that in your eye?”

“Nothing,” she lied, swiping at a tear that had escaped to her cheek.

A smile crept to his lips.  “Did the moon hit your eye?” He asked, feigning his concern.

Recognizing the reference, Pam smirked.  “You mean like a big pizza pie?”

“Obviously,” he rolled his eyes for emphasis. “Cause that’s amore!” 

Pam swatted at his arm as Jim laughed at his own joke.

“Next you’re going to tell me that I make you drool like pasta fazool.”

“Oooh… pasta,” he groaned feigning hunger, grabbing at his stomach.

“Jim!”  She chastised, unable to stop herself from laughing. Pam pointed at the phrasebook.  “Now about that translation…” She linked her arms into his, and leaned her head against his shoulder, watching as he returned his attention to the pages of the book.

“Here we go,” he said finally, pointing at the translation, tipping the book toward her. “Ti posso baciare?” 

“Can I kiss you?” She read.

“Well, if you insist.” He smiled at her as she turned her face toward his, their lips meeting, the world around them seeming to disappear.

A groan escaping his lips, Jim pulled back from the kiss.  “As much as I’d love to continue this,” he said, his voice throaty. “We’re in a recreation room, with about 30 senior citizens.  Besides, I was hoping you’d let me have the next dance?”

“But I’m such a horrible dancer,” she whined.

“I know and I’m pretty certain that it’s damn cute.” 

“Well, since you put it that way…” She smiled shyly, tucking her hand into Jim’s as he led her onto the dance floor.

One hand on her waist, the other in her palm, Jim smiled down at Pam.  It was as though they were back at Piazza Esquilino, the music transporting them into a world of their own.  Oblivious to their steps, ignorant of those surrounding them—they fell into a comfortable rhythm.

Midway through the song, an accented voice startled them.  “Scusa…” an elderly woman said looking from Jim to Pam.

“Signora Stella! Buonasera,” Jim said greeting her.  “Pam this is Stella- she’s from Italy.  Since I told her about our trip to Rome, she’s been trying to teach me Italian.” 

“Hi,” Pam smiled and gave a slight wave.  “I hope he hasn’t been giving you too much trouble...” 

“Oh! No trouble!” Stella replied, her accent heavy.  “Tuo ragazzo?” She asked Pam, pointing toward Jim.

Pam’s heart leapt at the familiar question.  She looked up at Jim, a grin encompassing the width of her face.  He smiled in return, giving her a quick nod of encouragement.

“Si. Mio ragazzo.  My boyfriend…”


~La Fine (The End)~