One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  I swallow hard, feeling like I might get in trouble for saying anything. “No. She didn’t. We, well, we very much have a client-agent relationship. I actually don’t know anything about her and she doesn’t know much about me either.”

  “I don’t think that’s so unique with her,” he says. He finishes the rest of his coffee and then gives me another arresting stare. “So, now what?”

  I shrink into the couch a little, hands folded in my lap. “I guess … I go back home.”

  My focus is on my hands, but I can feel his gaze on me. When I finally look up, he’s observing me like I’m a sort of puzzle, which I suppose I am. What to do with the writer?

  “Do you think you’ll be able to finish your book if you go back home?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Who knows at this point? I know I won’t give up on it.”

  He nods and then gets up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call.”

  He starts down the hallway and I quickly yell after him, “You’re not calling the cops, are you?”

  I don’t think he hears me though, because he goes into the study and closes the door.

  Before I can dwell on it, there’s a clamor of footsteps on the stairs and then Vanni bounces toward me. “You’re still here.”

  He sits down on the chair his father was just in and takes such a similar pose that I bite my lip, trying not to laugh.

  “I’m here for now,” I tell him. “Pretty sure I’m going.”

  “Are you Irish?”

  “Scottish.”

  “Outlander,” Vanni says knowingly. “That show has got time travel all wrong. E un peccato.”

  I can’t help but frown. “The time travel is wrong?”

  He nods, serious as can be. “Their time travel theory is based on timing, location, and the person traveling. There is no such thing as time traveling traits in people. Jamie Fraser can’t time travel? Why not? It’s not, how do you say … prejudiced. Time travel is equal opportunity.”

  I blink at him, unsure what to do with that information. “So, I take it you know a few things about time traveling.” I lean in, my elbows on my knees, and give him a mock suspicious look. “You wouldn’t happen to be a time traveler, would you?”

  I obviously don’t have a lot of experience with kids, but they do like it when you humor them, right?

  Maybe not.

  He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “You think I’m a time traveler? Mio dio. No, no, è il mio cavallo di battaglia.” He notes my blank stare. “It’s my forte,” he explains. “That’s what that means. Anything about time travel, wormholes, the multiverse.”

  Jana’s son is a Stephen Hawking in the making. Interesting.

  He sits up straighter and puffs out his chest. “I am in science and physics class, three years ahead of everyone else. A thirteen-year-old level.”

  “That’s very impressive.”

  “Sì.” He sighs, sitting back. “I know.” He stares off into the distance for a moment and I wonder if the conversation is over. Then he looks at me. “I hope you get to stay.”

  So do I, I think.

  “I’m not sure that will work out,” I say. “Neither you or your father were expecting me. Your mother invited me, but she didn’t tell you.”

  He presses his lips together and nods. Perhaps his mother is a touchy subject with him.

  Then he shrugs. “She’s like that. She forgets things. One time I went to London by myself on the plane and she forgot to pick me up at the airport.”

  My eyes nearly fall out. “She what?”

  “She was so sorry about it. She showed up a few hours later crying. I’d never seen my mother cry before, so I wasn’t mad.”

  Jeez, Jana.

  “Anyway,” Vanni goes on. “If you stay, then I could have some company. I was supposed to be with my best friend Toni, but he broke his leg. It was kind of cool, until he started screaming, and then I realized we would have to come back home.”

  “You wouldn’t feel weird about having a strange woman in your house?”

  “You’re not strange,” he says. He frowns again. “I don’t think. But you aren’t a stranger. I know your name and what you do. You’re Grace Harper and you’re an author.”

  I’m Grace Harper and I’m an author.

  Why did that sound like a lie?

  Suddenly Claudio’s voice booms from the office, yelling at someone on the phone.

  With a sinking feeling I realize who.

  Perhaps after this, I won’t be an author anymore.

  Four

  Claudio

  “I said I was sorry,” Jana snipes at me over the phone. “What more do you want, Claudio?”

  She pronounces my name wrong sometimes. Clawdio instead of Cloudio, just to piss me off, and she’s doing it now.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell your client that you had an ex-husband and a son? I can understand me, perhaps, but Vanni? Are you ashamed of him?”

  She sighs heavily, and I sink down into the chair in the study, feeling the weight of my words in my heart. I don’t talk to Jana on the phone very often because it never goes well, even after all these years apart. But that’s more on her end than mine. It’s better for everyone if we communicate by text.

  “I’m not ashamed, I merely forgot. I’m a busy woman, Claudio. It happens.”

  “You didn’t forget,” I remind her. “This isn’t even your house anymore. Your name isn’t on it. Any claim you had to it dissolved when we got divorced six years ago.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be home.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Look, this girl has been through a lot. I felt sorry for her. I thought I could help her. And she has potential to go further than she has so far. She needs me to do it, and I provide the right motivation.”

  “Uh huh,” I say, squeezing the bridge of my nose. Jana touts herself as a miracle worker when it comes to authors and deals, though this is the first I’ve ever heard of her feeling sorry for someone. “What happened to her?”

  “She wrote with another author. Together they were Robyn Grace. Robyn died, so Grace is now on her own.”

  No wonder I sensed sadness in the girl. Her blue eyes don’t hide anything.

  “And so now her muse is gone,” I say quietly, knowing all too well how that feels.

  “I guess,” Jana says. “Though the muse should be money. I’ve never understood that about you artists.” She pauses. “Lucky that you don’t have to worry even if your muse never shows up again.”

  I ignore that. She’s always bringing up money, trying to see how much I’m making, even though she’s doing well for herself.

  “So, what will you do?” she continues. “Force her on the first plane back home?”

  “No,” I say slowly. “I think I need to talk to her.”

  “You know you would be doing me a favor if she stayed there.”

  “And what makes you think she wants to stay here?” I can see how spending a month at a villa in Tuscany would entice anyone, but when you realize you have to live with a brainy kid and a moody artist … that’s not what she signed up for. “We’ll be a distraction.”

  “Well, you’ll have to figure that out. Just, please, if she wants to stay, let her stay. There is so much room there. You’ll barely see her. She’ll keep to herself, you’ll keep to yourself. You spend so much time in your studio anyway.” She mutters that last part under her breath, reminding me once again that my art takes up too much of my time. “And maybe down the line she can even watch Vanni some days. The company would be good for him.”

  “All right,” I tell her. “We’ll see.”

  “Great. Okay, I have to go, I have an important call in a minute.”

  There’s always an important call.

  “Okay. Ciao, ciao.”

  I hang up the phone and stare at the desk for a moment before I get up.

  I have to admit, the idea of someone staying here isn’t that bad of an idea. Grace seems nice
, albeit quiet and somewhat shy, though I suppose that’s not strange for her profession. I don’t think she’d get in the way of my work and I don’t see myself getting in the way of hers either. And what Jana didn’t say, but what I know, is that it would be good to have a woman around the house, for Vanni’s sake. He loves his aunts, but I think he’s at the age where he’s getting sick of their cheek-pinching and meddling.

  It doesn’t hurt that Grace is easy on the eyes as well.

  I only saw her naked for a moment, but the image is seared into my brain, whether I want it there or not. She’s on the short side with soft curves, and this luminescent pale skin, white with a touch of peach, the kind that immediately makes me think of my art, like she’s made of a marble slab before I chip away at it. Pure and timeless and full of potential. Her hair is thick and dark, the color of teak, and her face is rather unusual in a beautiful way. Full upper lip, a gap between her teeth, big blue eyes that don’t hide everything that’s going on behind them.

  They’re the eyes of an artist, that much I can see.

  I slip my mobile phone into my pocket and open the door, hoping that they didn’t hear any of that. I was yelling at Jana earlier, a bad habit of mine that I’ve tried to lessen for Vanni’s sake. I’m fairly even-keeled, but my temper can get the best of me, especially when it comes to my ex-wife.

  But as I enter the living room and see the grim look on Vanni’s face, plus the chagrined expression on Grace’s, I know they at least heard my raised voice.

  “Va tutto bene, Papà?” Vanni asks me. Is everything okay?

  “Everything is fine,” I tell him. Grace looks so uneasy, her hands constantly smoothing out the bottom of her dress. “I just got off the phone with Jana.”

  She gives me a stiff smile. “I figured.”

  “She’s very sorry about the mix-up. Sends her apologies.”

  Of course, that’s not what she said at all. She was sorry that we came home early and ruined the little writing retreat. But I won’t throw Vanni’s mother under the bus in front of him.

  From the way her brows pinch together, she doesn’t look like she believes it either. She may not know Jana that well, but she knows her reputation at least, and Jana isn’t one to apologize for much.

  In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that the whole reason Jana probably kept me and Vanni a secret from her client isn’t so much that she’s ashamed of us, but that she’s embarrassed. Of herself. I know she loves Vanni a lot, as much as she can, but we did have a short, albeit complicated, marriage, which then led to a divorce. Jana is all about image. Even though the divorce was amicable and wanted by the both of us, she still views her marriage as having failed, and failure is something she’ll never admit to. There’s too much pride at stake.

  I wonder if Grace will come to that conclusion on her own.

  “So now what?” Vanni asks. “Can Grace stay or does she have to go back to Scotland?”

  “Grace is welcome to stay if she wants to,” I say, looking at her.

  She’s surprised. I suppose she didn’t think that would be an option.

  Her forehead crinkles. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “You’re more than welcome to. If you think you can finish your book here, or at least get good headway on it, then I think it’s worth it. Don’t you?”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “Jana vouched for you. Besides, I’m a good judge of character.” Usually. “So long as you don’t mind us in your writing retreat. I’ll of course be busy in my studio, and Vanni is good at occupying himself.” I give him a stern look. “Which means not pestering us when we’re working,” I warn.

  “Oh, he’s not pestering me,” Grace says.

  I smile. “You say that because you don’t know my boy. He will in fact start talking about the science behind the movie Interstellar when you’re about to chip away at the pinky toe of St. Paul for a church’s commission.”

  “I take it you’re the one who made all this art,” she says, eyeing the statues.

  I nod just as Vanni bowls on through. “Have you seen Interstellar?” Vanni asks her. “Because if you haven’t, then we need to watch it, right now, and then discuss.”

  “Vanni,” I warn him again. “She hasn’t made her mind up to stay or not, and you are not helping.” I’m used to dealing with Vanni’s impulsiveness and intellectual demands, but Grace isn’t.

  “I would love to stay,” Grace says, her smile genuine this time. “But if you ever need me to leave, I will. I won’t be offended. You’re incredibly gracious for letting me stay here when you have every right to make me go.”

  I’ll admit, it will take some getting used to having her here and I have to do what I can to ensure she doesn’t interfere with my art. Not that I’ve got a handle on anything so far. I was supposed to take this month off when we were on the boat, hoping that at some point the salt air and open sea would reel in inspiration, pulling up creativity like creatures from the depths, but that didn’t happen. Now that I’m back here, I have no idea how I’m going to get back into the swing of things.

  It seems Grace and I might share the same struggles with a slippery muse.

  “I think the only thing we need to do is lay down some ground rules,” I say. “For the most part, this house is yours. I’ll give you the formal tour, so you know what is what. But my studio is off-limits if the door is closed.”

  “That’s the glassed-in room?”

  “Yes. It used to be the dining room for the lodge. All the glass panels slide open when I need air, especially for drying clay and plaster, but there are also curtains I can pull down when I need no distractions. I’m sure it is the same for you—sometimes a beautiful view is more distracting than it is inspiring.”

  She gives me a small nod.

  “We also need to find a suitable workplace for you, if you haven’t already.” I go on. “You’re welcome to use the study if you wish. There are plenty of tables in the dining room downstairs. There’s also the table outside under the pergola and one in the veranda. But if the scenery distracts you as it does me, it may not be the best place.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  “The kitchen is yours, so help yourself. Later I’ll get groceries—just let me know if there’s anything you need specifically. I’ll be making the meals as I always do, since Vanni is helpless in the kitchen, and then has the courtesy to eat everything in sight.”

  “I’m a growing boy,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

  “You’re lucky you have your mother’s metabolism,” I tell him. “When I was your age, I was a round little thing.”

  Vanni manages a rare smile and gives Grace a conspiratorial look. “I’ve seen pictures. My nonna still calls him piccolo zucca. Little pumpkin.”

  That boy. I shake my head, ignoring his betrayal, and ignoring the bemused look on Grace’s face. “Allora,” I say loudly. “So it goes, you are welcome to join us. We eat breakfast at nine, lunch at three, and dinner at eight. I’m quite strict with these times when we are at home, just so I can get into the right, how you say, headspace? My work requires a lot of patience and a lot of focus. I need the structure. Perhaps you are the same.”

  “I need something,” she says quietly. “I would love to eat you.” She stumbles over her words and blushes. “Eat with you,” she fills in quickly. She clears her throat awkwardly, fidgeting in her seat. “The schedule might help me. Though I may ask for your help with the espresso machine. I tried to work it but I gave up pretty quickly.”

  “That won’t be a problem. And I’m sure you know that you are free to use the bar as well. I take it that’s part of the bargain when you’re a writer.”

  Grace’s cheeks flush a darker peach which makes her glow.

  Hmmm. Now why do I have the urge to make her blush more often?

  I clear my throat, not willing to let myself be distracted. “So, what do you say? You’ll stay?”

  “I’d be honored
to,” she says. “Thank you. Grazie.”

  “Grazie,” I say, correcting her flat pronunciation. “Not so much a zee at the end, but a zee-a.”

  “Grazie,” she says, now overdoing it.

  “Grazie!” Vanni yells.

  I chuckle. “Don’t worry, Ms. Harper. By the end of it, you’ll be fluent, whether you like it or not.”

  “I could give you Italian lessons,” Vanni says eagerly. “What’s the point of knowing both languages so flawlessly if I can’t share them?”

  “I might take you up on that,” Grace says to him, smiling. Her smile makes her look younger and impossibly pretty, like a living doll. “Perhaps I can teach you some writing skills in exchange.”

  Vanni waves her away. “Please, I am already so good.”

  I shake my head, never not blown away by my son’s confidence, even in things he doesn’t do well. With his love of science and his logical, analytical brain, writing and anything creative has fallen to the wayside with him. But he’ll never admit it.

  Grace laughs at that, her laughter reminding me of birdsong in the spring.

  A peculiar feeling tightens in my chest, a warning of some kind.

  Of what, I don’t know.

  But I hope I’m making the right choice in letting her stay here.

  Five

  Grace

  Even with all the commotion of the morning, lunchtime rolls around fairly quickly. After I was given the go-ahead to stay, I went to my room to get out of the way. Though Claudio seemed genuine in his invitation, I also know that Jana must have argued with him to change his mind. I know she wouldn’t back down if she could help it, and me leaving here would look like a failure to her and damage her pride. And the thing I’m still afraid of is that Jana might want to distance herself from me, just because she’s embarrassed over the supposed mix-up. She’s so volatile, who knows what will set her off? I once heard she refused to take on John Grisham as a client because he called her Janet. Of course that could all be hearsay.