The Art of Enchantment
a Life is a Journey novel
M A Clarke Scott
West Wind Books
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by M A Clarke Scott
Sample Chapter
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2017 by: Mary Ann F Clarke Scott
ISBN: 978-0-9949507-7-2
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. M A Clarke Scott holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Sign up to follow M A Clarke Scott's blog & website at
www.maryannclarkescott.com to get news, release dates, discounts, giveaways and contests.
For John,
My romantic hero, also an architect, though not exactly a swashbuckling, motorcycle-riding one like Guillermo.
Thank you for your steadfast love and support, for believing in me the writer, and for indulging my desire for travel, especially to Italy, where we both can get our fill of art and architecture.
Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.
Joseph Campbell
Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
John Keats
Chapter 1
Religion. Rebellion. Sex. It had the makings of a best-seller. Clio hummed and danced her fingers on the steering wheel of her new Fiat 500 as she zoomed along Strada Provinciale 88. Everything in her dreary, fettered life was about to change.
A line of twisted cypress trees stood at attention along the crest of a nearby ridge. Like the statues of her beloved Italian saints, they kept watch over the neatly mown fields that rolled down the slope toward her. Maybe they were watching over her, too.
Clio was tortured by doubts that her ideas would gel in time for the critical meeting tonight, at which she must, she must, persuade Dr. Jovi that she was ready. If she failed, he would refuse to extend her deadline in the morning - again. If he did that, she would find herself cut loose, without an advisor, without an office or a sponsor, without a Ph.D., and forever without the approval of her patient but demanding academic parents.
Some people would be critical of Clio's need, at twenty-seven years of age, to please her mother and father. Those people had never met her parents.
She was out of time.
Until she'd seen the little statue of Saint Clare of the Cross at the Franciscan Monastery this afternoon, Clio despaired of ever having the clarity of vision to complete her thesis. Oh - she'd come up with a half-baked theory that had sustained her research for the past three years. But Saint Clare had convinced her that she really was onto something, and that would give her the passion and drive to write her final dissertation. Passion. Ecstasy. Bliss.
She laughed out loud. How ironic. She needed passion to complete her thesis about passion.
Long shadows snaked across the green hillside as the early evening sun dipped lower in the Tuscan sky. She would be back in the city within the hour, and still have time to freshen up and go over her notes and sketches before her eight o'clock dinner appointment with Dr. Jovi.
Nevertheless, Clio pressed a little harder on the gas pedal, and leaned into a long curve in the road, thrilled at how smooth and responsive her new car was to her command. The gift from Father was clearly meant as an incentive, and she would make sure he received her long overdue thanks - in the form of graduation, at long last.
Then, free from his prescriptions for her education and her career, she could finally decide how she wanted to live her life.
A pair of headlights flashed over the rise in the dimming light up ahead, and Clio slowed a little, prepared to pass another vehicle on the narrow winding road. The other car took shape suddenly in the gloom, larger than hers. Waves of loud music rolled toward her, punctuated by sharp shouts and laughter. Her pulse kicked. They weren't slowing or pulling to the side, the maniacs. Some young idiots, probably drinking.
Clio gripped the steering wheel tighter, and seconds later they were upon her, hogging the centre of the road. There was no room.
She veered sharply to the right as the car hurtled past with inches to spare. Violent grinding and metallic screeching ripped the air as her wheels slammed into the low barrier at the side of the road. The steering wheel tore from her grip. Her car was hurled up like a stone from a catapult.
Everything blurred. Light and dark flashed. The seatbelt jerked her hard against the seat. Air whooshed from her lungs. Squeals. Crunches. Thuds. The world quaked. Sharp pain shot through her head. Dark and silence enveloped her. Music and shouts echoed in her head, a sickening counterpoint to the terrible drumbeat of her heart.
Guillermo didn't mind riding out to Pia's farm for the weekend, though he was certain he'd have more fun if he'd stayed in Florence and taken Teresa or Patrizia out for wining and dining, followed by a little after-dark gymnastics. Or Teresa and Patrizia. Now there was a thought that warmed him. He shimmied on his seat to adjust his suddenly tight bike leathers, the powerful engine of his Ducati Multistrada vibrating between his legs.
A dark car whizzed past him on the empty road, nearly knocking him over with the sheer turbulence of its draft, loud music blaring. Faccia di merda.
He was positive he'd have more fun if he were at liberty to ride for the sheer joy of it, with no destination. There was nothing he loved more than a fast ride on his bike through the rolling Tuscan countryside, or failing that, in his Alpha Romeo convertible, the wind in his face, his blood thrumming. Nothing made him feel more free and alive.
But duty called. Bianca was uncharacteristically hysterical when she'd called this afternoon, and he was genuinely concerned about his little sister. She was also nearly incoherent, sobbing and ranting something about their eldest brother Jacopo. His calls to Jacopo went unanswered, not surprisingly, since his big-shot politician of a brother was always in a meeting or press conference.
A phone call to his older sister Pia for answers resulted only in an invitation to join her and Paulo for the weekend. She'd been evasive, and said she'd explain when he arrived. And so he'd dropped everything and raced out of the city after work.
For as much as he loved freedom and speed and good times, he loved his family more. And though the knowledge often felt like a heavy yoke around his neck, he knew he'd do anything for them, even if it killed him.
Chapter 2
Cl
io awoke to her own moaning. Her head throbbed with pain. She cracked opened her eyes. Slowly her surroundings took shape. She swiveled her head around, and it swayed on her neck. Oh, so dizzy. Dark green light outside, as though she were in a dense jungle. Her head was so heavy. Above her, the collapsing air bags hung from the steering wheel and dash, her hands flopped over her head. What? Why–?
She was upside down, still strapped into her seat, hanging at an awkward angle. The whole car was flipped over. She must have blacked out. It was murky dark. Her head hurt like hell, but that was all she could feel at the moment. Panic surged through her. I have to get out.
The front windshield was cracked, glinting blue shards. She groped for her seatbelt, grabbed it like a sling, and popped the latch.
Flailing, she collapsed in a twisted pile on the canvas roof. It bowed like a hammock under her. Sharp pain. Cold water soaked through her clothing. She shuddered. Ominously, displaced water seeped through the smashed windshield.
She scrambled upright and shouldered one door, then the other. Crumpled and wedged tightly against the edges of the ditch, they wouldn't budge. She was trapped. Her pulse tripled. Out, she had to get out.
Beyond the cracked windshield, dense thick-bladed grasses pressed against the car. Or rushes.
Think, think. She sat back and swallowed thickly. She'd have to go down to get out. A small tear gave her a start. She jabbed two fingers through, gripped the loose flap. Pulled. Rrriiippp. A larger fistful of canvas. She yanked again. Rrriiippp. And again. More water, and mud, and rushes poked up and bent over, dense as a rug beneath her. Icy water seeped over the edges of the hole. The blades were thick and sharp as knives. I have to get through there.
When there was a hole big enough to fit through, she lowered one foot into the tangled wet mess, shivering. Below the roof, her foot sunk knee deep into water and mud. It sucked at her sandal. She crouched down, lay on her stomach, shivering, and poked her head outside, under the car roof. Oh, my God! It was tight. And dark. She'd drown in a foot of water. If she lay flat, she could pull herself out on the surface of the rushes, and avoid sinking. Not far. Just past the trunk. Please, please, please let me get through without getting stuck.
She gripped handfuls of rushes and pulled herself forward, inch by inch, pressing her face against her sleeve, praying she didn't sink. The rushes sliced her hands, but she gritted her teeth against the pain. Keep going. Hand over hand. She squeezed under the car, just barely, on the flattened bed of rushes and mud. The roof scraped her back. Rushes scratched at her arms and legs, and the cold water soaked through to her skin. She had to go on.
Guillermo was getting close now. No more than another kilometer to Villa Cittadini. I wonder what Pia and Anna have conjured for dinner?
As he crested a rise, a dark shape loomed in the shadows of the drainage ditch up ahead. A flash of red. And something moving. What the hell?
What is that?
He pulled back on the gas as he neared. Stronzo! A Fiat was overturned in the ditch, having rolled over the low metal barrier and wedged in against an earth berm, bridging the gap. Someone crawled among waist high rushes in the ditch, then stood and flagged him down.
He decelerated and pulled to the side of the road to see if he could help.
Her pulse raced every inch of the way, but in moments she felt the space open up, and the rounded edge of the metal car frame curve away above her head and shoulders. Lifting her head, she opened her eyes, and sucked in a lung full of air. I made it. Slipping back, water and mud rushed into her mouth. "Agh!" Gasping, spitting, coughing, she yanked once more and pushed up, free of the dense rushes. Parting the blades with her hands, she shimmied out and placed her feet down, awkwardly tottering to a standing position on the rough squishy surface.
Her feet sank into the mud and water between the rushes, but she was free. She was alive and free. Her chest swelled with relief.
Just then she saw a light flash and arc overhead. She glanced up. It was nearly dark now. A headlight up ahead, approaching. Clio waved her arms over her head and shouted. "Stop! Oh please stop!" Whoever it was, was already slowing. Thank God. She was saved.
A motorcycle roared to the margin of the road and stopped. The engine quit and the headlight went out. Then it came back on again. Beyond the bright, blinding light, the dark silhouette of the rider strode toward her.
"Stai bene?" A deep rumble as he cleared his throat, and spoke with a deep voice.
"Em. I…um." A man in motorcycle leathers stood on the edge of the pavement, his helmet held casually in one hand. Her heart kicked against her ribs. Thank God someone's here.
"Scusami? Signiora? Sei tu ferita?" His face was shadowed.
She took a mental inventory of her body. "N-no. I don't think so. Nothing serious."
A tremor shook her from head to toe, as much from shock as from the cold wet that had begun to seep into her flesh. It was a miracle she had got out alive. Her heart kicked again, an echo of the terror she felt those first few terrible seconds when time stopped and she flew through the air.
"Ah. You are English-a? You are okay?" He spoke in strongly accented English.
Clio stared at him. "I understood. I speak Italian," she answered in Italian. He stood aggressively, feet apart, and she cringed inwardly. He wasn't exactly the rescuer she had imagined. But at least he was someone who could help her. If she didn't get out of here soon she'd get hypothermia standing here all night in wet clothes. She moved to climb out of the ditch, but her feet wouldn't budge. She'd sunk into the soupy mud like wet cement.
"Ah, bene. What happened here? You lose control?"
She shook her head. "Some bastards drove me off the road. I swerved to avoid a head-on and flipped over the barrier. As you see." She gazed at what remained of her new car. Father would kill her. Shit.
"Si. Drunks?" He nodded.
"Maybe. Probably. They were shouting and driving very fast. With loud music."
Again she tugged on one leg, and then the other with more force. But they wouldn't move. She tried to wiggle her ankles, but more of the icy water and muck seeped in between the soles of her bare feet and her sandals. Even if she could inch her legs out, the sandals were never coming.
Now what?
"Tsk." He scraped a hand over his shadowed jaw, mumbling curses. "Figli di puttana."
"Yes. That's exactly what I thought. "
What a disaster. Her field trip to the little chapel at the Franciscan Monastery seemed like ages ago, rather than just the couple of traumatic hours that had passed, the blissful expression on the face of the statue of Saint Clare of the Cross a fading memory. Saint Clare! Panic rose within her as the setting sun flared. Dr. Jovi would be so angry– he would give up on her. She had to call him right away. But her phone was…gone.
"Have you got a cell phone?"
Oh, merda. He forgot she could understand him. She spoke very good Italian, for an Englishwoman. No, not English. Wrong accent. American, perhaps.
Guillermo gazed at the wrecked Fiat. No way that was going anywhere. He pulled out his cellular and dialed the emergency number.
"Can I use your cell phone? Per favor?" She gazed at him, two large bright eyes peering out from her muddy face.
"I've got it." He held up a hand while he waited to be put through and looked her over. A wet lump. Her hair hung like a brown, mud-caked club down her back. Her face was mud-splattered. Not an attractive sight. But her wet summer clothing clung to her, making it perfectly clear she was female, though she seemed oblivious to the transparency of her shirt, or she would be screening the sight from his curious eyes instead of clasping herself across the middle, trembling. Hardened nipples pressed against wet cotton. His groin tightened in reflex. Stupido. Pazzo. Turn it off once in a while! Only the failing light saved her from indecency. Not the time to be noticing. Instead, he saw that she shivered, from shock or cold, or both.
"Emergenza."
"No, no," she protested.
What? Was s
he crazy?
"C'è un'auto in un fosso sulla Strada Provinciale 88."
At last. Guillermo gave their approximate location and explained what happened, requesting assistance.
"It will be an hour, minimum, to send a car. The tow truck will take even longer."
Guillermo ground his teeth. An hour! He didn't have time for this, but he couldn't very well leave the poor woman stranded. She hunched, shivering and wringing her hands. "A tow truck won't do it. It'll need a flatbed with a crane,” he said.
"Never mind the car," she moaned, and Guillermo scowled at her in confusion.
"Oh. Like that," the dispatcher continued. "Hmm. Perhaps it could stay until tomorrow? The driver, eh...could you help...?"
Guillermo sucked air, pushing back his sleeve to check the time. He was late already. Pia would hold dinner, but she'd fret whether he called or not. "I will take her with me and keep her comfortable. The car is totaled, I'm certain. I'll be nearby, at a farm, at Villa Cittadini, if you want to call for details."
The dispatcher agreed, and he left his cellular number. Wonderful. Wonderful. The wet, dirty woman was now Guillermo's responsibility, convenient or not.
"Bene. Let's go. I'll take you somewhere warm."
"That's very kind, but I can't damned well move!"
"What?"
"I'm stuck... in the mud."
He groaned. This misadventure would ruin his bike leathers and his evening, but she was helpless. "Give me your hands."
She lifted her filthy hands, and he cringed inwardly, reaching for them. Her fingers were long and thin, but sturdy. He gripped tightly and pulled, and she promptly fell to her knees with a wail of despair.
"Eh. Sorry. You really are stuck."
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 1
