One Hot Italian Summer

by Halle , Karina

  One Hot Italian Summer

  Karina Halle

  Copyright © 2020 by Karina Halle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Hang Le Designs

  Edited by: Kara Malinczak and Laura Helseth

  Contents

  One Hot Italian Summer

  1. Grace

  2. Grace

  3. Grace

  4. Claudio

  5. Grace

  6. Grace

  7. Grace

  8. Claudio

  9. Grace

  10. Grace

  11. Grace

  12. Claudio

  13. Grace

  14. Claudio

  15. Grace

  16. Claudio

  17. Grace

  18. Grace

  19. Claudio

  20. Grace

  21. Grace

  22. Grace

  23. Claudio

  Epilogue

  What to read after One Hot Italian Summer

  Free Signed Postcard!

  Acknowledgments

  Connect with the Author

  Also by Karina Halle

  About the Author

  For my muse

  One Hot Italian Summer

  A writer looking for inspiration in Tuscany.

  One hot Italian single dad.

  This summer is going to be a scorcher.

  One

  Grace

  They say writing is the loneliest profession.

  It’s said so often it’s become a bit of a cliché. I never really understood it, because, until now, it’s been the opposite for me. Writing has been the greatest journey, a dream career, a chance to be with my best friend day in and day out, working together to create something magical. It has never been lonely—it has never been anything but a shared discovery of the unknown. Me and Robyn against the world.

  But now that world is unfamiliar to me. The lights have dimmed. It’s just a maze of shadows, hard to find your way in and impossible to get out.

  And I’m standing in front of that dark maze, knowing I have to go it alone, knowing the journey I’m about to go on—if I can even open up my laptop most days—is going to be dark and strange and terribly sad. There is no joy here, only fear. Fear that I alone will not be able to find my way with Robyn gone.

  I stare at the blank page before me, this bright, flashing thing that stares right back. It dares me to write a word. To start.

  But I can’t.

  I reach over and slam the laptop shut then push back my chair a few inches, the sound of the wood scraping on the floor loud and definite. I want to put distance between me and the work but I know I can’t do this forever. This is my career, the path I chose, and either I give up on it now and move on to something else, or I forge my way forward.

  For now, though, I’m moving on.

  Just for today.

  Because it’s easier this way.

  I sigh and get to my feet, stretching from side to side. You’d think I just put in hours of hard work from how sore I am, but the truth is I’ve been sitting here since this morning, just staring at the screen, lost in thought and often paralyzed by it.

  It’s the end of May and I have a book due at the end of summer.

  The first one I’ll have written on my own.

  A book with what feels like the entire world riding on it.

  Because my world is.

  I walk over to my bedroom window and gaze out. From here, I can see Dean Cemetery and people walking along Dean Path, their brightly colored umbrellas popping against the monochromatic background. So far, spring has settled on Edinburgh in a grey mist, and I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun. It certainly hasn’t helped my mood, turning writer’s block into a solid concrete wall.

  I sigh and rub my hands up and down my arms. The flat is drafty and damp, the kind that sticks to your bones. It’s the top level of a stone house, and I’ve been renting it since university. There are wood beams along the ceiling, one stone wall in the kitchen, and wind that whistles through the thin windows, bringing in the chill and the musky scent of the River Leith.

  Also, it was this cemetery across the street that changed everything for me. I stumbled upon a gravestone that only gave a hint of a woman’s rich past and then my brain was off and running. A cozy mystery about an elderly lady who used to be a member of Scotland Yard and her long-lost American niece. Both of them teaming up to solve mysteries and fight crime while running a cat café.

  Too scared to write alone, I approached Robyn, wondering if she’d want to write it with me. She said yes and the two of us jumped into it without a second thought.

  I met Robyn Henry in my university’s creative writing class. I was studying history at the University of Edinburgh in a vain attempt to make my professor father proud, and decided to indulge in something more freeing. Though I’d often spent my childhood alone, I’d lose myself in books. They kept me company when I had no one, and I’d pen silly little stories to pass the time. A creative writing course made sense for me.

  It made more sense when I met Robyn.

  Robyn was unlike anyone I knew. I was shy and quiet, keeping tightly to myself, and she was loud, quirky, and gregarious. She took a liking to me, kept on bugging me to hang out with her, wanting to read my stories before anyone else. She saw something in me that many people dismissed, and in turn I was enthralled with her. I wanted to be just like her.

  My mobile rings, jolting me out of my thoughts. Honestly, there’s only a few people who call me regularly and I have to say I don’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment.

  I go to my bedside table where it’s charging and look at the number.

  My heart goes cold.

  It’s my agent, Jana Lee.

  I’m terrified of her.

  I stare at it for a few moments, thinking. If it were my mom or dad I’d wait for them to text or leave a voice message, but I can’t ignore Jana.

  I pick it up.

  “Grace speaking.”

  “Grace, darling, how are you?” Jana’s throaty voice comes through. “How’s the writing coming?”

  She doesn’t even take a moment before she barrels right into it. That’s her, straight to the point, even if it knocks you over.

  I can lie. I’ve been lying for the last couple of months, essentially as soon as Jana signed me as her client. But I’m not sure if she’ll let it fly this time.

  “Uh,” I stammer.

  “Please, please, please tell me you’ve made progress. Tell me you at least have a quarter of the book done.” This is more of a command than anything.

  “I do,” I lie. I glance guiltily at the laptop on my desk, as if it’s going to jump up and protest.

  Jana sighs heavily. “Grace, listen to me. I need to know the truth. I need to know if you can finish this manuscript by September first. If you can’t, then we’re in some serious shit here with the publishers and I’m not about to put my neck on the line for you. I need to know now so I can either have the deal cancelled or we can move forward, as it is in your contract.”

  This was what I was afraid of. I always thought it was dumb luck that I managed to land Jana as my agent, after my last agent, Maureen, dropped me. For Maureen, Robyn was always the one she believed in. Robyn was her star. For the last six years that Robyn and I wrote the Sleuths of Stockbridge series, the only contact I even had with Maureen was through Robyn.

  Then, when Robyn died, Maureen decided she couldn’t represen
t me. Gave me the excuse that she was grieving, but I was grieving too.

  I still am.

  Jana represented another author friend of mine, Kat Manning, who put out her feelers, managed to snag me a phone call with her. I even took the train down to London to have a meeting.

  Here’s the thing about Jana Lee: she’s as infamous for her brash, bold, volatile personality as much as her talent in picking and nurturing writers. She’s one of the most, if not the most, powerful literary agents in the U.K. She’s been responsible for everything from bestsellers to Pulitzer prize winners, and for whatever reason, she decided to take me on, even when I didn’t have a book to show for it. All I had was a proposal, a three-page outline for a women’s fiction novel, and she managed to sell it for a nice sum.

  Now, of course, I have to follow through and write the damn thing.

  Which has been next to impossible.

  Time for me to finally admit it.

  “I don’t want the contract cancelled,” I tell Jana. I need it. I need it to not just give me money to pay my rent since royalties are so unreliable, but to prove myself as a writer. To prove I can do this without Robyn’s help, that I can do it alone. “I’ll make it work. It’s just been … harder than I expected.”

  Jana’s silence is deafening. Finally she says in a clipped voice, “What seems to be the problem? Writer’s block?”

  I don’t think Jana gets very personal. In fact, she doesn’t know much about me at all and I know barely anything about her. Everything so far has been strictly business and she’s only mentioned Robyn a handful of times. Being honest feels like it comes with a price. I don’t want her to think less of me.

  “I guess so,” I tell her hesitantly. “Fear, really. Fear that the book won’t be good enough, fear that I don’t know how to write without Robyn.”

  More silence. I can hear the fridge in my kitchen kick on.

  “You can’t edit a blank page, Grace,” she says after a moment.

  “I know. I just can’t seem to…” I trail off, wondering how to explain. “Aye, I guess it’s just writer’s block then.” Seems easier to say it like that.

  “That’s understandable,” she says. “You’ve been writing a cozy mystery series through twelve books, with someone else no less, and now you’re moving on to a book with romantic elements. I’m guessing the weather up there has been as shit as it’s been down here.”

  “The gloom helped with the Sleuths of Stockbridge,” I admit, peering out the window at the cemetery.

  “Of course it did. Even with the lighthearted tone, it still dealt with murder, crime, and the noir-like atmosphere of Scotland. It fit the genre.”

  “Well, it’s not like I can change the weather.”

  I’m met with silence again.

  Finally, Jana clears her throat. “Listen, I know we don’t know each other very well, not that I have a close personal relationship with any of my clients. I don’t believe it’s necessary to represent them, and actually, it lets me conduct business better. But I am empathetic to your predicament, Grace. I know what loss is like and I understand. However, we are both in this to make money and jumpstart your career, and I am getting concerned that this might be getting out of hand.”

  My cheeks burn. I hate being talked down to like this. My father was a pro at reprimanding me. He still is.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m trying. It’s just, this is a creative process and—”

  “Yes, yes, the creative process. You’re not a machine and you can’t switch it on or off,” she finishes, obviously mimicking what her other clients tell her. Writers, no matter the genre, are all peas in a pod. “But we can’t wait around for your process to start. If you can’t find the muse, we have to produce the muse.”

  I frown. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I think you need to get away,” she says. “Go somewhere hot and sunny where there’s nothing to worry your pretty little head about. Find inspiration somewhere other than dreary old Scotland, because I guarantee you’re not going to find it where you are. You’re haunted by ghosts, Grace, and they’re holding you back.”

  “I don’t think I can afford it,” I tell her. The advance I got for this book was fifty thousand pounds, which sounds like a lot until you break it down. I got fifteen thousand for signing, then I’ll get another twenty when I hand in the book, then another fifteen when the book publishes, whenever that is. Jana takes ten percent of all that, so that amount has to last me until I hand the book in.

  “I figured as much,” she says. “How about this? I have a house in Italy, in Tuscany, right outside the city of Lucca. You can use it for a month, free of charge, so long as you work on your book. I want at least twenty-five percent of it completed in that month and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

  I stare at the floor, trying to think. “I can’t … you have a house in Italy?”

  A pause. “Yes. It’s a wonderful place. You’ll have it all to yourself. The only person you’ll see is Emilio. He tends to the olive orchard and the pool and gardens.”

  It sounds like heaven, but still. “That’s far too generous.”

  “I’m not doing this to be generous, Grace. I’m doing this because this is my ass on the line. Now, do you think this will help you get the book done?”

  Say yes. Say yes, because if you say no, that might be the end of all this.

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled,” Jana says with such finality that I know there’s no way I can go back on this. “Let’s see … how about June first to June twenty-eighth? That’s almost a month.”

  I briefly wonder why the twenty-eighth, since wouldn’t it be easier to make it from the first to the first?

  “Are you planning on using the house?” I ask her. “Maybe after me?”

  “Ha,” she lets out a dry laugh. “You think I have time for a vacation? No, my dear. I work. Work is my vacation. And remember, this is work for you too. I’m not letting you stay there so you can lie by the pool all day and work on your tan.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So, are you in? Does this all work for you?”

  “Sure, that works,” I tell her. June was just a few days away, which made it very last minute. “Hopefully I can find a flight.”

  “There are flights to Pisa all the time. It’ll be no problem. In fact, I’ll book them for you. Cheap. It’ll probably be Ryanair or Easyjet, so don’t get your hopes up. It’s just a step up from flying cargo.”

  I’m so overwhelmed that I feel like I’m going into autopilot, like none of this is real.

  “Are you sure you want to do this for me?” I ask her.

  “Darling, I’m doing this for me,” she says. “Now, I’ll email you the plane tickets once you’ve got them. Emilio has a key, so I’ll arrange for him to meet you at the airport. He’s an old fart, but he’s dependable.”

  “Okay. Well … thank you so much, Jana.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just hope this pays off.”

  “It will,” I tell her before we say goodbye and hang up.

  I stare at the phone in my hand for a moment before my eyes sweep across my flat. Jana is right about being haunted. It’s not about being across from a cemetery. It’s that all the memories in this flat are tinged with shades of Robyn. From our character and plot breakdowns over copious amounts of coffee (Irish Breakfast tea for her) while bundled up in blankets on the couch, to me texting her from my desk as I feverishly wrote and immediately emailed her chapters. I feel like there’s no escape from her.

  And for the first time, I realize the only way I’m going to be able to move forward is if I physically, then mentally, make the change and leave her behind.

  I put the phone back on the charger, then head into my bedroom to start packing.

  * * *

  When Jana first told me about Emilio Bertuzzi, her villa’s groundskeeper, I was expecting, well, an old fart (her words). But the Emi
lio that meets me at the airport in Pisa is anything but.

  Yes, Emilio is old, at least eighty, and he has a forest of hair growing out of his ears, but beneath his bushy brows are kind and sharp eyes. He walks at a fast pace and practically wrestles my suitcase from my hands, hoisting it into the back of his beat-up truck with ease (and considering my suitcase is absolutely stuffed with clothes, that’s no small feat).

  The only problem is, Emilio barely speaks English, which makes me realize that Jana must speak fluent Italian if she’s able to communicate with him at all. Who knows, maybe by the end of all this, I’ll be speaking Italian too.

  You don’t need another distraction, I remind myself as Emilio takes a corner at breakneck speed. Focus on the book, not learning a new language.

  Or at least focus on not dying. I don’t know if Emilio used to be a race car driver or what, but he’s been driving like he’s in it to win it ever since we left the airport. Actually, everyone on the road is keeping up, like pace cars, which makes me think that driving aggressively fast may just be an Italian thing.

  I’ve only been to Italy once, to Rome, on a book tour with Robyn. I had food poisoning the night before, in London, so I don’t remember much of it. I do know it was for book number five, and that Robyn had a great time at the bookstore party, whereas I went right to the hotel room after the signing was over. Didn’t get to see any of the sights, or eat any of the food, which is the ultimate shame when it comes to Italy. I hope to rectify it with this trip.