Except you’ll be writing most of the time. Remember Jana’s words. You didn’t come here for a vacation. You came here to work.
Which means no day trips to Pisa.
Or Florence.
Or Siena.
Or Cinque Terre.
And I probably won’t be eating out often either. Jana assured me there was a large kitchen and that Emilio could drive me to the grocery store.
I steal a glance at him, marveling at both his ear hair and the amount of concentration he’s giving to the road. At least I know I’m in capable hands.
I wonder if I should attempt to talk to him again but decide it’s probably not for the best when he’s driving, considering the amount of hand gestures we had both used earlier trying to understand each other.
Playing it safe, I bring out the Translate app and start prepping the list of questions I have for him when we arrive at the villa.
Then I take out the email that Jana sent me with all the information I need for the next month and look over it for the hundredth time.
The official name of the villa is Villa Rosa, a nineteenth century hunting lodge that’s eight kilometers outside of Lucca. Aside from Emilio, who comes every other day, I will have the place to myself. There’s an old chapel across the road that belonged to the previous owner, and after about a ten-minute walk there’s a really nice restaurant. There are bikes I can use as well.
That’s pretty much all the info she gave me, and I’m trying to imagine what an old Italian hunting lodge would look like, when Emilio takes the truck off the highway and onto a narrow rural road. We zoom around curves framed by olive groves and the low hills beyond, and I close my eyes when it looks like we’re about to collide with a tractor trailer.
When I dare to open my eyes again, Emilio is trying not to smile.
Finally, the truck begins to slow for the first time, and we pull into a gravel driveway.
“Siamo qui,” Emilio says in his deep, crackly voice. “We here.”
Two
Grace
The truck pulls to a stop and I’m already gawking as I get out.
This place is stunning.
First my eyes are drawn to the villa.
Villa Rosa is three stories tall, the palest yellow color with a rust-tiled roof. It has quite an unusual façade, with two staircases leading to the same glass door on the second floor, the landing lined with window boxes of red geraniums. There’s also a door on the main floor below it.
Then my eyes are drawn to the grounds, which seem to have been immaculately tended by Emilio.
To one side of the villa is a grove of lemon and fig trees interspersed with flowering potted rosemary and violets, and to the other side is a gravel path that cuts through cypress trees and under an arch of blush pink roses, showing just a hint of blue swimming pool.
Behind me, between the house and the road, is a large, closely-shorn lawn and I can see the tiny chapel beyond that, olive trees surrounding it as they rise gently up a hill.
“Wow,” I say out loud as Emilio hauls my suitcase and duffle bag out of the truck. “Bellisima!”
I said that right, right? But he just nods and smiles and drags the bags across the gravel.
“Oh, let me,” I tell him quickly, reaching for them, but he shakes his head adamantly.
“No, no,” he says. “Lascia, lascia.”
He hustles the bags toward the house, and I continue to stand there, dumbfounded. The sun is peeking out from behind some clouds and making my wool cardigan feel too hot and heavy. I tip my head back to the sky to get the rays on my face and take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lemon blossoms and roses and sun on grass. I just got here but I can already feel the well inside me filling up, promising creativity and production and even joy.
Thank you, Jana, I say inside my head. Even though she sent me here because her arse was on the line, I can’t help but feel eternally grateful that I feel the seeds of inspiration. I tend to feel things very deeply, and this includes my environment, and I already know that the decision to come here will pay off for the both of us.
An unfamiliar thrill runs through me at the thought. I can’t remember the last time I had hope.
Emilio clears his throat and my eyes snap open. He’s waiting impatiently by the front door, gesturing with his head for me to hurry along.
I give him a quick smile and step behind him as he opens the door to the bottom floor.
It’s cool inside and I’m immediately taken by the old wood beams and rafters above, and the terracotta tile below. It looks more like a restaurant down here, with two round tables covered by checkered tablecloths, wooden chairs, and then a lounge area by a massive fireplace.
“Please,” Emilio gestures. “You have.”
He’s pointing to an honest-to-god bar that runs along the wall across from the lounge. It’s fully-stocked with every type of alcohol imaginable, plus wine bottles tucked behind white glass cabinets.
Dutifully, I keep following Emilio past the bar—a place I’ll have to frequent with moderation—and into a hallway.
“Cucina,” he says, placing his hand on a swinging door near the stairs and pushing it open.
I stick my head in. It’s the kitchen, looking both homey and slightly industrial. I guess this whole bottom floor used to be the restaurant from when this was a hunting lodge.
I follow Emilio up the stairs to the second floor which is a gorgeous living area with couches and the biggest wood coffee table I’ve ever seen. It takes up most of the floor. The room is bright, and scattered throughout are sculptures, marble, clay, some abstract, some of half-clothed women. It all looks very refined.
A row of framed photographs along a polished mantle catches my eye next. The photos are mostly in black and white which make me think they’re of the villa back when it was a lodge. I’m itching to take a look and get inspired by the history, but Emilio continues up the staircase to the third floor, despite the fact that there are more unexplored rooms on the second.
He guides me down a narrow hallway to a door at the end labeled “C,” and opens it.
My bedroom is delightful. Bigger than I thought it would be, with pale blue walls that contrast with the exposed dark wood beams above, and regal red bedding on the queen-size bed. It even has one of those gauzy curtains that hang above the bed, the ones you can pull around like a mosquito net.
Emilio throws my bags on the bed. He’s sweating now from hauling them all over the house. He gestures to the loo, and I poke my head in. It’s small but there’s a shower, so I’m happy.
“I come back,” he says to me, heading for the door. “Saturday.”
Which makes it the day after tomorrow.
For a moment a tremor of worry goes through me.
I’m going to be by myself.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Thank you so much for everything. Ciao.”
He just nods, wiggles his nose, and leaves down the hallway.
I stick my head out the door and watch him disappear, then finally hear the front door close and then the grumbling engine of his truck.
He’s gone.
I’m alone.
Time to settle in.
I open the shutters and the windows and lean out, taking in a deep breath. The bedroom is at the back of the house, overlooking a glass-encased veranda or atrium below, then a wide lawn with a few fruit trees and a crumbling old wall lining the back. Beyond that is a thicket of trees, and in the distance a distinctive looking hill that overlooks the valley.
It’s growing hotter by the minute, even with the window open, so I peel off my cardigan and unzip my boots, taking out a pair of flip flops from my carry-on. My feet need a pedicure, having been encased in socks and boots for months on end, and I make a note to do my nails later. I know no one but Emilio will see them, but even so, I already feel like this is a good opportunity to dress up more. There’s a reason I brought a million sundresses that Edinburgh only lets me wear two months out of the yea
r.
I quickly use the loo, admiring the blue floral wallpaper and jasmine-scented hand soap, then I grab my plotting notebook and pen from my purse, sliding my phone in the back pocket of my skinny jeans, and head out to explore.
All the doors in the upper hallway are closed. I assume one of them belongs to Jana and the rest are for guests. I don’t want to be nosy, so I leave the doors closed and head down the stairs to the living room, making a beeline for the mantel.
There are several framed photographs. The black and white ones show a family posing outside the villa, looking exactly the same as it does today, save for the 1940’s style car in the forefront. Then there’s a photo of a beautiful dark-haired woman posing amid roses, a mysterious smile on her face. There’s another of two men holding up a dead deer, each hand on an antler and smiling proudly.
There’s only one picture in color, a little boy, maybe two years old, sitting in a basket of lemons. He looks extremely serious, which makes the picture even cuter.
I step back from the mantel and look around the room. One of the things I need to do is find the perfect writing spot. This room is airy and bright but it won’t do.
I go down the short hall, but there’s only one door open. It’s a small library with a desk in the middle. I figure if the door is open, then I’m probably allowed to be in here. I sit down at the desk, trying to see if the height of the chair is to my liking. I could write in here, but it doesn’t feel as inspiring as it could be.
I get back up and go check out the bookshelves. Most of the titles are in Italian, with only a handful in English, and they all seem to be about art or are non-fiction. I also don’t see any of Jana’s clients’ books, not even the big names. Okay, so maybe it’s a little narcissistic that I’m automatically looking for my books here, but I don’t even see them in the Italian translation. Huh.
Well, you’re a new client, I remind myself. And she probably hasn’t been here since she signed you.
It makes me wonder how long it’s been since Jana visited. The place feels very large with me being the only one here, but there’s a warmth to it, like it was occupied recently. Perhaps Jana Air B&Bs the place out most of the year. In fact, given what a big shot and busybody Jana is, I have a hard time imagining her here at all. It seems too relaxed and warm and easygoing for her. How would she get anything done?
I’m not sure how I’m going to get anything done if I don’t find a spot to write.
I leave the study and my search continues.
* * *
It is the perfect summer day.
I’m not saying that casually.
I mean, it’s the summer day of your long-lost youth. It’s a summer day that captures all the feelings of how the world used to be. A summer day to write about.
If this summer day could be bottled into an elixir, it would consist of a freshly-cut lawn and blossoming roses. It’s the soft warmth of the morning sun as it mingles into the heat of the afternoon. It’s the freshness in the air, the kind of air that has never been intoxicated with car fumes or pollution, an air of the past. It’s the angle of the sun as we approach summer solstice, powerful and steeped in eons of time, igniting something ingrained in us.
To put it simply, I’m reminded of being a child again, and what those summer days felt like. There was purity and freedom and joy. So much joy as we shed our shoes and ran across lawns and through sprinklers and leaped into bodies of water.
When did summers stop being like that?
When we had to work, I remind myself. Like you should be doing right now.
I sigh. I should be working. Instead I’m lying by the cerulean pool and the sun on my pale body is both strong and fresh. I know I should be working on my book, not working on my tan. In fact, I had planned to get up early and get right into writing mode, but that never happened.
Yesterday after I arrived, I spent the afternoon exploring the rest of the house and the grounds. I shot Jana a quick email to let her know I got here alright, since she and I aren’t quite on a texting basis yet, and she let me know that if I needed food that I could take a bike ride for about five kilometers to a country corner store, or I could just check the fridge.
Turns out she had Emilio buy me just enough food to survive a few days, including a fresh loaf of bread, butter, loads of olive oil, brown farm eggs, plus pasta, tomatoes and pecorino cheese. I happily made myself a sandwich with cheese and impossibly red, juicy tomatoes, and it’s probably one of the simplest and yet most delicious meals I’ve ever had.
After that I grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar and then went out onto the back veranda to sit on an iron patio chair and soak it all in. Which then led me to discovering that the glassed-in atrium is actually an artist’s studio, with sculptures filling the space.
I had zero idea that Jana did art. Then again, I’m discovering bit by bit that I don’t know much about her at all. If that really is her art, then she’s incredible. From the style I can tell that the sculptures I’ve seen throughout the house, and possibly the paintings too, are all done by her.
After that, I went to bed early. Perhaps the half a bottle of wine had something to do with it.
This morning I had plans to get up and write. That meant both figuring out how the espresso machine worked and finding the perfect writing spot. I wasn’t able to work it, so I just settled for instant coffee I found in one of the cupboards, and I still couldn’t decide on a writing spot. I put my laptop on her desk in the office and tried to get into it there, but my mind kept wandering.
I swear not all writers are this fickle. I know that Robyn was able to write anywhere and everywhere, whether it was on her phone while lining up at the bank, or lying down in bed. I have to keep to the same spot in order to set a routine, plus I need noise-cancelling headphones at the ready with a certain playlist. It sucks. I wish I was a little more spontaneous but my muse needs certain conditions to appear.
Anyway, I decided that maybe getting in a few hours by the pool would be a good idea. Refresh the batteries.
So that’s where I am now. Lying by the pool, relaxed as hell and feeling guilty for it.
I sit up and wonder if I should get in the pool again. I take a look at my arms. I slathered on a lot of sunscreen so I shouldn’t be burning anytime soon.
Feeling daring, I get to my feet.
The place is just so gorgeous and the sun is so hot that there’s this delicious hedonistic vibe in the air. The pool is fairly large and set into the lush green grass, giving it a wild feeling. It’s surrounded by a long, thick hedge that completely shelters it from the road, and down one end there’s a gorgeous rose garden that I spent a good part of the morning wandering through.
Emilio said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, which means I have the entire place to myself.
Which means I’m totally alone.
And while that made me feel a bit scared yesterday, even though I’m truly a loner at heart, now it makes me feel free.
I peel off my bikini top and fling it onto the lounge chair.
Sunbathing topless is totally expected in Italy, right?
Then I take it further and step out of my bathing suit bottoms.
Now I’m completely naked.
I giggle to myself.
I don’t have a perfect body (what is that, anyway?) and I try not to look at myself in the mirror if I can help it. I know I could be leaner, I know I could have more muscle tone. I’m soft everywhere, the result of sitting on my arse most hours of the day. But here, now, my toes digging into the warm grass, the bright sunlight on my pale body, I feel more in tune with myself than I have in years.
I feel like I’m doing something dangerous and naughty and completely free, something Grace Harper of Edinburgh wouldn’t normally do.
I walk around the pool, heading into the rose garden to smell some of the pink and yellow blooms at the entrance. I close my eyes and inhale. It smells like a lemon drop martini, utterly entrancing.
A crunching
noise makes me whirl around.
I’d heard a few cars drive by earlier on the road, but I know for a fact that they can’t see me. Was that noise from the road or…?
Cautiously I walk back to the pool area and step out from around the giant fig tree that lines the gravel path to the house.
There’s a man standing there.
“Ahhhhh!” I scream.
“Ahhhh!” he screams.
What do I do, what do I do?
My first thought is that I’m totally naked and that I have to cover up immediately but my bathing suit is on the other side of the pool, and all I can do for now is cover my breasts and cooch with my hands, staring at the stranger, mouth open.
Then, before I can turn and make a run for the hedge or, god, something, anything, a young boy appears beside the man, staring at me with the biggest eyes I’ve seen.
Oh. My. God!
Without thinking, I run and launch myself into the pool, an awkward cannonball bordering on belly flop. I hit the water hard and then let myself sink to the bottom, in absolutely no hurry to surface.
Who the hell was that? Why is there a man here? And a boy. Oh my god, he saw me naked. They both did. What’s he doing here? Am I in any danger? Is he here by mistake, here to rob the villa?
Eventually I have to resurface, because, you know, air.
I break through, gasping for breath, and once the water is out of my eyes, notice the man has stepped even closer, peering over the edge of the pool in concern. Guess he thought I wasn’t coming back up.
He takes a step back and then motions for his son, who is still staring at me mouth agape, to turn around. Who knows how much of me he can see?
“Wh-who are you?” I manage to say, hoping they understand English, hoping I don’t start stuttering.
“Who am I?” the man repeats incredulously, his brows raising. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognize that he has perfect eyebrows, dark and shaped with a distinctive arch, a strong frame for his intense brown eyes. “You’re asking who I am?”
Okay, well at least the man with the perfect brows speaks perfect English.
One Hot Italian Summer Page 2
