One Hot Italian Summer

by Halle , Karina

Claudio runs his fingers along his jaw, pinching his square chin as he studies me. “Let me ask you something, Grace, from an artist to an artist.”

  “I’m a writer,” I interject.

  His brows raise, his face looking like I just slapped him. “Nooo,” he says in a hush. “A writer is an artist. You don’t agree?”

  I shrug and look down at my feet. “Honestly, I don’t feel like much of a writer right now anyway. So I definitely don’t feel like an artist.”

  “Just because you don’t feel it, doesn’t mean that you aren’t. Which brings me to my question. You say I am selling myself short because my father paved the way for me. This is your first novel on your own, correct? You had a writing partner before?”

  I glance at him sharply. “How did you know?”

  “Jana,” he says.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Do you feel like you deserve to be where you are had Robyn not been there?”

  Robyn’s name sounds so foreign coming from Claudio, like the image of her, the idea of her, the ghost of her, didn’t have a chance of existing here until he brought her up. Hell, for the first time since her death, I had gone more than twenty-four hours without succumbing to my grief. It feels … wrong. And yet I know it’s needed at the same time.

  Claudio takes a step toward me. “I’m just saying,” he says, his voice lower. “It is hard for us to own our success sometimes because we’re afraid if we do, we’ll lose the magic. Perhaps the muse won’t show for us because she thinks we don’t need her. But we do. At least I do.”

  I manage to look at him. “You have muses?”

  “Of course. What kind of artist would I be if I didn’t have inspiration delivered by some unpredictable force of nature? What kind of Roman would I be, for that matter? I have the deities in my blood, and they are elusive creatures.”

  I’m pretty sure Robyn was the one who supplied the muses for the both of us. Or maybe she was my muse. Maybe the two of us together created this magic that could never be bottled up or duplicated again. The thought makes my heart sink right to my knees.

  “Come on,” Claudio says gently. His eyes search mine as he reaches down and briefly presses his fingers to my wrist, sending another current through my veins. “I have more to show you.”

  He turns and I follow, my skin warm where he touched me.

  Six

  Grace

  When I wake up it takes me a moment to realize where I am. Not back in my drafty flat across from the cemetery, but in a comfy spacious bed with fancy linens and morning light trying to slip through the closed shutters.

  I’m in Villa Rosa.

  I’m in Tuscany.

  And there’s a knock at my door.

  I slowly sit up, wondering if it was the knock that originally woke me.

  “Y-yes?” I say, clearing my throat.

  “La colazione è pronta!” Vanni yells from the other side. “Vamoose!”

  Okay, so I know what vamoose means. I lean over and grab my phone from the dresser. Nine o’ clock on the dot. Claudio wasn’t kidding about his schedule.

  I exhale thoroughly and swing my legs over the bed, taking a moment for my brain to settle.

  I stayed up late last night, which accounts for why I feel so tired.

  But it was for the best reason.

  After Claudio showed me the garage, he took me through an area where they do their own olive oil pressing, generally to give as gifts and sell at the art gallery, plus a small gym (which accounts for Claudio’s muscles), then he brought me to the top level where he keeps his plasters.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. In Scotland, plasters are either casts or a Band-Aid, so even though I knew that wasn’t the case, I was half-expecting to see a room that wouldn’t look out of sort at a hospital.

  Instead, I was surrounded by white statues of all shapes and sizes. At least they looked like statues, until Claudio told me they were the plaster casts that he used as models for his sculptures. First he sculpts in clay, then he makes a plaster cast of the clay model, and then finally he uses the plaster as the basis for the stone or marble sculpture he does, keeping the exact same ratios and dimensions.

  They were inspiring, to say the least, and Claudio seemed so blasé about them. I was in awe that he could even create them from scratch and then go through all the steps to bring them to the final form. The skill needed to even create a clay model was out of this world, and made me look at him with an even deeper sense of appreciation.

  He said that he never gets rid of them in case he needs to duplicate one of his pieces, which sometimes happens, but I couldn’t imagine getting rid of them anyway. It would be like throwing out all your best drafts if the drafts were perfect to begin with.

  After that, I felt something rumble through me, like the creativity that had been percolating since I landed in Italy was finally coming to a boil.

  Claudio showed me the rest of the grounds a little more thoroughly than when I was left to my own devices, telling me the history of the place, and I decided that the table in the covered veranda at the outskirts of the pool area was the perfect place to write, at least at that moment.

  I went to my room, grabbed my laptop and notepad, and then hunkered down for the afternoon and evening, only going inside to get water and use the loo. I didn’t even have dinner since I was running on creative adrenaline and didn’t want to stop, and Claudio totally understood.

  Then later, I came up here to my room and wrote until about three a.m.

  Which explains why I’m both exhausted and starving.

  I quickly slip on a pair of joggers and flip flops, pulling on a bra and tank top. The only bad thing about having two men in the house with me is that it has ruined my plans for a braless June.

  The table is set up outside again, and I guess it will be the designated dining area until the weather sends us inside. It’s another gorgeous day, with soft morning sunshine that hints at the heat to come.

  Claudio puts his newspaper down the moment he sees me, and gets to his feet, flashing me the kind of smile that makes my head spin.

  “You’re up,” he says. “I felt badly about getting Vanni to wake you, but I figured since you didn’t eat dinner last night, you should at least have breakfast. Espresso?”

  “Please,” I say emphatically as I sit down and look over the spread.

  The food looks glorious. Poached eggs, slices of cold cuts and hard cheeses, a loaf of crusty bread, cooked prosciutto, melon. Yesterday while I was writing, Claudio went to the grocery store and so now we are obviously spoiled for choice.

  Vanni, meanwhile, is slathering a slice of toast with a disturbing amount of Nutella. He grins at me cheekily as he bites into it, chocolate smearing on his face.

  “Here we are,” Claudio says as he places the espresso in front of me. “I must apologize for the crema again. I’ll take a look at the machine later.”

  “Papà, you’ve been saying you’ll look at the machine for a year now.”

  Claudio pauses, his coffee halfway to his lips while he shoots his son a look that could kill. “Vanni,” he says calmly. “Have you ever heard of the expression, throwing someone under the bus?”

  “Have you ever heard of the expression, the wheels on the bus go round and around?”

  I snicker to myself and both of them look at me. “Sorry. It’s just, that’s an old nursery rhyme.”

  Vanni raises his chin. He would look haughty if he didn’t have Nutella on it. “It also means that you keep saying the same thing over and over again, like wheels on a bus going round and round.”

  “You just made that up,” Claudio says, reaching forward with a napkin and wiping the Nutella off his face. Vanni squirms in response. “I have to say, it’s very clever.”

  Vanni shrugs. “Naturalmente.” He goes back to munching the bread.

  I can’t help but be a wee bit smitten by the two of them together. They seem to have such a good, easy relationship. Obviously I know nothing about
parenting, but the love between them is more than noticeable.

  “Grace,” Claudio says, turning his attention back to me, his eyes sharpening in intensity. “I take it you got some writing done yesterday. Your muse finally showed.”

  I nod as I finish chewing on a slice of melon. “I think so. I just hope the muse returns. I’m a little at a loss as to where to go with the story today.”

  “You’re making progress, that’s what matters.”

  I exhale through my nose. “Yeah. But I didn’t do a lot of writing. It was a lot of rewriting. I basically went through and rewrote my whole proposal and outline, and then rewrote the first few chapters.”

  “That’s not easy to do.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “And to be honest, I don’t know if I’m allowed to do that.”

  “But it’s your art.”

  “But someone bought that specific art and now I’m changing it.”

  “I see. What did you change?”

  “Well, for one, my book was supposed to be set in the Shetland Islands. I’ve been there with my father when I was really young. It’s cold and isolated and desolate. And while that setting made perfect sense for me when I was in Edinburgh, now that I’m here … it doesn’t feel right. I want to be here in person and in the book. In both worlds.”

  Vanni straightens up suddenly and leans toward me. “You experience both worlds too?”

  I give him a pointed look. “No. Not like you do with your parallel universe timelines or whatever. I mean, when I’m working, that’s one world that I create, and that I occupy. And when I’m not writing, then I’m in reality. That’s another world. Sometimes you want both worlds to be as different as possible. That’s usually the case when, well, when you’re trying to escape something. Other times, you don’t want to escape. This place, here, this is my escape. And I want the book to reflect that, too.”

  “So you went from the Shetland Islands to … Tuscany?” Claudio asks.

  “They say to write what you know. I’m here right now. Why not?”

  “I absolutely agree,” Claudio says, flashing me another warm smile that makes my stomach flutter.

  Argh. It’s too early in the morning for this reaction.

  “Right,” I say slowly, averting my gaze. “I just don’t know if Jana will agree.”

  “Yeah, she probably won’t,” Vanni admits.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.

  “Ignore him,” Claudio says. “I’m sure it will work out. They need a book, don’t they? This is the book. And whatever magic you work, they’ll see that too. Have faith.”

  I give him an appreciative smile. Little does he know that the setting isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I’ve turned the sad ending into a happily ever after. I have no idea what I’m doing, but at least I’m excited to find out.

  “Well, I know you are busy today with your writing,” Claudio continues after he drains his coffee cup. “But later, Vanni and I are taking the bicycles and going to Lucca. It’s not too far. If you want to join us, we have an extra bike for you.”

  That does sound like a lot of fun, even though my balance on bikes is chaotic at best.

  You’re here to work, the voice speaks up. Not to meander around the Tuscan countryside on bikes with your agent’s son and ex-husband.

  “I’ll see how things go,” I tell him.

  But as disciplined as I try to make myself, the frantic energy I experienced yesterday as I rewrote everything disappears once I officially start on a blank page. I try writing outside, I try writing in the study, but the looming realization of what I had done and how I have to grapple with a whole new story and plot, weighs too heavily on me, and every other minute I’m distracted by the beautiful day and the idea of going on a bike ride with those two.

  So, in the end, the bike ride wins.

  Or perhaps my procrastination does.

  I close my laptop with a sigh. Maybe a bike ride will clear my head and I can get back to it later. I bring out my phone and check my email out of habit. I expected Jana to email me at some point to apologize for the mix-up over the house, but I haven’t heard from her. I guess I’m not surprised.

  It’s probably for the best. If I heard from her, I’d be tempted to tell her what I’m doing with the book, and if she balks at the idea, then that will send me into a spiral that I’ll never recover from. I have to stick to my guns and write this book my way and not care what anyone says until it’s done. I know it’s either that or there won’t be a book at all.

  And you won’t have your second chance. The world will know you were nothing without Robyn. That’s why Maureen dumped you, isn’t it?

  I push the negativity out of my head. It’s not going bike riding with me.

  I zip into one of my favorite casual dresses, a knee-length red and white number with a tight bodice and full skirt, then slip on a pair of hot pink shorts underneath since I’ll be on a bike. On my feet I go for a pair of beige linen high tops for traction and comfort, then I grab a crossbody purse (my notebook stuffed inside in case I’m struck by inspiration), and head down the stairs.

  Music comes blaring out from the bottom floor, a familiar staccato drum beat that gets louder until I realize it’s INXS “Need You Tonight.”

  I follow the music and find the door to Claudio’s studio open, the song blaring out along with Claudio singing loudly, “I’m lonely, can’t think at all.”

  I pause by the doorway and look in. He said I couldn’t disturb him if the door was closed, but if it’s open, it’s fair game. His back is to me and he’s grooving slightly in front of a table, a stereo on top of a sheet-covered stool in the corner of the room.

  It looks less like a museum in here and more like a workshop, curtains drawn over most of the glass windows, clay stains on them. There are small slabs of marble and stone scattered around, as well as a lot of equipment, such as calipers, rulers, chisels, saws, goggles, gloves, and the like.

  “So this is where the magic happens,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the music. Last thing I want is for him to turn around and find me staring at him like a creeper. And I am a creeper, because he’s been giving me a great view of his ass in his paint splattered jeans. The man knows how to fill them out.

  Claudio turns around, but instead of looking embarrassed (I would be mortified if someone had caught me dancing and singing), he gives me an apologetic smile. “I am so sorry,” he says. “Is the music disturbing you?”

  “Not at all,” I tell him. “Actually, I came down here to take you up on that bike ride.”

  He gazes at me for a moment, the smile turning soft, a wicked curve to the corner. He’s got the most expressive lips, conveying so much emotion with the smallest movement. Don’t mind me. I could wax poetic about those lips all day.

  Save it for your book.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he says after a moment, a very long moment in which he just smiles and stares at me and makes my stomach do that fluttery thing again. “I think it would be good for you. Have you been to Lucca?”

  “I haven’t been anywhere in Italy,” I tell him. Except for Rome, but that’s not even worth mentioning.

  “Well then,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt anything,” I tell him, nodding at the table.

  “Oh,” he says, and then steps aside to show me a lump of red clay. “I wasn’t doing much. As you can see, my muse hasn’t visited me today. When that happens, I put on music. Do you like INXS?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t really listened to them much. I’m not a fan of the saxophone.” His expression crumples and I quickly add, “I do love ‘Never Tear Us Apart.’ I think it’s an amazing song.”

  “You know they are coming to Lucca in two weeks,” he says.

  “Really? Who is the singer this time?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Does it matter? They can never replace Michael Hutchence. But I may get tickets tod
ay when we go into town. Would you like to go with Vanni and I? It’s for the Lucca Summer Festival. They have concerts on the weekends in June and July, big names.”

  “Aye. That sounds like fun.”

  “Aye,” he repeats in a mock Scottish accent, which sounds funny when combined with an Italian one.

  “You making fun of my accent?”

  “Never,” he says, his sable eyes gleaming. He steps toward me and stops, looking me over. “I like your outfit, by the way. Very cool.”

  I glance down at the dress and high-top sneakers combo. It doesn’t really go together, but I’ll have to take his word for it if he thinks I look cool. I mean, he’s the one who looks cool with his paint-splattered jeans and thin grey t-shirt with a faded yellow logo on it. I can’t tell if it’s purposely distressed and threadbare as is the fashion sometimes, or if he’s had it forever. Either way, it shows off his upper body perfectly, clinging to every taut curve. The man sure knows how to dress for maximum impact.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, blushing.

  He studies me for a moment, eyes resting on my cheeks, which makes the burning intensify. Then he looks away and strides past me out of the studio.

  Okay. That was a strange little moment.

  I follow him into the dining room, and he tells me he’ll meet me out front. He runs up the stairs shouting for Vanni, and I step out the main door to the gravel lot in the front. His vintage Ferrari is still parked there, gleaming in the sunshine. It’s gorgeous and I find myself secretly hoping he’ll take me for a ride in it one day.

  Yeah, that will help. The two of you cruising around in a hot car is one step away from turning you into a lovesick teenager.

  Hmmmm. Probably not a good idea.

  “Here,” Claudio says from behind me, bringing out two bikes from the corner of the house. “I have a bike for you. I hope it will be okay.”

  I head over, my shoes crunching on the gravel, and Vanni appears behind Claudio, holding on to the handles of his own bike. Vanni’s bike is a cruiser which is a lot more my speed, but I guess I’ll have to make do with the bigger bike that Claudio thrusts toward me.