“You can manage?” Claudio asks.
I nod, my smile tight.
“Do I really have to wear my helmet?” Vanni complains, holding it in his hands.
“Yes, you know you do,” Claudio says, placing his palm on top of his son’s head. “Your genius brain needs all the protection it can get, si?”
Vanni doesn’t buy it. “Gio doesn’t have to wear one.”
“How do you know? Can you see Gio right now?”
It takes me a moment to realize they’re talking about Vanni’s alter-ego in another dimension.
“I just know these things. I feel them,” Vanni says. But he reluctantly slides the helmet on and sighs. “This is the darkest timeline.”
We get on our bikes. Mine is a little shaky on the gravel, enough that I can’t get my leg around it.
“You sure you’re okay?” Claudio asks me, brows together in concern.
I give him a dismissive wave. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’ll get on where it’s flat.”
I walk my bike down the driveway to the smoother pavement of the road, trying to hide the shame. I don’t know the last time I went bike riding, but I’m obviously not very comfortable with it anymore. I hope the old adage “it’s like riding a bike” is true.
Once the bike is on the flat road, it’s much easier to swing my leg around and get on. Though the bike wobbles a bit as I try to peddle through and there’s a terrifying moment where I’m sure I’m about to eat shit, I manage to keep myself upright.
“Maybe she should wear the helmet,” Vanni calls out, happily biking ahead of me.
“I’m fine,” I say again, louder.
With my legs slowly pumping I glide past Claudio and give him a shaky smile. “See. Like riding a bike.”
Claudio pulls his aviator sunglasses down over his eyes and smirks. “You’re going the wrong way.”
Right.
Somehow I manage to do a wide circle on the road, wobbling here and there, and then we’re all riding off in the right direction.
The weather is so beautiful, a continuation of that perfect summer day, that I can’t help but beam as I ride, taking my place between Claudio and Vanni as we head down the country road, passing by rolling hills of tawny grass and grapevines, dotted with towering cypress, sprawling farms, and quaint villas.
I catch Claudio looking over his shoulder at me, and my first instinct is to stop smiling, because I feel like a kid. But he looks amused by me, so I decide to keep smiling instead. The grin he gives me back matches my own.
It’s disarming enough that I turn my eyes down to the road in front of me. If I keep staring at Claudio, I’m going to fall in a spectacular fashion.
Why does that feel like a metaphor for something?
Seven
Grace
Using the back roads, it only takes just over half an hour of biking before we see the old city of Lucca rising before us like a massive fortress, just the tops of the buildings showing beyond the towering walls.
“See those walls,” Claudio says, pointing to the brick ramparts. “They have been there since 1650. That’s where we’ll be biking.”
“Up there?” I ask incredulously. They have to be at least thirty feet high.
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of room.”
We cross a busy intersection and then head down a gravel path that takes us to an arched gate. I can see glimpses of ochre buildings and narrow cobblestone streets full of people and restaurants, but we’re heading up a path now to the top of the wall.
“And the linden trees are in full bloom right now,” Claudio says as we reach the top and find ourselves on a wide path lined with benches and trees, people biking or pushing strollers past us. “They have the best smell in the world.”
I’m not sure what linden trees smell like. The trees here on the wall look like old chestnut trees, but the view is stupendous, looking over the grass fields just outside the city, and then into the bustling, colorful streets of Lucca on the other side.
We bike around on top of the wall with ease, and when Claudio motions to a set of trees as we’re about to ride under them, I’m hit with a strong blast of their perfume. This must be linden, a mix of honey and lemon that sinks right into me. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was the best smell in the world. Somehow I know that in years to come, if I ever smell linden blossoms again, I’ll be brought right back to this moment.
There are plenty of things to look at along the way, and I sheepishly stop every few minutes to take a picture with my phone, but neither Claudio or Vanni seem to mind. There’s a lush botanical garden, ruins of bastions, and sprawling palazzos, in addition to all the towers and churches.
It seems we’re about halfway around the city when Claudio slows and asks if Vanni and I would like to get something to eat.
I’m starving at this point (I’m still not used to these late lunches), so we walk our bikes down a path that leads into the city and lock our bikes up against a pole, while Claudio leads us into an open square.
Now this is the Italy I missed out on when I was sick in Rome, the Italy everyone is always talking about. There’s a large circular square (I get that it’s an oxymoron) with street musicians in the middle and restaurants sprawling out on all sides. It’s so much hotter down here where this isn’t any breeze or shade from the trees, and I immediately feel sweat prickling at my hairline.
“This way,” Claudio says, and to my relief he leads me to the first restaurant we see. My legs feel like jelly from biking and now the sweat is causing my dress to stick to my back, the heat making my head feel dull.
We plunk down at a table at the edge of the piazza and Claudio quickly signals the waiter.
“A bottle of pinot grigio?” Claudio asks me.
I mean, I’m not used to splitting a bottle of wine at lunch but I definitely could get used to it.
I nod shyly while Vanni puts in an order of mineral water. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just Vanni’s mature personality or Claudio’s parenting because most ten-year-old kids I’ve seen would be clamoring for some sort of sugary soda. When I was young my diet consisted of Irn-Bru that I’d sneak behind my parents’ back.
I look over the menu while we wait for the wine, my attention stolen by the violin player in the plaza playing along to Metallica that comes from a portable vinyl player. He’s wearing a plague mask, which somehow suits the music.
“He’s good,” Claudio says appreciatively. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ten Euro bill and hands it to Vanni. His son takes it and then runs out to the musician and stands by him, watching him play, totally into it.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“He likes to contribute,” Claudio says. “I think he feels it’s his contribution to the arts, even though it’s my money.”
I flash him a warm smile. “That’s nice.” I pause. “He’s a really good kid.”
“He is. I can’t say I take all the credit.”
“What do you mean?”
He sucks on his lower lip for a moment and stares across the square. “I do what I can, but I know I could be a better father. How he turned out this way, I don’t know. His mind works in ways that mine never did, even now. Physics? Layers of the universe? No, I just know what’s right in front of me. I have trouble understanding that enough as it is.”
“You’re selling yourself short again.”
His lips twitch as he fixes his eyes on me. “Making art and raising a child are two very different things. Vanni is a great kid, but I know I could do more for him. It’s my art that makes it difficult. You said that you are often straddling two worlds, and it’s the same for me. When I’m working … it’s all I can think about. I turn into a very moody bastard, so just watch out.”
I let out a soft laugh. “I’m sure being a single parent doesn’t help either.” I want to ask why he has custody of Vanni and Jana doesn’t, since usually the child goes off with the mother by default, but it feels inappropriate considering
the circumstances and I don’t know Claudio well enough yet to get so personal.
“No, it doesn’t,” he says. Then he sets his palms flat on the table. “So, have you had a look at the menu?”
Ah. So Claudio doesn’t want to talk about the single dad life. Fair enough.
I pick up the menu and decide on fried eggplant and goat cheese before Claudio makes me order a pasta dish as well. Apparently in Italy, pasta is more of an appetizer than the main dish since the portions tend to be small, which bodes well for me, since that means I can have pasta and more yummy stuff. I settle on one with pancetta.
Eventually Vanni tires of the musician and triumphantly places the bill inside the man’s case before running back to us.
The wine is good, the food is great, the heat becoming something of an afterthought as the afternoon wears on. When we’re eventually done (I’m noticing Italians love to linger over their meals), we get our bikes and start riding them through the city.
For me, this is a wee more challenging since the path on the walls was wide and cool. The streets here are busy, narrow and hot, and full of restaurants and people. We wind our way past several churches and towers that Claudio points out to me, and I know my history professor father is shuddering right now because I don’t know the names of any of them, then finally we come to a stop outside a bookstore.
Here’s the thing about me and bookstores. I used to love them, as you would imagine. My mother used to own one in Ullapool when I was young. My father actually bought it for her after I was born, which I always thought was very sweet and romantic.
That was until they divorced and he left her with nothing, gave his new family all his time, attention and money, and my mother was forced to sell her store to make ends meet for us.
But that’s not actually why they make my anxiety go up.
It’s that my books can be found in those stores.
I know, I know, that’s every author’s dream. And as much as it was a goal post I had, a box I needed to check, I didn’t realize how weird it would be until it happened. It’s like I can’t go into a bookstore now without wondering where my books are, what the placement is, if someone will recognize me and make me sign them. Or at least it was that way, until Robyn died.
I haven’t stepped foot in one since.
“You think your books are in here?” Claudio asks me as he locks our bikes up outside. Vanni is already heading inside, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Something tells me he’s heading right for the science section.
“Maybe,” I tell him as he opens the door for me, the bell jingling loudly above our heads.
“Your books are translated into Italian, so they should be,” he says.
I slip him a curious glance. “How do you know?”
“I looked you up, of course,” he says without missing a beat.
The bookstore is bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, but it still feels claustrophobic. Everything is a little haphazard, books shoved onto dark wood shelves, stacks of them taking up the corners. A couple of fans whir above us but do nothing to disperse the heat inside.
“Come,” Claudio says, placing his hand at the small of my back. I suck in my breath, trying not to lose it over the fact that he’s touching me again. In hindsight, I probably should have gotten laid before I got here because I can’t keep feeling this way every time he touches me, and he’s probably going to be doing a lot of that considering he’s Italian, and everyone here seems very touchy feely.
With his fingertips pressing against me, seeming to burn through the back of my dress, he leads me through the nooks and crannies of the store until we come to the mystery section in the back.
“They would be here, yes?” he asks, finally taking his hand away.
I let out a shaky breath and then try to focus on the shelves in front of me.
“Aye,” I say.
He goes to the shelves, his eyes skimming over them until he gets to the G section. “Found them.”
Another flash of relief goes through me. There’s nothing worse than being in a bookstore and not finding your books there. You’re always hit with the feeling that perhaps you’re not a real author after all. I know most of us suffer from imposter syndrome anyway, so it’s like a real kick in the pants, another reminder of “you suck, you’re done, it’s all over.”
Claudio starts thumbing through them. “There are only six of them … which is number one?”
Since I only know the English titles, I say, “It should be The Mystery of Princess Street.”
“Hmmm,” he muses, and I take a moment to appreciate the muscles in his back. “I don’t see anything like that.” He pulls one out and turns to hand it to me.
It’s a hardcover, which is a nice change from the mass market paperbacks we are known for in the UK and North America, and feels heavy in my hands. The cover is glossy, and the art is of a door in the snow, which tells me nothing. “Dopo Tutto Sei Arrivato Tu,” I say, reading the title. “What does that mean?”
“It means You Came After All.”
I let out a laugh. “Well, that makes no sense.”
If anything, it sounds a little dirty.
He shrugs. “I know. Sometimes our translations don’t. I’ll be right back.” He then walks away, disappearing around the corner, probably going to check on Vanni.
I examine the book, feeling the thrill of having it in my hands (I have boxes of foreign editions I haven’t unpacked yet) while being in a bookstore in the country of the translation. Yet my heart feels heavy as I stare at the title. And when I flip the book over to the back and see both Robyn’s headshot and mine, my chest swells with grief.
“This isn’t right,” I whisper to the book. “You should be here.” I shouldn’t be in Italy at all. I should be in Edinburgh, either working at my flat, or at the café down the street, or at the house Robyn shared with her fiancé Jack. We should be finishing up on edits for the thirteenth book by now, a book we were halfway through writing when she died.
But that book will never see the light of day, because I couldn’t bear to finish it on my own, even though the publisher asked me to. As a result, I had to pay back my half of the advance, which is why I’m not in the best financial situation at the moment. Meanwhile Jack, who acts as her estate, had to pay back Robyn’s half.
That’s probably why he wants nothing to do with me. Also probably why Maureen didn’t want to be my agent anymore. She got to keep her cut, of course, but I was no longer dependable if I couldn’t even finish the last book.
A presence behind me pulls my mind back into the bookstore, and before I can turn around, an arm shoots out from behind, holding a pen. Claudio is right up against my back, nearly touching me. He might as well be because I can feel the heat of his body radiating outward, and I’m immediately wrapped up in his scent. I automatically close my eyes and breathe it in. It’s subtle, but it’s sweet and warm … like almonds and sunshine.
Forget the linden blossoms, Claudio might be the best smell in the world.
“Here,” he says, his voice sounding low and rumbly, sending shockwaves right into my ear. “Sign them.”
I open my eyes and see him shaking the pen at me. I swallow thickly. “I can’t.”
He takes the pen away and steps to the side to look at me closely, putting space between us. “Why not?” he asks, his eyes searching mine, once again feeling too much and not enough.
“I made a promise not to do any book signings,” I tell him, giving him a guarded look.
He flips the pen around in his fingers while he scrutinizes me. “Who did you make that promise to? Why?”
“To Jack. That’s Robyn’s fiancé. Or … ex- fiancé. Either way, I promised I wouldn’t.”
“So you’re never allowed to sign these books?” Claudio crosses his arms across his chest, seemingly bothered by this.
“Well, more like I can’t have a physical signing. An event. She should be there, you know? And I wouldn’t want to do
a signing on my own. It’s not right.”
He purses his lips, thinking, and then tries to hand me the pen again. “This is not a book signing. You are signing books. There is a difference. Please.” He nods at the book. “Sign it.”
“Why?” He’s being strangely persistent.
“Because,” he implores. “It is important. I want you to sign them, all of them, because these books are a part of you and any store is honored to have them. At the very least, sign this one and let me buy it.”
Claudio looks so damn sincere that it’s overwhelming.
“You don’t need to do that,” I tell him.
“You need to take pride in your work.”
My brows shoot up. “Who says I don’t?”
“You lack confidence.”
Now my hackles are rising. “That’s a pretty ballsy thing for you to say when you don’t know me, and you haven’t read my work.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I am a ballsy man, that is true. But I will know you, and I will read your work. And if my assumption turns out to be false, then I am happy for it.” He waves his hand at the book. “Please. Sign it.”
I frown. I don’t know why I’m resisting so much. Hesitating, I take the pen from him, our fingers brushing against each other in a way that makes the air around us feel hotter and heavier than it already is.
Then I sign my name.
It looks strange on the page without Robyn’s signature next to it.
Lonely and wrong.
Oh.
Maybe that’s what I was afraid to see.
“May I?” Claudio asks, holding his hand out. “I am going to buy it.”
“Are you sure?” I ask as I place it into his hand. “I don’t know what book this is. You might read it out of order.”
“Then I’ll get the rest,” he says. He clutches the book to his chest in a gesture that makes my stomach feel alight, and then waves at the books on the shelf. “Let me buy this. You sign the others.”
He leaves and I exhale harshly through my nose. Man, he is bossy.
But I do what he says. That resistance is still there but somehow I power through. By the time Claudio comes back, this time with Vanni in tow, I’ve signed them all, each one easier to sign than the last, until my name looks like it belongs in those books.
One Hot Italian Summer Page 7
