‘We did it, Flynn,’ I say, as his chin nestles into the space between my neck and shoulder. Under the early morning glow, we watch the ute rattle down the driveway. We’ve worked tirelessly over the past weeks, managing not only to cover the mortgage repayments, but earn a little more to cover living expenses, too. The gladdies should be ready to pick in a couple of weeks, and following that, the sweet peas and the flowers we’ve grown from seed.
Flynn takes my hand in his. ‘Willow tree?’ he says.
‘Yep,’ I reply, squeezing his hand. The willow tree has become a special place where we take time out of each day for Flynn to help me remember.
‘I’ve actually been meaning to tell you that I remember something that happened here,’ I say.
‘You do?’ he says, his eyes brightening.
‘Just the proposal.’
‘It was a pretty decent proposal,’ he says, smiling to himself.
‘Well, yeah, it was.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not much else. But we have a lifetime for you to tell me everything.’
‘So where do we start today?’
‘Wherever you want,’ I say, sitting down on a patch of grass. I lie back and Flynn joins me as we peek through the canopy of leaves to the sky above.
‘Okay, so I remember the moment I fell in love with you like it was yesterday. You were sitting under this willow tree, and you were humming to this tune, like nobody could hear you, and you were threading a daisy chain, with your tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth—’
‘What was the song?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Okay, no matter, go on …’
‘So, you were threading this daisy chain and—’
‘How do you know they weren’t dandelions?’ I smile, brushing my hand over the ground covering beside me and reach for a dandelion stem.
‘I’m pretty sure they were daisies.’
I roll over onto my side and hand him the dandelion. He slips his arm around me, so that I’m nestled close to him.
‘Fine. They may have been dandelions. If you want them to be dandelions, we’ll call them dandelions.’
‘Okay,’ I say, a satisfied smile stretching across my lips. ‘It doesn’t really matter though, does it?’
‘No, I guess it doesn’t,’ says Flynn. ‘What matters is what you can see now.’
I look out onto the field, awash with colour, bursting with life and that’s when I feel it, the closeness to everything I’ve ever known and wanted. In those flowers, there is my mother, there is friendship, there is healing, purpose and meaning. And there is Flynn.
In the unseen beauty of the flowers, I see everything, even if I don’t remember it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m filled with much gratitude for the people I’m fortunate enough to be surrounded by who made The Memories That Make Us possible.
Sincerest thanks to Rachael Donovan, Laurie Ormond, Sarana Behan and the team at Harlequin Australia. It truly is a pleasure working with you all.
To my editor, Alexandra Nahlous, who made another book an absolute pleasure to work on. Thank you for all your brilliant insight and suggestions. Thanks to Clare James for the proofread and Lisa White for the gorgeous cover.
To my agent, Cassie Hanjian, I’m so thankful for all your support and effort. I truly appreciate all that you do to guide me to shape my work into the best it can possibly be from a (sometimes vague) idea all the way to completion. Thanks also to Marshall Yarbrough and Rachel Clements.
I’m surrounded by a wonderfully supportive network of writers who I am blessed to have in my life. Looking at you, Alli Sinclair, Jodi Gibson, Josephine Moon, Kirsty Manning, Lisa Ireland, and Tess Woods.
To my early readers, Bella Ellwood-Clayton, Mary Lovelien and Natasha Lester—thank you for your honest feedback, helpful suggestions, ongoing support, encouragement, and precious time. Each one of you in your own special way has helped me make this into a better book.
To Amanda Wooding for the brainstorming session in Tuscany. I don’t know that I could have reached The End in quite the same way without you.
Mara Novembre, your unwavering faith in me does not go unnoticed. Thank you, always.
I also owe thanks to Jenny Parish of Country Dahlias, who not only runs one of the most heart-stoppingly beautiful dahlia farms in Victoria, but so generously afforded me her time and answered the many questions I had about flower farming. Any gardening-related errors are entirely my own.
Infinite love and thanks to Mum, who is always there for me (I really am the luckiest daughter in the world), and all my family and friends.
And to Fabio, Christian and Alessia—thank you not only for bringing immeasurable levels of joy and love into my life on a daily basis, but also for being the best people in the world to make new memories with.
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
1. What are the main themes dealt with in the book?
2. Was Blake right to do what he did? And does the outcome—which in this case ended up positively—affect whether it was right or wrong?
3. More broadly, is it always wrong to lie or deceive? If not, under what circumstances could it be justifiable?
4. When you learned what Gracie and Blake were arguing about in the car before the accident, did it alter your perception of what happened?
5. How well do you think Scarlett dealt with her conflicting loyalties?
6. Should Gracie’s relationship with Flynn be defined as cheating?
7. Gracie’s memory loss was obviously a hugely traumatic event but it caused her to make significant changes in her life. Ultimately, did Gracie lose or gain as a result of her accident?
8. What are the similarities and differences between Charlie and Maggie’s situation and Gracie and Blake’s situation?
9. Do you think, as Tilly suggests, that flowers have innate healing powers? Or are we merely responding to the meanings that we give them ourselves?
10. Two phrases, ‘It’s their unseen beauty that makes the flowers special’, and ‘The sweet peas know where to look for the light’ crop up several times throughout the book. What do they mean to you?
11. Gracie deals with her trauma by locking people out of her life rather than accepting their support. Why do you think she responds this way? Do you think this demonstrates strength or weakness in Gracie’s character?
12. Gracie says, ‘It’s our memories that make us who we are.’ Can you have an identity without your memories? Or do your memories interfere with ‘the real you’?
13. What is the author suggesting about the nature of love? Do you agree or disagree with this idea?
14. Does this book ultimately support the idea of destiny, or do Blake’s actions demonstrate the need to create your own future?
GLOSSARY OF FLOWERS
Common name—Botanical name
Banksia—Banksia coccinea
Bellflower—Campanula
Bluebell—Hyacinthoides non-scripta
Chrysanthemum—Chrysanthemum
Cranberry—Vaccinium oxycoccus
Daffodil—Narcissus
Dahlia—Dahlia
Daisy—Bellis
Dandelion—Taraxacum officinale
Erlicheer—Narcissus
Eucalyptus—Eucalyptus
Gerbera—Gerbera jamesonii
Gladioli—Gladiolus
Grape hyacinth—Muscari
Hellebore—Helleborus
Hyacinth—Hyacinthus orientalis
Hydrangea—Hydrangea macrophylla
Iceland poppy—Papaver nudicaule
Japanese quince—Chaenomeles speciosa
Larkspur—Delphinium consolida
Lavender—Lavandula
Lily of the valley—Convallaria majalis
Lisianthus—Eustoma
Paperwhite—Narcissus papyraceus
Peony—Paeonia
Protea—Protea magnifica
Queen Anne’s lace—Ammi majus
Rose—Rosa
Rosemary—Rosmarinus officinalis
Snowdrop—Galanthus
Sunflower—Helianthus annus
Sweet pea—Lathyrus odoratus
Sweet William—Dianthus barbatus
Tea tree—Leptospermum
Tulip—Tulipa
Viburnum—Viburnum
Violet—Viola odorata
Winter jasmine—Jasminum nudiflorum
Woody pear—Xylomelum angustifolium
ONE
The wheels of suitcases graze waxed floors while I sit with a lapful of pencil shavings, drowning in a sea of crumpled paper balls bearing the lines of failed strokes. I’m wondering whether I’ll ever be able to do this again.
For inspiration, I try to focus on all the things I should be thinking of when embarking on a trip to Italy: crowded piazzas and street artists, the taste of a ripe tomato. Art museums, fading frescoes, crumbling walls begging for restoration, and the comforting aroma of freshly brewed espresso. I think of all the ways I might be able to translate these things onto paper, but it isn’t happening. Not how I need it to.
My stomach tightens. My pencil lead breaks. And then I hear my name being called.
‘Mia Moretti, this is your final boarding call for flight seven-one-seven. Please make your way to gate twenty-six.’
All the doubts I have about heading on this journey evaporate as I slide my pencil between my teeth, haul my backpack over my shoulder and grab my sketchbook. I briefly pause in front of a departure board and gaze upwards at the letters and numbers flashing at me, reminding myself that life’s meant to be sweeter in Italy.
Breathless, I reach the boarding gate. ‘I’m not too late, am I?’ I say, thrusting my boarding card towards the attendant.
Her scarlet-coloured lips smile tightly as she runs my pass to freedom through her machine. ‘You’re just in time. Have a pleasant flight, Ms Moretti.’
Wedged between a Japanese businessman and a woman with a restless child, I read seventy pages of my Tuscan guidebook, too many pages of my Italian-English dictionary, and the first few chapters of a self-help book on how to achieve happiness through gratitude, which I tuck away in my seat pocket before drifting off to sleep.
When I wake, the little girl is sitting beside me. She reaches for my sketchbook, looks up at me and smiles. I take my pencil and hand it to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ says her mother, snatching the sketchbook from her daughter’s grasp.
‘Oh, I really don’t mind,’ I reply. I unlock the girl’s tray table and watch her draw, uninhibited by judgement, unafraid of what she might see on the page.
Making a blank piece of paper come to life used to be effortless for me. I could close one eye, open myself up and capture one small moment in time: an expression of delight, a carpet of leaves the shade of pumpkin and ruby under an almost bare scarlet oak tree, a parched landscape full of cracks thirsty for a drop of rain. I could do all of this before.
‘Your turn!’ says the girl, waving the blunt pencil at me. She has reached the last blank sheet of paper. I take the pencil and draw what turns out to be a cringeworthy sketch of a girl sitting on a suitcase, elbows on her knees, face resting on her hands. She’s bathed in dappled light that’s struggling to burst through the trees on the overgrown path she sits on.
‘She looks sad,’ says the girl, looking to me for an explanation of my drawing.
‘She’s looking for the light,’ I tell her.
She wrinkles her forehead and giggles. I can’t help smiling back. We land in Rome twelve hours later.
After having my passport stamped by a surly customs officer, I manage to catch the right train headed to Termini station and then on to Florence, after which I tug my luggage along the platform and line up outside for a cab. I should know the address off by heart by now because I’ve looked at it so many times, but I pull the worn-out piece of paper from the pocket of my jeans anyway.
‘Via Monteluna fourteen, Impruneta,’ I tell the driver. ‘Do you know where that is?’
‘Of course.’ He tosses a cigarette butt on the ground and extinguishes it with the twist of his foot.
‘First time to Italy?’ he asks in a thick Italian accent as he heaves my suitcase into the boot. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and leather sandals, and I decide that he looks like a Mario, or a Giovanni, or maybe even a Giuseppe with his olive skin and thick brown moustache.
‘Uh, yes, can you tell?’ I ask, gazing out the window in an attempt to soak in every intricate detail of the landscape. Not even the smell of stale cigarette smoke can bother me right now.
I grab my phone and send a brief text to Mum and Dad, who are no doubt out of their minds with worry. I’ve arrived. Safe and sound. Within thirty seconds my phone is inundated with a barrage of texts and questions, to which I reply, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll call you once I get a local SIM card, before switching off my phone.
The cab driver, who actually turns out to be a Salvatore, turns on the radio. I recognise Dean Martin singing ‘Arrivederci Roma’, but I struggle to follow the conversational Italian. We take the Firenze Impruneta exit from the A1 Autostrada and now I can see signs towards the town I will call my home for however long it takes to find myself again.
Motorised scooters weave in and out of the traffic around us with stealth and precision. It’s unsettling yet rather fascinating watching the organised chaos that is at work on these Italian roads.
‘Impruneta. Right up there, signorina.’ Salvatore is pointing to show me.
I shift to the middle of the back seat and lean forward for a better view of the quintessential cypress trees smattered over the rolling hills, symbolic of the Tuscan landscape. We pass a terracotta workshop with an aging sign fixed to the wall. Mariucci Terrecotte. Impruneta, a small hilltop town on the outskirts of Florence, is famous for not much else other than the best terracotta in the country. I might have a fierce passion for art, but I can’t say I’m that interested in pottery, even if it is resistant to cracking at temperatures below zero.
Salvatore slows down as we make our way through a narrow one-way street, where the balconies of the apartments are laced with colour from the flowers that occupy their pots. Women are hanging out their washing in the June mid-morning sun and I can’t help smiling when I notice water dripping onto an unsuspecting passer-by below. The man looks up and snaps to life, yelling and gesticulating as the woman on her balcony defends herself just as fiercely. Irritated, she grabs a metal watering can and with one hand on hip she sloshes the water down on him.
As we approach the main piazza, I notice an elderly couple walking up the steep hill, taking care with each step. He’s carrying a loaf of bread in one arm, and her arm is intertwined through his other one. If he falls, she’ll follow. I let out a sigh as my shoulders lean back into the leather seat behind me. He’s wearing a checked shirt and suspenders. She’s wearing a loose-fitting floral dress and a scarf around her head, and I wonder why a couple might go to such trouble to dress this way for a trip to the local panificio for a simple loaf of bread.
Of course I know the answer. This is Italy. Land of style.
We slow down, taking a right-hand turn onto an unpaved road. Salvatore winds down the car window for me, and I struggle to hide my excitement. ‘Is this really it?’ I exclaim, shifting towards the window.
‘This is it, signorina,’ says Salvatore, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.
The road leads up to a villa rendered a pale yellow with ivy covering the northern side of the home. Something catches my eye in one of the upstairs windows. The green plantation shutters are open, revealing a woman waving at the car from the balcony. I assume it must be Stella, my new housemate. She’s wearing a red dress with a white scarf tied around her neck, looking impeccable.
‘Benvenuta! Welcome to Florence, Mia!’ she calls, as the car comes to a stop.
She disappears from the w
indow while I get out of the cab. A minute later, she bursts through the wooden front door and locks me in a tight embrace. Stepping back, she kisses me on both cheeks. I’m not sure whether to move right or left or just stay still, but I’m pretty sure my awkwardness has gone unnoticed. She thanks Salvatore for me after I pay him and helps roll my suitcase up the path towards my new home.
‘Is this all you brought with you?’ she asks.
‘That’s it,’ I reply.
Just me, a suitcase, 2018 euros and a whole lot of invisible baggage.
‘Welcome to Villa Belladonna!’ she says, gesturing for me to walk through the arched doorway.
The tension in my shoulders vanishes as I enter my new home, Stella’s warm welcome immediately putting me at ease. As my new housemate steps me through the ground floor of the villa, I’m thankful that she doesn’t seem like a complete psycho, given that we met online. I take a few moments to familiarise myself with the villa’s rustic architectural embellishments. The voluminous living area lets in an abundance of natural light and opens out to an impressive outdoor loggia. Two potted lemon trees are positioned on each side of the bi-fold door that gives way to a heavenly backdrop of a small olive grove and undulating hills. Stella points out the laundry, main bathroom and kitchen, and then continues down the hallway.
‘You coming?’ she asks, glancing back at me.
‘Oh yeah, sure. Just taking it all in,’ I reply. ‘Is this original?’ I gasp, when I notice half of the ceiling covered in what remains of an original fresco.
Stella looks at me strangely. ‘Oh, that. Seventeenth century, I imagine,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders. Stella’s delicate facial features intrigue me. Freckles are dotted over her face and she has the most striking green eyes I’ve ever seen. Her auburn-coloured hair is certainly not typical of a girl with Italian heritage. Long curly tresses fall perfectly down her shoulders. She’s wearing red lipstick and she reminds me of an actress from a 1960s movie. Only three years older than me, she exudes an air of confidence that I have yet to grasp for myself. Unlike me, Stella had little choice in coming to Florence. Her parents practically forced her to come and learn Italian here when she was younger. Much to her parents’ despair, she loved living in Italy so much that she decided to stay, and from what I can tell, she has no plans to move back to New York anytime soon.
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