That Month in Tuscany (Take Me There)

by Inglath Cooper

  I reach under my seat for the map and hand it to him. “Can you navigate?”

  He looks at it as if it’s some hundred-year-old relic I’ve dug up from a deep hole. “Ah, maybe. Where are we going?”

  “There’s a little town I circled not too far from Florence. Could you find it?”

  He opens the map. One edge touches the windshield to his right, the other landing midway across the steering wheel, taking up more than half the car’s interior. He finds Florence, places his thumb there and with the other hand locates my circled area. He gives me the first road name to look for. We drive in silence for a few minutes, keeping an eye out for the sign. He spots it, just as I’m zipping past.

  I head for the next intersection, make a controlled left-hand turn and then whip back onto the road, going back to the one we missed. We wait at a very long stoplight and then finally cross the highway and hit the onramp without missing it this time.

  We stay on this road for twenty miles or so before Ren looks at the map and says, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “I think we were supposed to turn back there.”

  I take the next exit, swing the car around again and find the road.

  We’ve missed the third one, when Ren looks at me and says, “How attached are you to this map?”

  “We have to have a map,” I say.

  He pulls his phone from his pocket, taps an app, types in something and hits search. Three seconds, and it’s there on the screen, a computerized voice telling us what to do next.

  “Okay,” I say, halfway rolling my eyes, “if you can’t read a map.”

  He balls it up and tucks it under the seat. “Unnecessary suffering.”

  “Some things are better in the old version,” I say.

  “Like?”

  “Coke in glass bottles.”

  “Agreed,” he says, tipping his head.

  “Journey, before Steve Perry left.”

  “Debatable.”

  “Harry Potter. Books were better than the movies.”

  “Won’t argue.”

  I consider my next answer and then, “Paper bags at the grocery store instead of plastic.”

  “Yep. Still not giving you maps.”

  The GPS voice pipes up just then. “One quarter mile ahead, stay right.”

  He smiles, but I pretend not to see it.

  It’s two o’clock when we arrive in the charming hillside Tuscan town.

  I pull into a parking space and say, “I kind of wanted to walk around and see what’s here. If you want to check things out on your own, that’s fine.”

  “I’m good to tag along,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say, still not sure I have any idea why he wants to be here. We get out of the car, the doors slapping closed behind us. I hit the remote lock, then remember my camera and go back for it.

  The streets are cobblestone and worn smooth from centuries of people, just like us, walking through on days just like this. Small shops occupy either side of the street, and I wander in and out looking at original watercolors and oils in vivid colors.

  Ren does his own thing. Sometimes, we’re in the same store, sometimes not. At the top of the street, a wine store sits on the right. I walk in; peruse the many labels, some of which are very expensive. At the back of the store, an open entryway leads to a terrace overlooking a Tuscan valley that stretches out in front of me for miles. It is absolutely breathtaking.

  I lean against the wall, take out my camera and begin shooting frame after frame after frame. With each one, I feel that old feeling of having struck gold, finding something uniquely lovely to capture within my lens. I hear him walk up behind me. It startles me to realize I know the sound of his walk. It hasn’t registered until now. But it’s a little unsettling to think I’ve already absorbed the details of him in this way.

  He stops beside me and says, “Incredible.”

  “It is,” I say.

  He sits on the wall, swings his legs around to the other side.

  “You might fall,” I say, looking down at the twenty-foot drop below us.

  “Or I might not,” he says.

  I’m not sure I agree with his logic, but the view is too inspiring to resist, so I sit and swing my legs over as well. I lift my camera, adjust the zoom and take some more pictures. “I love the trees here,” I say.

  “Which ones?”

  I point at the tall, shapely rows lining a long pea gravel drive in the distance.

  “Italian cypress,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He points to a spot near the center of our view. “That looks like a grove of olive trees.”

  I refocus my camera on one of them, its silvery green leaves glinting in the sunlight. The houses in the valley have clay tile roofs, their stucco walls are earthy shades of gold and terra-cotta. “Looking at this makes me wish I could paint,” I say.

  “I’d like to see some of your pictures,” he says, his palms planted on the wall, his gaze fixed on the scene in front of us.

  I decide not to answer him because if he’s just saying it to be polite, I don’t want him to feel obligated at some point to stand and leaf through hundreds of my pictures.

  “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “No, I just—”

  “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

  “Okay,” I agree, and decide I need to get better at taking compliments.

  “So what’s the plan for tonight? Please tell me we’re not sleeping in the car.”

  I actually smile at the thought of it. “That might be a little more possible for me than you. I was thinking I’d just find a place.”

  He studies me for a moment and then says, “Want to tell me why you had to get out of Florence so fast?”

  “No,” I say softly.

  “Jewel heist?”

  “Me?”

  He lifts his shoulders in a questioning shrug.

  I laugh, surprising myself. “No.”

  “You’re CIA?”

  This time my laugh is more of a snort. I clamp a hand over my mouth. “Stop.”

  He keeps his gaze on the valley in front of us, his tone serious now. “I’m assuming it had something to do with last night?”

  “Can we not go there?”

  “We cannot,” he says and turns around on the wall to stand. “I’m going to buy a bottle of that great wine out there and ask the person up front for a hotel recommendation.”

  I look over my shoulder to watch him go, and it’s hard not to notice his appeal. The dark, slightly wavy hair sticking out from under his ball cap, his wide shoulders and that loose, self-assured walk.

  He goes over to one of the wine cases and stands reading the label. I notice a woman watching him from a corner of the store. Her eyes convey clear interest. I make myself look away because it’s none of my business who looks at him. I start taking pictures again but seem to have lost my focus.

  I climb off the wall and walk back inside the store where Ren is now at the register paying for two bottles of wine. The pretty Italian cashier states the price in Euros, and I blink, wondering if I misheard.

  Ren hands her a credit card and says, “Can you recommend a hotel somewhere in the area?”

  She looks up at him, then glances at me, smiles and says, “Expensive or not?”

  “Interesting,” he says.

  “Villa Florentine. It is four kilometers from here. It is a home that belonged to one of the most well-known families in the area. Five years ago, it was made into a luxury hotel. Many things to do there.”

  “Okay,” Ren says. “Thank you.” He picks up the two bottles of wine. We head out of the store and start back down the street toward the car.

  “Did you buy the vineyard or just those two bottles?” I ask.

  He gives me a half-smile. “I like good wine. And I’m willing to share.”

  “All right then,” I say.

  20

  Ren

  I FIND THE Villa
Florentine on the GPS, and it takes us about ten minutes to get there. We turn off the main road onto a pea-gravel drive lined with cypress trees. I realize it’s one of the houses we saw from the wall at the wine store.

  “Wow,” Lizzy says, looking up through the windshield at the tall trees. “If I were a painter, I’d have to pull over and capture this. Even if it took me a month.”

  “You can do that with your camera.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  She pulls the car over, gets out and grabs her camera bag from the tiny back seat. I wait while she aims her lens in every direction at various angles. I see her nearly instant absorption and the way she connects with what she sees. The longer I watch her, the more I realize how much I am enjoying observing her without her self-conscious awareness.

  She walks back to the car a few minutes later with a look of chagrin. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to overdo it.”

  “I like your passion for it,” I say.

  She looks instantly surprised by this. “Thanks,” she says softly, noticeably avoiding my eyes, as if she thinks I’m just being polite.

  I reach over and touch her arm. “Really.”

  She meets my gaze then, confusion clear on her face. She battles with it for a moment, and then releasing a breath, says, “Thank you.”

  She pulls back onto the road, the driveway leading up to the villa that is now a hotel a half-mile or so long. It appears to be a real find. The villa is enormous, its finish that weathered-gold so popular in the area, the clay tile roof a perfect complement. Large old trees lay claim to the length of time the villa and its adornments have occupied the space.

  I had called ahead to make sure two rooms were available. They are expecting us when we arrive at the front desk.

  The woman who greets us has long, black hair. Her earrings are the big loopy kind, and her smile is bright and welcoming. “We were able to get you adjoining rooms. I hope this is all right?”

  There is an awkward pause of silence before Lizzy and I answer in unison without looking at each other, “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “Wonderful,” she says, taking a set of keys from the wall behind the desk. “I will show you.”

  We follow her through the lobby and up a very wide, winding set of travertine stairs to the second floor. The rooms are in the middle of the long hallway. She opens the first door, and I wave Lizzy inside. The woman then opens the other door, and I thank her and hand her a tip.

  “Grazie. If you need anything at all, call the front desk. Please. Enjoy your stay.”

  I lift my suitcase onto the luggage rack, unzip it and pull out a few things, including the leather shaving case at the bottom. I take it into the bathroom and open it. It’s only in seeing the bottle tucked into one corner that makes me realize I haven’t been thinking about it.

  I plant my palms on the edge of the sink, look at myself in the mirror. For a little over a day now, I haven’t felt the leaden boulder on my chest. The realization comes with a jolt of surprise. Is that why I talked Lizzy into letting me come along with her?

  Whether I was aware of it at the time or not, I guess it is. I have no idea how or why. But something about her makes something in me remember who I used to be.

  I take a shower. About an hour after we’ve arrived, I carry one of the bottles of red wine and two glasses to Lizzy’s door and knock. I hear something drop, a yip that sounds very much like a curse. She opens the door, her hair still poofy from the blow dryer. She’s rubbing the top of her foot with one hand.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Hazards of beautification. I dropped the flat iron on my foot.”

  I try not to smile. “Did it burn you?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just not very good with beauty tools.”

  “I would argue that you don’t need them.”

  Her eyes widen, and I again watch her struggle with the question of whether I am serious or joking.

  She quickly changes the subject with, “According to the information in the room, there’s a great-sounding restaurant downstairs.”

  “Want to start this bottle of wine and then eat there?”

  “Sure. My terrace?”

  “Following you.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she says and ducks into the bathroom.

  I walk outside, enjoying the cool night air and the quietness of the countryside beyond the hotel. I love the peacefulness here. The fact that life doesn’t feel as if it’s zooming by too fast to even begin to take it all in. I think of how I used to thrive on doing as much, getting as much, being as much as I possibly could. It’s as if a switch has been flipped in me, and I wonder how I ever wanted any of that life.

  When Lizzy comes out, her hair is straight and smooth. I notice, not for the first time, that the color is like twists of peanut butter and caramel. It’s both thick and silky, and I feel a sudden and overwhelming need to run my fingers through it.

  As a diversion, I pull the wine corkscrew from my back pocket, the cork making a satisfying pop. I run the bottle under my nose and let her do the same.

  “Um,” she says. “I don’t know very much about wine, but that smells really good.”

  I pick up a glass from the wrought-iron table between us, fill it halfway and hand it to her. I then pour myself one, set the bottle down and walk to the wall that looks out over a softly lit pool below us.

  She raises her glass. “To Tuscany,” she says.

  “To Tuscany.”

  She takes a sip, considers it for a moment and then says, “That is amazing. How did you know to pick this one?”

  “From my last visit and doing a little reading.”

  “You read a lot.”

  I tip my head. “That’s what I did instead of going to college. We got started with the band after high school. I tried to do both, but it didn’t work out too well.”

  “I’d like to say I know a good bit about your band, but I’m afraid I really don’t.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  She smiles and says, “Got a lot of skeletons in that closet, huh?”

  “A few.”

  “Want to bring any of them out?”

  “No,” I say. “Definitely not.”

  She sits in one of the chairs close to the wall, crosses her legs, rests her elbows on her knees and takes another sip of the wine. I pull up the other chair and sit next to her. For several long minutes, we don’t say anything. We just sit, sipping wine and looking out at the incredible view in front of us.

  When I speak, it’s to admit, “There hasn’t been anyone in my life in a very long time I can sit beside and not feel obligated to make conversation, even when there’s nothing meaningful about it.”

  She looks at me and says, “Thanks.”

  “It’s really easy to be around you.”

  “I’m a fairly normal girl,” she says, and her smile seems a little forced.

  “I don’t think you’re normal at all,” I say, realizing there are any number of ways she could take that assertion. But she seems to take it in the way I meant it and smiles at me. I don’t know whether it’s the wine or attraction that sends the surge of warmth through my chest.

  I’m pretty sure wisdom would dictate chalking it up to the wine.

  21

  Lizzy

  WE FINISH THE bottle in the room before heading downstairs to the restaurant. Ren asks for a table in the far corner, and although he doesn’t say it, I’m sure it’s to stay out of the center of things. I’ve noticed the way he never quite meets gazes with people, glancing away before they have a chance to make eye contact. He’s done it three times so far since we sat down at the table.

  “Does it get old?” I ask.

  He glances up. “What?”

  “The constant ducking and hiding in plain sight.”

  He looks a little surprised by the question, but then says, “It didn’t always. Not at first. But after the novelty of having
people chase you down the street wears off, it stops seeming like such a great thing. I asked for it though. Every bit of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I ran after the fame thing full blast, no ifs, ands or buts. I wanted it.”

  “It wasn’t what you thought it would be?” I ask.

  “Things are rarely what they appear on the surface,” he says. “Fame, least of all.”

  I consider this and then ask, “What’s the worst experience you’ve ever had that came from being famous?”

  Without hesitating, he says, “A naked woman hiding in the closet of my hotel room until I got in bed, and she decided to join me.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Was she pretty at least?”

  “Pretty, I didn’t notice so much. Aggressive, I noticed.”

  “Some guys wouldn’t consider that such a bad thing.”

  “In this case, bad thing,” he says.

  “So what’s the best thing you’ve ever had happen because of being famous?”

  “Putting on a private show for a little boy who was dying of cancer,” he answers without hesitating. “He got an email through to my manager and asked if we could play his sister’s birthday party at his house. He wasn’t asking for him. He wanted to give her a gift he thought she would always remember him by.”

  I absorb what he just said. Tears instantly spring to my eyes at the image. “That’s as good a reason to be famous as any I can think of. To be able to do something like that for someone is pretty amazing.”

  “It wasn’t much, believe me.”

  “To both of them, I’m sure it was the world.”

  He looks down, and I can see he isn’t comfortable with the praise.

  “You don’t act like you’re famous,” I say.

  He laughs a short laugh. “How am I supposed to act?”

  “I don’t know. Like you own the universe or something. Don’t most celebrities have big egos?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes, I wonder if it’s actually the opposite. If there’s not some deep down need for validation inside those of us who go for the lime light. Like maybe we need proof that other people see us as mattering.”