She gives me a small nod.
“We also need to find a suitable workplace for you, if you haven’t already.” I go on. “You’re welcome to use the study if you wish. There are plenty of tables in the dining room downstairs. There’s also the table outside under the pergola and one in the veranda. But if the scenery distracts you as it does me, it may not be the best place.”
“I’m sure I’ll find something.”
“The kitchen is yours, so help yourself. Later I’ll get groceries—just let me know if there’s anything you need specifically. I’ll be making the meals as I always do, since Vanni is helpless in the kitchen, and then has the courtesy to eat everything in sight.”
“I’m a growing boy,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“You’re lucky you have your mother’s metabolism,” I tell him. “When I was your age, I was a round little thing.”
Vanni manages a rare smile and gives Grace a conspiratorial look. “I’ve seen pictures. My nonna still calls him piccolo zucca. Little pumpkin.”
That boy. I shake my head, ignoring his betrayal, and ignoring the bemused look on Grace’s face. “Allora,” I say loudly. “So it goes, you are welcome to join us. We eat breakfast at nine, lunch at three, and dinner at eight. I’m quite strict with these times when we are at home, just so I can get into the right, how you say, headspace? My work requires a lot of patience and a lot of focus. I need the structure. Perhaps you are the same.”
“I need something,” she says quietly. “I would love to eat you.” She stumbles over her words and blushes. “Eat with you,” she fills in quickly. She clears her throat awkwardly, fidgeting in her seat. “The schedule might help me. Though I may ask for your help with the espresso machine. I tried to work it but I gave up pretty quickly.”
“That won’t be a problem. And I’m sure you know that you are free to use the bar as well. I take it that’s part of the bargain when you’re a writer.”
Grace’s cheeks flush a darker peach which makes her glow.
Hmmm. Now why do I have the urge to make her blush more often?
I clear my throat, not willing to let myself be distracted. “So, what do you say? You’ll stay?”
“I’d be honored to,” she says. “Thank you. Grazie.”
“Grazie,” I say, correcting her flat pronunciation. “Not so much a zee at the end, but a zee-a.”
“Grazie,” she says, now overdoing it.
“Grazie!” Vanni yells.
I chuckle. “Don’t worry, Ms. Harper. By the end of it, you’ll be fluent, whether you like it or not.”
“I could give you Italian lessons,” Vanni says eagerly. “What’s the point of knowing both languages so flawlessly if I can’t share them?”
“I might take you up on that,” Grace says to him, smiling. Her smile makes her look younger and impossibly pretty, like a living doll. “Perhaps I can teach you some writing skills in exchange.”
Vanni waves her away. “Please, I am already so good.”
I shake my head, never not blown away by my son’s confidence, even in things he doesn’t do well. With his love of science and his logical, analytical brain, writing and anything creative has fallen to the wayside with him. But he’ll never admit it.
Grace laughs at that, her laughter reminding me of birdsong in the spring.
A peculiar feeling tightens in my chest, a warning of some kind.
Of what, I don’t know.
But I hope I’m making the right choice in letting her stay here.
Five
Grace
Even with all the commotion of the morning, lunchtime rolls around fairly quickly. After I was given the go-ahead to stay, I went to my room to get out of the way. Though Claudio seemed genuine in his invitation, I also know that Jana must have argued with him to change his mind. I know she wouldn’t back down if she could help it, and me leaving here would look like a failure to her and damage her pride. And the thing I’m still afraid of is that Jana might want to distance herself from me, just because she’s embarrassed over the supposed mix-up. She’s so volatile, who knows what will set her off? I once heard she refused to take on John Grisham as a client because he called her Janet. Of course that could all be hearsay.
So, just in case, I decide to keep to myself for a while and stay out of the Italian’s hair. I sit in the velvet armchair in the corner of the bedroom and take out my plotting journal, trying to force my brain to focus on the task at hand.
I have the first few chapters done and a detailed two-page outline of what happens in the story. But even with that as a guide, none of it seems to fit. It’s like the story I thought of all those months ago, the story Jana sold to the publisher, isn’t the story I feel pulled to write anymore.
I sigh and look over the outline, wondering how much I can change before it turns into a book they didn’t agree on buying.
Here is the gist of what I have so far:
There’s a woman, Annabelle, who is grieving the death of her estranged mother. She decides to travel to the Shetland Islands to learn more about her since her mother grew up there and was very secretive about her past life. Once there, she discovers a few secrets, including a half-sister she never knew, and she has a romance with a burly fisherman who gets her to open up. At the end, the burly fisherman disappears at sea, but Annabelle is forever changed for the better.
I guess what I’m caught up on is the fact that her love interest dies at the end. If it was a romance, he would live and there would be a happily ever after. With women’s fiction, it feels like the more sorrow and depth the character goes through, the better, at least to the publishers. Besides, the focus of the book isn’t on her love interest—he’s an enigma most of the time, closed off to her and the reader. The focus is on her personal growth.
And yet, why shouldn’t my character have a love that lasts? Why isn’t she worthy of it? Did my book only sell because I promised that conflict and a bittersweet ending? Or is it possible that I can change it to a happily ever after? Would that cause it to lose all credibility?
I don’t know anything about writing romance. In the Sleuths of Stockbridge, my character never had a romantic arc. Robyn’s character did because she was younger, and she was often dating a different guy, but it was never the focus. I guess it doesn’t help that my own love life is completely lackluster. The adage goes, “Write what you know.” I always suspected that was bullshit, but I still think I’m deeply unqualified to write a romance.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my dilemma.
I sit up straight. “Yes?”
The door opens and Vanni pokes his head in, straight-faced. “Here is your first lesson, Grace. Pranzo. It means lunch. Il pranzo è pronto. Lunch is ready.”
I get to my feet and repeat the phrase after him. “Il pranzo è pronto.”
“No, no, no,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “You have much to learn.”
I bite back another smile and follow him out of the room and down the stairs to the first level.
The glass doors to the backyard are open. Beside it, the door to Claudio’s studio is closed. Vanni leads me outside, past the bar to the patio where the table and chairs are set, leafy grapevines growing over the pergola, giving just enough shade. The heat is in full force now, strong and heady.