The only problem is, Emilio barely speaks English, which makes me realize that Jana must speak fluent Italian if she’s able to communicate with him at all. Who knows, maybe by the end of all this, I’ll be speaking Italian too.
You don’t need another distraction, I remind myself as Emilio takes a corner at breakneck speed. Focus on the book, not learning a new language.
Or at least focus on not dying. I don’t know if Emilio used to be a race car driver or what, but he’s been driving like he’s in it to win it ever since we left the airport. Actually, everyone on the road is keeping up, like pace cars, which makes me think that driving aggressively fast may just be an Italian thing.
I’ve only been to Italy once, to Rome, on a book tour with Robyn. I had food poisoning the night before, in London, so I don’t remember much of it. I do know it was for book number five, and that Robyn had a great time at the bookstore party, whereas I went right to the hotel room after the signing was over. Didn’t get to see any of the sights, or eat any of the food, which is the ultimate shame when it comes to Italy. I hope to rectify it with this trip.
Except you’ll be writing most of the time. Remember Jana’s words. You didn’t come here for a vacation. You came here to work.
Which means no day trips to Pisa.
Or Florence.
Or Siena.
Or Cinque Terre.
And I probably won’t be eating out often either. Jana assured me there was a large kitchen and that Emilio could drive me to the grocery store.
I steal a glance at him, marveling at both his ear hair and the amount of concentration he’s giving to the road. At least I know I’m in capable hands.
I wonder if I should attempt to talk to him again but decide it’s probably not for the best when he’s driving, considering the amount of hand gestures we had both used earlier trying to understand each other.
Playing it safe, I bring out the Translate app and start prepping the list of questions I have for him when we arrive at the villa.
Then I take out the email that Jana sent me with all the information I need for the next month and look over it for the hundredth time.
The official name of the villa is Villa Rosa, a nineteenth century hunting lodge that’s eight kilometers outside of Lucca. Aside from Emilio, who comes every other day, I will have the place to myself. There’s an old chapel across the road that belonged to the previous owner, and after about a ten-minute walk there’s a really nice restaurant. There are bikes I can use as well.
That’s pretty much all the info she gave me, and I’m trying to imagine what an old Italian hunting lodge would look like, when Emilio takes the truck off the highway and onto a narrow rural road. We zoom around curves framed by olive groves and the low hills beyond, and I close my eyes when it looks like we’re about to collide with a tractor trailer.
When I dare to open my eyes again, Emilio is trying not to smile.
Finally, the truck begins to slow for the first time, and we pull into a gravel driveway.
“Siamo qui,” Emilio says in his deep, crackly voice. “We here.”
Two
Grace
The truck pulls to a stop and I’m already gawking as I get out.
This place is stunning.
First my eyes are drawn to the villa.
Villa Rosa is three stories tall, the palest yellow color with a rust-tiled roof. It has quite an unusual façade, with two staircases leading to the same glass door on the second floor, the landing lined with window boxes of red geraniums. There’s also a door on the main floor below it.
Then my eyes are drawn to the grounds, which seem to have been immaculately tended by Emilio.
To one side of the villa is a grove of lemon and fig trees interspersed with flowering potted rosemary and violets, and to the other side is a gravel path that cuts through cypress trees and under an arch of blush pink roses, showing just a hint of blue swimming pool.
Behind me, between the house and the road, is a large, closely-shorn lawn and I can see the tiny chapel beyond that, olive trees surrounding it as they rise gently up a hill.
“Wow,” I say out loud as Emilio hauls my suitcase and duffle bag out of the truck. “Bellisima!”
I said that right, right? But he just nods and smiles and drags the bags across the gravel.
“Oh, let me,” I tell him quickly, reaching for them, but he shakes his head adamantly.
“No, no,” he says. “Lascia, lascia.”
He hustles the bags toward the house, and I continue to stand there, dumbfounded. The sun is peeking out from behind some clouds and making my wool cardigan feel too hot and heavy. I tip my head back to the sky to get the rays on my face and take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lemon blossoms and roses and sun on grass. I just got here but I can already feel the well inside me filling up, promising creativity and production and even joy.
Thank you, Jana, I say inside my head. Even though she sent me here because her arse was on the line, I can’t help but feel eternally grateful that I feel the seeds of inspiration. I tend to feel things very deeply, and this includes my environment, and I already know that the decision to come here will pay off for the both of us.
An unfamiliar thrill runs through me at the thought. I can’t remember the last time I had hope.
Emilio clears his throat and my eyes snap open. He’s waiting impatiently by the front door, gesturing with his head for me to hurry along.
I give him a quick smile and step behind him as he opens the door to the bottom floor.
It’s cool inside and I’m immediately taken by the old wood beams and rafters above, and the terracotta tile below. It looks more like a restaurant down here, with two round tables covered by checkered tablecloths, wooden chairs, and then a lounge area by a massive fireplace.
“Please,” Emilio gestures. “You have.”
He’s pointing to an honest-to-god bar that runs along the wall across from the lounge. It’s fully-stocked with every type of alcohol imaginable, plus wine bottles tucked behind white glass cabinets.
Dutifully, I keep following Emilio past the bar—a place I’ll have to frequent with moderation—and into a hallway.
“Cucina,” he says, placing his hand on a swinging door near the stairs and pushing it open.
I stick my head in. It’s the kitchen, looking both homey and slightly industrial. I guess this whole bottom floor used to be the restaurant from when this was a hunting lodge.
I follow Emilio up the stairs to the second floor which is a gorgeous living area with couches and the biggest wood coffee table I’ve ever seen. It takes up most of the floor. The room is bright, and scattered throughout are sculptures, marble, clay, some abstract, some of half-clothed women. It all looks very refined.
A row of framed photographs along a polished mantle catches my eye next. The photos are mostly in black and white which make me think they’re of the villa back when it was a lodge. I’m itching to take a look and get inspired by the history, but Emilio continues up the staircase to the third floor, despite the fact that there are more unexplored rooms on the second.
He guides me down a narrow hallway to a door at the end labeled “C,” and opens it.
My bedroom is delightful. Bigger than I thought it would be, with pale blue walls that contrast with the exposed dark wood beams above, and regal red bedding on the queen-size bed. It even has one of those gauzy curtains that hang above the bed, the ones you can pull around like a mosquito net.