Emilio throws my bags on the bed. He’s sweating now from hauling them all over the house. He gestures to the loo, and I poke my head in. It’s small but there’s a shower, so I’m happy.
“I come back,” he says to me, heading for the door. “Saturday.”
Which makes it the day after tomorrow.
For a moment a tremor of worry goes through me.
I’m going to be by myself.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Thank you so much for everything. Ciao.”
He just nods, wiggles his nose, and leaves down the hallway.
I stick my head out the door and watch him disappear, then finally hear the front door close and then the grumbling engine of his truck.
He’s gone.
I’m alone.
Time to settle in.
I open the shutters and the windows and lean out, taking in a deep breath. The bedroom is at the back of the house, overlooking a glass-encased veranda or atrium below, then a wide lawn with a few fruit trees and a crumbling old wall lining the back. Beyond that is a thicket of trees, and in the distance a distinctive looking hill that overlooks the valley.
It’s growing hotter by the minute, even with the window open, so I peel off my cardigan and unzip my boots, taking out a pair of flip flops from my carry-on. My feet need a pedicure, having been encased in socks and boots for months on end, and I make a note to do my nails later. I know no one but Emilio will see them, but even so, I already feel like this is a good opportunity to dress up more. There’s a reason I brought a million sundresses that Edinburgh only lets me wear two months out of the year.
I quickly use the loo, admiring the blue floral wallpaper and jasmine-scented hand soap, then I grab my plotting notebook and pen from my purse, sliding my phone in the back pocket of my skinny jeans, and head out to explore.
All the doors in the upper hallway are closed. I assume one of them belongs to Jana and the rest are for guests. I don’t want to be nosy, so I leave the doors closed and head down the stairs to the living room, making a beeline for the mantel.
There are several framed photographs. The black and white ones show a family posing outside the villa, looking exactly the same as it does today, save for the 1940’s style car in the forefront. Then there’s a photo of a beautiful dark-haired woman posing amid roses, a mysterious smile on her face. There’s another of two men holding up a dead deer, each hand on an antler and smiling proudly.
There’s only one picture in color, a little boy, maybe two years old, sitting in a basket of lemons. He looks extremely serious, which makes the picture even cuter.
I step back from the mantel and look around the room. One of the things I need to do is find the perfect writing spot. This room is airy and bright but it won’t do.
I go down the short hall, but there’s only one door open. It’s a small library with a desk in the middle. I figure if the door is open, then I’m probably allowed to be in here. I sit down at the desk, trying to see if the height of the chair is to my liking. I could write in here, but it doesn’t feel as inspiring as it could be.
I get back up and go check out the bookshelves. Most of the titles are in Italian, with only a handful in English, and they all seem to be about art or are non-fiction. I also don’t see any of Jana’s clients’ books, not even the big names. Okay, so maybe it’s a little narcissistic that I’m automatically looking for my books here, but I don’t even see them in the Italian translation. Huh.
Well, you’re a new client, I remind myself. And she probably hasn’t been here since she signed you.
It makes me wonder how long it’s been since Jana visited. The place feels very large with me being the only one here, but there’s a warmth to it, like it was occupied recently. Perhaps Jana Air B&Bs the place out most of the year. In fact, given what a big shot and busybody Jana is, I have a hard time imagining her here at all. It seems too relaxed and warm and easygoing for her. How would she get anything done?
I’m not sure how I’m going to get anything done if I don’t find a spot to write.
I leave the study and my search continues.
It is the perfect summer day.
I’m not saying that casually.
I mean, it’s the summer day of your long-lost youth. It’s a summer day that captures all the feelings of how the world used to be. A summer day to write about.
If this summer day could be bottled into an elixir, it would consist of a freshly-cut lawn and blossoming roses. It’s the soft warmth of the morning sun as it mingles into the heat of the afternoon. It’s the freshness in the air, the kind of air that has never been intoxicated with car fumes or pollution, an air of the past. It’s the angle of the sun as we approach summer solstice, powerful and steeped in eons of time, igniting something ingrained in us.
To put it simply, I’m reminded of being a child again, and what those summer days felt like. There was purity and freedom and joy. So much joy as we shed our shoes and ran across lawns and through sprinklers and leaped into bodies of water.
When did summers stop being like that?
When we had to work, I remind myself. Like you should be doing right now.
I sigh. I should be working. Instead I’m lying by the cerulean pool and the sun on my pale body is both strong and fresh. I know I should be working on my book, not working on my tan. In fact, I had planned to get up early and get right into writing mode, but that never happened.
Yesterday after I arrived, I spent the afternoon exploring the rest of the house and the grounds. I shot Jana a quick email to let her know I got here alright, since she and I aren’t quite on a texting basis yet, and she let me know that if I needed food that I could take a bike ride for about five kilometers to a country corner store, or I could just check the fridge.
Turns out she had Emilio buy me just enough food to survive a few days, including a fresh loaf of bread, butter, loads of olive oil, brown farm eggs, plus pasta, tomatoes and pecorino cheese. I happily made myself a sandwich with cheese and impossibly red, juicy tomatoes, and it’s probably one of the simplest and yet most delicious meals I’ve ever had.
After that I grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar and then went out onto the back veranda to sit on an iron patio chair and soak it all in. Which then led me to discovering that the glassed-in atrium is actually an artist’s studio, with sculptures filling the space.
I had zero idea that Jana did art. Then again, I’m discovering bit by bit that I don’t know much about her at all. If that really is her art, then she’s incredible. From the style I can tell that the sculptures I’ve seen throughout the house, and possibly the paintings too, are all done by her.
After that, I went to bed early. Perhaps the half a bottle of wine had something to do with it.
This morning I had plans to get up and write. That meant both figuring out how the espresso machine worked and finding the perfect writing spot. I wasn’t able to work it, so I just settled for instant coffee I found in one of the cupboards, and I still couldn’t decide on a writing spot. I put my laptop on her desk in the office and tried to get into it there, but my mind kept wandering.
I swear not all writers are this fickle. I know that Robyn was able to write anywhere and everywhere, whether it was on her phone while lining up at the bank, or lying down in bed. I have to keep to the same spot in order to set a routine, plus I need noise-cancelling headphones at the ready with a certain playlist. It sucks. I wish I was a little more spontaneous but my muse needs certain conditions to appear.