He retrieved his bottle of scotch from the table on the loggia so he could resume the drinking Ms. Fifi had interrupted. He’d enjoyed giving her a hard time. She was so uptight she vibrated, yet her visit had left him feeling almost relaxed. Weird.
He stepped through one of the loggia’s three arches out into the garden and made his way along the clipped hedges toward the swimming pool, where he sank into a chaise. As he absorbed the quiet, he thought about all the people who usually surrounded him: his faithful posse of assistants, business managers, and the bodyguards the studios occasionally wanted him to keep around. A lot of celebrities encircled themselves with aides because they needed reassurance that they were stars. Others, like himself, did it to make life easier. Aides kept overzealous fans at bay, which was useful but came at a price. Few people spoke the truth to the person responsible for their paycheck, and all the brown-nosing had gotten old.
Ms. Fifi, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know anything about brown-nosing, and that had been oddly restful.
He’d pushed aside the bottle of scotch without uncapping it and sank deeper into the chaise. Slowly his eyes drifted shut. Very restful…
Isabel cut a wedge from the aged pecorino she’d purchased in town. This was the sheep’s cheese so beloved by the Tuscan people. While she’d counted out her money to pay for it, the female store clerk had pressed a tiny pot of honey on her. “It is the Tuscan way,” she’d said. “Honey with the cheese.”
Isabel couldn’t imagine it, but wasn’t she trying to be less rigid? She arranged the cheese and honey pot on a ceramic plate, along with an apple. All she’d eaten today were those few grapes she’d picked on the way back from the villa three hours ago. Her encounter with Gage had stolen her appetite. Maybe a little food would make her feel better.
She discovered half a dozen crisp linen napkins in a drawer, removed one, then arranged the others in a tidier pile. She’d already unpacked her suitcases and organized the bathroom. Although it was barely four o’clock, she opened the Chianti Classico she’d picked up in town. Chianti could only be termed classico, she’d learned, if it had been pressed from grapes grown in the Chianti region that lay a few miles to the east.
She found stemless wineglasses in the cupboard. She wiped off a water spot, filled one, and carried everything out to the garden.
The delicate scents of rosemary and sweet basil drifted up from the gravel path as she made her way toward the old table that sat in the shade of the magnolia. Two of the garden’s three cats came up to greet her. She settled down and gazed out over the ancient hills. The plowed fields that had been grayish brown in the morning had turned to lavender in the late-afternoon sun. So beautiful.
Tomorrow she would begin to follow the schedule she’d set up for the next two months. She didn’t need to check the notes she’d made to remember how she planned to organize her days.
Awaken at 6:00
Prayer, Meditation, Gratitude, and Daily Affirmations
Yoga or brisk walk
Light breakfast
Morning chores
Work on a new book
Lunch
Sight-seeing, window-shopping, or other pleasurable activity (Be impulsive)
Revise morning writing
Dinner
Inspirational reading and evening chores
Bed at 10:00
REMEMBER TO BREATHE!
She wouldn’t worry about the fact that she had no idea what kind of book she would write. That’s why she needed to stay here, so she could unblock her mental and emotional channels.
The wine was full and fruity, and it melted on her tongue, but as she leaned back to savor it, she noticed a dusty film on the marble tabletop. She jumped up and went back inside for a rag. When she’d wiped it off, she sat back down again.
She inhaled the wine and the rosemary. In the distance a road curled against the hills in a pale, smoky trail. This beautiful place… To think that only yesterday she hadn’t wanted to be here.
On top of a hill off to her right she noticed what might have been part of a village but now looked like ruins with a crumbling wall and the remains of a watchtower. She started to get up so she could find her opera glasses, then reminded herself she was supposed to be relaxing.
She took a cleansing breath, settled back in her chair, and reached inside herself for contentment.
It wasn’t there.
“Signora!”
The cheery voice belonged to a young man coming her way through the garden. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, and slender. Another handsome Italian. As he came closer, she saw liquid brown eyes, silky black hair caught back in a low ponytail, and a long, beautifully shaped nose.
“Signora Favor, I am Vittorio.” He introduced himself expansively, as if his name alone should bring her pleasure.
She smiled and returned his greeting.
“May I join you?” His accent indicated he’d learned his elegant, lightly accented English from British teachers instead of American ones.
“Of course. Would you like some wine?”
“Ah, I would love some.”
He stopped her as she began to rise. “I’ve been here many times,” he said. “I’ll get it. Sit and enjoy the view.”
He returned in less than a minute with the bottle and a glass. “A beautiful day.” A cat rubbed against him as he settled at the end of the table. “But then, all our Tuscan days are beautiful, are they not?”
“It seems that way.”
“And you are enjoying your visit?”
“Very much. But it’s more than a visit. I’ll be staying here for several months.”
Unlike Giulia Chiara, Anna Vesto, and the dour Marta, he looked delighted with the news. “So many Americans, they come on their tour buses for a day, then leave. How can one experience Tuscany like that?”
It was hard to ignore so much enthusiasm, and she smiled. “One cannot.”
“You have not yet tried our pecorino.” He dipped the spoon on her plate into the honey pot and drizzled a dab on her wedge of cheese. “Now you will be a proper Tuscan.”
He looked so eager that she didn’t have the heart to disappoint him, even though she suspected he’d been sent here to dislodge her. She took a bite and discovered the snap of the cheese and the honey’s sweetness made them perfect companions. “Delicious.”
“The Tuscan cuisine is the best in the world. Ribollita, panzanella, wild boar sausage, fagioli with sage, Florentine tripe-”
“I think I’ll take a pass on the tripe.”
“Take a pass?”
“Avoid.”
“Ah, yes. We eat perhaps more of the animal here than you do in the States.”
She smiled. They began chatting about the cuisine as well as local attractions. Had she been to Pisa yet? What about Volterra? She must tour some of the wineries in the Chianti region. As for Siena… its Piazza del Campo was the most beautiful in Italy. Did she know about the Palio, the horse races that took place each summer in the Campo itself? And the towered city of San Gimignano was not to be missed. Had she seen it yet?
She had not.
“I will show you everything.”
“Oh, no.”
“But I am a professional guide. I do tours all over Tuscany and Umbria. Group and private. Walking tours, cooking tours, wine tours. Did no one offer you my services?”
“They’ve been too busy trying to evict me.”
“Ah, yes. The sewer. It’s true you didn’t come at the best time, but there is much to see nearby, and I will take you sight-seeing during the day so you can escape the dirt and the noise.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I can’t afford a private guide.”
“No, no.” An elegant gesture of dismissal. “We will go only when I have no other clients, a gesture of friendship. I will show you all the places you cannot find on your own. You will not have to worry about driving on strange roads, and I will translate for you. A very good bargain, you will see.”