“No, in Volterra. Not far from here, no?”
“Oh.” I brought my bag and camera closer.
Her eyes glanced at me quickly. “You are very good.” She became thoughtful for a moment. Her face didn’t transform or turn in; if anything, it became more alive. She reached forward and turned the radio on. It was the song I had used for theperformance. “I came outside of myself three times, after your dance. My lover was pleased with himself.”
“Did you get extra pasta for that?”
She laughed so hard that the fast car swerved, and her laughter lingered for what felt like hours. I laughed with her, but my cheeks went hot—three times was nothing to Brando Fausti. Not even a challenge. More like three times in a row for me.
Just the thought made my lower stomach tighten in remembered pleasure, and goosebumps rippled on my arms. I was starting to think that pasta sounded like a good idea though. It was much healthier than cigarettes.
“I see why he fell for you,bella.” She winked at me. “You are wicked.”
Our conversation flowed easily from that point forward, and without her making any more sexual comments—she was known for them. In our short time, I started to like her, and it felt good not to be alone.
The minutes seemed to fly by, like the miles she burned, and what should have been an hour drive ended up being only forty minutes.
She took a sharp turn and we went up a dirt road, racing up the steep hill. Brown dust flew behind us like a sandstorm. Once she reached the crest, the car came to an abrupt halt, flinging me forward.
A gorgeous Tuscan farmhouse sat in the center of the hill, its cream stone oblivious to the heat, but its terra-cotta roof shimmered with it. Long fingers of vines wrapped the place in an embrace. Next to it sat another smaller building, matching in stone, attached to its side, but much smaller.
I followed Rosaria out after a minute or two. She faced the house, waiting for me.
“Is this your place? It’s beauti—”
“Shh!” She grabbed my hand. “Come with me.”
Opening the front door with a skeleton key, she allowed me through first. I peeked inside but then moved further in, wanting to see more. She didn’t let me wander though. She took my hand and led me up a stone staircase. I paused for a second on the landing, gazing out of a window.
Bricolages of vibrant flowers were basking in the sun, alive and enjoying summer. Not too far off, an abandoned garden had gone to ruins. The bones lived on in the shriveled compost.
I could probably do something special with the garden…roses, to start.
Rosaria became impatient and tugged hard enough to get me moving again. The master bedroom had long mahogany beams that spanned the length of the high ceilings, complementing the nineteenth-century terracotta floors. Three bright windows gave way to rolling hills, the garden in the backyard, the Castle of Meleto, and the medieval village of Vertine.
The room was furnished in a way that I loved. Nothing too formal, just comfortable, but in a way that screamedthis is Italia!The bed had a holy cross carved into its wooden headboard, and from it dangled a gold chain with a matching carving in thick gold.
The sign of faith dangled between my fingers, warm against my skin from soaking in the sun from the windows.
I wonder whom this belonged to? Was it some young lady who became a woman here? Perhaps she raised her children in the Tuscan light. Perhaps she grew old with her husband, watching the stars every night. Was she a woman who, during every season of her life, wore her faith proudly around her neck?
Letting the cross rest where it had been, I turned to a door that led out to a terrace crawling with roses and lilacs. A warm breeze filtered in, bringing the scents of lemon and melon and baking earth. Taking a deep breath, I let it touch my lungs before releasing it.
I would strip myself of every bit of clothing and lay right in front of the door, like a fig, allowing the sunshine to make me plump and ripen me.
This inner dialogue went on throughout the entire villa, while Rosario enchanted me with its technical charms. “The water is safe to drink! The villa has origins to the tenth century. It was originally a watchtower, built to aide communication between the two castles. How romantic, no? It has six rooms, six bathrooms. It even has its own chapel. Look here. This entry way leads down and has been a part of the structure for more than a thousand years. There are two ways in, from outside, and this way here. It needs a bit of work, but this does not matter!”
It was the house itself that spun me in.
Maggie Beautiful would love this room. Violet and the kids could stay in this room. Even my parents could come for a visit. Plenty enough room for children—stop the thought. Brando would love the floors, the ironwork. He would love to get his hands dirty in this place. I love the golden walls, they seem to absorb the light, but I would hang pear green curtains, add candles here, oh, use the bread oven in the dining room. The wall made of antique stone is romantic. This would be the perfect place to display some of my new pottery from the village. The table seats twenty-four, good, fewer times I would have to go back and forth to the kitchen…
The kitchen.
I was entirely lost to its charms. I longed to stand in gold-dusted light, fingers knuckle deep in a sticky ball of dough, while pasta boiled and the scents of garlic and prosciutto permeated the air, the taste of rich Chianti on my tongue.
I swallowed thickly, suddenly so hungry that I salivated.
I could cook for him—learn how to cook Italian like I had learned to cook French. I could make him beautiful, fresh, colorful meals. He could feed me leftover pasta in bed.
