At first sight, I had fallen in love.
The closer we had approached the shore, the wider my eyes had become. A chunk of hard stone seemed to rise out of the sea like an oddly shaped volcano, but it wasn’t a volcano, it was the island. It was a world disconnected from the rest of the world by miles and miles of sea.
Surrounding it, as far as the eyes could see, was water. The kind of water that hypnotized with its colors—teal in the shallower areas with sapphire swirls in the deeper—and made it seem like boats flew over the surface instead of bobbing on it.
And I understood why the island had been named Aria. It was so romantic. It was a resort for honeymooners without the resort. It was Elba Island, Isola Bella, Portofino, Tropea, Cefalù, Castelluccio, Costa Smeralda, Taormina, Palermo, Polignano a Mare, Capri, Porto Ercole, even more stunning Italian places I could not recall, rolled up into one. I wasn’t paying attention on the boat to how far we’d traveled out to sea, but it was far enough to be detached from anything and everything on the mainland. But all that was needed was here.
All.
That.
Was.
Needed.
Consider the power in that statement—all that was needed, and none of it had to do with what money could buy. It was as if the island was alive, and all that it was could be breathed in the air. There was a sense of security, of strength, of a protective entity watching out for the people who resided here. There was also a sense of power that I had never felt before. A power that could turn angry and stir the waters to a violent boil if it wanted to.
One feeling sent a peaceful melody through my veins, the other sent a thrill through me. I wasn’t afraid. Just respectful of its power in all forms.
For the first time, in what felt like forever, I felt inspiration give me a warm hug after a long, cold winter. Nonna always said that writing thrillers didn’t suit me. My name was as romantic as my appearance. I suppose my features and general look was soft, but I could write a murder scene with a chilling detachment. I always thought that writing thrillers was what I could do, but maybe Nonna had been right. Going in another direction was my calling, but a love story powerful enough to claim me hadn’t showed up.
The island showed up, and ideas were already swirling inside of my head.
A legendary love story could be conceived here.
Love.I sighed. Love was a great idea in theory, but on paper, it had never worked out for me. Sure, boys and men had flirted with me, but these boys and men were always missing something. Something I yearned for but couldn’t pinpoint—ever. It was just this…missing piece that never completed the puzzle. But maybe through writing a great love story, I would find the thing inside of me that made it allclick. Made my heart respond just as it did to this island.
Yeah. I smiled to myself. I was a thirty-year-old virgin who hadno skeletons in her closet from all the wrong guys she dated, less than a few, andIwas going to attempt a love story. I told myself, though, there were worse things I could do…or not. Like never trying.
Stepping inside from the balcony of my apartment, I stopped at the mirror hanging on the wall and checked my reflection. I ran a hand down the breezy, red and white striped romper that I hoped would balloon, caressing my legs, when a warm wind blew. The hem fell right above my ankles. I had pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail, allowing some of the shorter strands of my hair to fall around my face. I had secured the pony with a red bow. I fixed a few strands and then decided I was good to go. I slipped my feet into a pair of espadrille flats, grabbed my cross-body purse, and covered my eyes with a pair of dark sunglasses.
Before I got to the front door, I veered off course and went to shut the balcony door. The gauzy curtains rustled gently with the constant breeze coming from the sea and entering through the cracked windows. Even the balcony was romantic. The foundation was made from cream-colored stone that looked ancient and strong, and the wrought-iron railing curved as if it had once been waving in the wind and had frozen in motion. Vines clung to every surface, and neon-colored flowers basked in the sun, collecting the heat so that they would almost glow at night.
Ah!Did I mention how much I loved this place?
My hand stilled on the door.
In New Orleans, I would have obsessed over locking the entire house up tight, but on this island, I decided to leave the door to the balcony cracked and the windows open. The inside of my apartment smelled so clean from all the fresh air and the citrusy sweet perfume that clung to my skin, hair, and clothes.
I stepped into a dream when I stepped outside of the apartment. The warmth of the day brought me into a hot hug, causing goosebumps to pucker my arms. The island made noises that I could wake up to for the rest of my life:
Neighbors calling to one another from the street in lyrical voices.
The jingling bells of the livestock, and the noises they made as they traveled toward their farms.
Birds chirping and singing, flitting from one place to another.
Cats and kittens hissing or meowing.
Speaking of…
A black cat with green eyes circled my legs, rubbing himself against me, his tail curled up. I leaned down and scratched behind his ear, hoping he had picked me to be his human for the rest of my stay here.
Vespas and small Italian cars that could fit on the narrow roads either zipped past or wheezed as they made it up the hill. It didn’t seem like a true struggle, but more of a complaint.
The seasonal workers all lived in a stretch of apartments on the island. A few of them were doing the same thing I was: using my free day to take in my new home and prepare for my new job. I dug in my crossbody and pulled out a set of keys and the map that had been left on my kitchen counter. The keys were for my apartment and for the Vespa and Italian car in my garage.
From what the boat captain explained to me on the ride over, the inhabitants of the island lived on it all year round, and they sold their goods to the Fausti family, who turned around and sold the items back to the family. It seemed as if the family had a money pot for places such as these—or like time shares. And when individual families, or people, came to visit, they bought the goods so the money could return to the main pot. It kept the islanders and the island going was my understanding of it, and that was good enough.
