It seemed like the cat understood. He seemed to walk with more confidence. And when he entered the apartment, he went straight for the sofa, where he jumped up on the rim and stretched before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Maybe the last worker had adopted him too? Or maybe it was just meant to be between us?
After sliding out of the romper and using cool water to wash off, I went to the kitchen, smiling at the ceramic fruit and vegetables hanging on the wall, the hand painted picture in oil that brought a scene from the island alive—a citrus stall—and the copper pots hanging from the ceiling. I made myself a quick lunch and then undressed completely. I slid into bed, feeling the cool sheets caress my hot and achy limbs, and then reached for my crossbody purse. I scanned through the pictures I had taken at the top of the island, still in awe at how stunning the world could be. Some of the pictures looked fake, like a backdrop to a movie.
“Unbelievable,” I whispered, then yawned. My face, even though I had cleaned it, still felt like it had collected sea salt. I’d take a full shower after my nap, then head down to town to see where I’d be working.
On the next swipe, I came to thecastelloat the highest point of the island.My eyes devoured the beauty of it just as they had done with the pictures of nature and sea. I spotted something in the window, though. A blurred shape. I stretched the screen, zooming in. It was clearly a person. I sat up abruptly, wondering if I had caught the ghost of Rosaria Caffi in the act.
No, I told myself, just as I had on the way back to my apartment. I had decided that it was only a coincidence that her music had played. Italy was grieving the loss of its most famoussongbird, and it wasn’t out of this world to believe whoever was in thatcastellolistening to her music grieved with them.
What does that old song say? When you smile, the whole world smiles with you? Well, maybe when an entire country is grieving, it’s not uncommon to come across someone who is grieving.
Not the point at that second.
The point was that the person in the window’s frame was a man, I was sure of it. Oh man, was he looking at me while I was ogling his gorgeous digs? He probably thought I was creeping! Even though the picture was hazy, like he was a ghost himself, it was clear to see he had no shirt on. And I was positive Rosaria Caffi wasn’t built that way. Even though she seemed tall, she hadn’t had the shoulders of a linebacker.
Goosebumps rose on my arms at the thought of him watching me while I hadn’t noticed. I was sure it was just a case of him being at the window at the same time I happened to stumble upon his property, but I knew it was normal, too, to have a reaction to being watched when I didn’t realize I was.
It was like my criminal mind was merging with my romantic heart!
Slowly lowering back to the pillow, my heart overreacted again, but this time, it was teasing my mind. Even though I had climbed and walked miles earlier in the heat, it was like I was suddenly inflicted with a rush of energy.
The man in the window had inspired me.
Yes!
Inspired me.
The first line of a romance novel came to me like a strike of lightning because of him.
My phone would have to do to type it out. Later, I’d ask someone if a typewriter—truly romantic, right?!—could be found on the island.
Sighing in impatience, not wanting to lose the muse,the first words pushed my fingers to move, and I typed out a chapter title on the screen:
At First Sight
Then I typed out the first sentence of the story, the line that would direct the entire plot and give readers a taste of what they were in store for:
At first sight, she had fallen in love with a ghost.
Chapter 12
Following the Direction of the Muse
Two weeks on the island, and every dayfeltlike I was waking up to a new scene. Maybe my work schedule was routine, but the beauty of the island was not. It reminded me of reading an enthralling novel more than once, always finding new things to discover each time.
Same with the story swirling inside of my head.
Every morning, I woke up before the sun rose in the sky, and in the glow of flickering candlelight, I sat at a plain desk and wrote before the balcony while the gauze curtains fluttered with the soft breeze.
My phone was all I had still, but Giulia, who was my “boss,” said she was going to speak to her husband about getting me a typewriter from the mainland. I had never enjoyed music to write to before, but after I decided to go with the flow, I started listening to it as background noise. Maybe because the music I enjoyed was mostly romantic.
A few times, I was almost late to work because the story had consumed me. I had forgotten all about the time and poured the story inside of me onto the page, er, screen. The story flowed as the water did around me, and I was almost afraid my word count was going to be as wide and deep as well. But it didn’t matter if Ipublished it or not. I was pulled inside of it, and I couldn’t untangle myself, nor did I want to.
Writing never felt like a job to me, and neither did my job on the island.
It should have been illegal to label “work” here as such. Maybe some people truly had to work, but I had been assigned one of the citrus stalls leading into town. I was a fruit peddler! I sold lemons and blood oranges. A Sicilian couple who had moved to the island, Iliana and Pirtinaci (Pur-ti-na-chee), delivered the citrus every morning, fresh from their fields, and I sold the fresh goods to whoever wanted them. I also made cold drinks on the spot from either the lemons or blood oranges. It was a booming business on the island, and rarely did I go a day without selling out.
