During the slow times, I daydreamed about what I was going to write that night. Actually, it was past daydreaming and into obsession territory. As I walked to work, I built on the last sentence I had written that morning. Sometimes, if I went a stretch of time without a customer, I’d quickly pull out my phone and write notes or entire paragraphs if I could. The story had taken hold of me and refused to let go.
I hadn’t even given the characters names yet. It almost didn’t matter; not yet, anyway. I used Ghost for him and CK for her—Curious Kitty. The man in the window was my inspiration for Ghost. And for Curious Kitty…I found myself using…me for inspiration. I felt I needed to impart real feelings into the words to truly feel what CK felt when she described the first time she saw Ghost. Or as she roamed the streets of her new home and constantly looked for him.
Which, I did. I constantly looked over my shoulder, up the hill, my breath always catching when I noticed movement coming down. But I couldn’t recall a time I saw anyone else climbing that high. It was as if the furthest point of the island was off limits, and I had broken the rules and trespassed.
Maybe what I’d caught was a figment of the light? My camera distorting it into what lookedlike a man?
I wasn’t sure, but I was getting anxious. My word well was starting to dry up, and I knew it was because that first sighting had me intrigued. It sent my imagination into overdrive, and the island supplied the rest. I was going to need another hit of that mysterious top of the island to keep going.
And it wasn’t like this island wasn’t full of men worthy enough to become the leading man in a romance book. The Fausti men could almost make a woman tongue-tied. I’d seen it happen with a few of the other girls. But just like back home, I noticed good looking guys, even though that was a lame term for the Faustis, but there was still noclick. Just a sense of curiosity that I wondered if all writers had.
I studied the way the men walked, talked, interacted with their wives or other men. I watched them eat. Study the lemons and blood oranges, deciding on which ones to choose. Watching people helped flesh my characters out. It imparted a realism about them that a sculptor would use, like studying the naked body while sculpting the human form.
It was worth noting, though, that the Fausti men—easily pegged for Fausti because the resemblance was strong with them—in casual clothes almost seemed like they were airing out after a long, hard winter. I wondered if it had anything to do with the suits they wore. When they came to the island, no man was without one, but once they were here, it seemed more acceptable to go without. I guessed it was hard to swim in a suit.
And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that none of the men I’d seen were my ghost. I could just feel it.
“Pisolino!” I smiled down at my four-legged sidekick. He found me before every break in my day and in the evenings before quitting time, and he walked me home like he was part German Shepard.
He hopped up on the covered bench next to me, like he owned the spot, and his tail started flicking as he watched with me as island life seemed to move at its own pace, like the gentle breezes.
We sold out of lemons and oranges earlier than normal, and I closed shop, setting a sign on top of the baskets that said,Tutto Esaurito.Sold out.After I lowered the cover, I moved back with Pisolino on my heels and took a picture of the stand with my phone. I had forgotten to grab one, and I wanted to remember it.
The body was wooden with a white, yellow, and orange trim. The cover was white and blue. A painted picture of citrus fields was the backdrop underneath the cover. The writing on the side,Agrumi, was handwritten too. My bench was right in front of the backdrop, in the shade. The machine and all I needed to make the iced drinks was on the side. An old wooden scale hung from the wooden stall, and it had a gas lantern that turned on by itself in the evening. It was so picturesque, and I smelled of a fresh citrus perfume every evening. Even in the mornings.The scent clung to my skin and hair.
I looked to the left and to the right, unsure which way to go. I could grab dinner in town, where the staff ate, or go to the apartment and cook my own dinner and try to write. That morning, though, I had gotten frustrated because getting the number of words down that I usually did felt like milking a dried up well.
“I’m worried,” I said to Pisolino. “What if the words are gone? What if it was just that first feeling of falling in love—which I’ve only ever experienced with this story—and the excitement of it is already starting to fade? Is it a fake? A fugazi?”
He rubbed himself against my legs, his new collar I made for him soft against my skin. Nonna was an excellent seamstress, and she taught me how to sew. I wasn’t as good as she was, but I could handle a dress, and it was easy enough to make Pisolino a collar from fabric I bought from one of the stalls. He looked fancy in purple velvet. I’d get a tag made for him once we left. Giulia said it was okay if he wanted to adopt me too.
Leaving.
That seemed to tear my heart out at the mere thought of it. I wasn’t sure why, but in that small time I’d been here, the islandhad become home to me. My stalker passed my mind once or twice, but that was it. I felt so safe here.
As Pisolino circled me, I took out the map from my crossbody. I’d been all over the island, but there were still a few places left to go. I wasn’t in the mood to explore though. The sun would be setting soon, and parts of the island didn’t have electricity, so it could get dark. There was one spot that drew my eye every time I referenced the map. An area with a big X drawn across it. I’d made a joke and asked Giulia, “Is this where the lost treasure is buried on the island?”
She gave me a stern look and said, “NO! This place we do not go. It is haunted, and the ghost there will inhabit you, and you will die.”
Okay, noted.
I didn’t need another one of those. Especially one who had the power to get inside of me and… what? Steal my heart? That was a very promising premise to a sci-fi novel—or would it be horror?—but I shook my head. My heart was deep into the pages of the romance story already.
The sun was growing softer, the breezes more tepid than cool, and I decided to head into town for dinner. Pisolino became my shadow. When he’d first started following me, I was afraid he wouldn’t return to the apartment if he traveled with me too far into town, but probably because I fed him fresh fish from a fishmonger every day—Ihunted forhim—he followed me around and was always in the apartment. When I was there and even when I wasn’t. He entered through one of the windows or the balcony. He was a good climber.
As the sun began to set, the island grew pink, blushing over the water, which seemed neon in its glow. Tiny fairy lights—there must have been more than a thousand strings of them—woke up to take over lighting the paths. Their reflections landed on the narrow streets and brightened them. Music played in the distance. It was Italian, but I’d never heard anything like it.
After I entered thetavola calda(a cafeteria-like setting), Iasked one of the guys who worked at the fish market what the music was. He said he wasn’t entirely positive, but he thought it was what ancient Roman music would have sounded like. He offered me a seat at his table, but I thanked him and declined. He was young, boyish, and whenever he winked at me, I got the feeling he wanted more than dinner.
I wasn’t interested in a hookup. I was in a semi-relationship before I left New Orleans, and it ended on a dull note, as usual. Remy was his name, and I decided to block his calls while I waited at the airport to leave for Italy. I tried to explain to him about theclickthing, but he refused to believe me. He said he could change that. I would just have to give him time. But I knew forever wouldn’t be long enough, and I refused to settle for anything less. I’d rather go to my grave as a spinster. I preferred to let that area of my life collect dust.
Love was the one thing in my life that I knew my standards were almost too high for. Nonna used to listen to me recount my dates, and she would get this knowing grin on her face.
“That’s my girl,” it always seemed to say.
She never gave me a hard time about it. I think she knew my parents’ relationship had royally screwed with me, but she was proud that I refused to lower my standards just to have a man in my life.
Food, though? I’d try anything. Worst case scenario there—I didn’t want to think about it. Still. The porcelain throne was easier to survive than wrong love.
