The taxi stops a few minutes later and we step out at Piazza Vittoria. A bustling utopia, there’s cafés and souvenir shops in every direction that mix with lush greenery and gray mountain stone. A tangible excitement hums in the air, and Matt was right. I really like this place.
Moving through the square, he takes my hand as we head down a midsize walkway. Restaurants and shops are a recurring theme, catering to all the foot traffic that passes in either direction. The farther we go, the quieter it gets, and by the time we reach our destination, the crowds and chatter have all but disappeared.
“Where are we?” I ask, glancing up at the weatherworn facade of the stately house. It has curved windows and doors and a quiet mystery. It’s been touched by time but is still preserved in the ways that count. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sleeping Beauty was tucked away somewhere inside.
“Villa San Michele,” Matt answers. “It’s a main tourist spot in Capri. It’s also where my mom and dad got married.”
I inwardly beam at this new knowledge as Matt flashes his cell phone to a waiting employee, showing that he’s already purchased our tickets. We’re directed inside and the temperature drops with each step we take, the foot-and-a-half-thick walls shielding us from the Caprese sun.
We make our way through the villa-turned-museum, and I learn that the property was bought by a Swedish doctor who had the villa built on the ruins of an ancient chapel dedicated to San Michele. The rooms are staggered throughout multiple floors, displaying dozens of artifacts and Roman pavings. There’s a Greek tomb in the garden and a granite sphinx on a balcony wall that gazes out over the island and sea. That’s where we take Matt’s third and final picture. In the same spot where his father posed so many years ago.
We’re leisurely strolling the gardens now, walking along a path between two rows of trees with the sun peeking in through the countless branches. I reach an arm out and let my fingers trace the jagged bark that’s fencing us in.
“I can’t believe places like this actually exist,” I muse. “This is where you should set a book someday. You can call it,Violet and Me Take Capri.”
He grins as he moves beside me, easily matching my pace. “It’s a great title. Not grammatically correct, but very catchy.”
Pleased by his response, I slip my fingers through his as we continue walking. “How did you get started on writing?” I ask.
Matt gives my hand a squeeze and keeps looking forward.
“Writing was just something that was always there for me. I was never much of a talker, but writing felt natural. Much less stressful. I liked that I didn’t have to rush with it. When you’re talking with someone, they expect a response, and you need to answer them fast and hope that you say the right thing. But with writing, you can sit and think about it. You can edit and look for the something great to say until you find it.”
We stop walking then, and our hands slip apart as we stand facing each other in the shade of the trees as Matt goes on.
“I was a creative-writing major in college. I didn’t get into screenwriting until after I graduated. Whenever I turned in assignments, my one and usually only consistent positive feedback was that I wrote good dialogue. A friend of mine was a production assistant at the time and told me that that’s all screenplays were, and that I should try writing something for film or TV. I read as many scripts online as I could to see how it was done. A few months later I banged out my first few drafts ofOperation Starship.My buddy passed it on to his friend who was an assistant producer, and thenhepassed it on to an executive producer.Shereally liked it, so they ended up filming the pilot, and then the rest is history.”
“That’s a pretty remarkable story,” I tell him. “How does one get good at writing dialogue? Is it something you learn or is it a talent you’re just born with?”
“Maybe both,” Matt says, leaning backward to rest on the trunk of the tree behind him. “Ever since I was little, I was a movie fanatic. I have a bit of an obsessive personality, so when I would find a movie I liked, I would watch it a million times until I was sick of it. Since I’d watch it so many times, I’d wind up memorizing it, and the lines and conversations would just stay with me. Even now I could probably recite an entire scene from a movie that I haven’t watched in over ten years. I always assumed it was a useless skill to have, but apparently, that wasn’t the case. Now, whenever I write, I just hear people talking in my head. It sounds strange, but it works.”
I tuck my hands behind my lower back, cushioning myself from the tree I’m leaning against. “Do you wish you went to film school instead of concentrating on English? Since that’s what you ended up doing?”
Matt gives a noncommittal shrug. “It’s hard to say. Even though I’m sure film school would have been great, I’m glad I got to be exposed to the amount of literature that I was by going for creative writing. I think I always knew that I wasn’t truly good enough to be a real writer, but it was nice to pretend that I could be.”
“I refuse to accept that,” I tell him. “If you keep trying and improving, there’s always a chance, and you still have plenty of time to make it happen.”
“Absolutely,” he says, though it’s obvious he doesn’t believe it. “And as much as I would love to talk about my writing in more detail, we should go. I’m almost positive a large bug was flying warning circles near my ear, and while I’m confident you can subdue it, I think you’ve fought enough battles for one day. Italian insects are wilier than American ones and use way more hand gestures.”
I roll my eyes at his ungraceful change of subject but choose not to mention it as I allow him to take my hand and keep us walking through the lane of trees. A few minutes later we arrive along the side of the villa. We were hoping to go up a stairwell that would lead us back to the main entrance, but find it roped off with a sign saying that a private event is in progress. Turning around, Matt and I are both looking for another exit when we catch the sound of crying coming from the arches above us. Exchanging a look, we stay quiet, neither of us knowing if we should hide or flee.
“How could this have happened?” the same voice cries. “How am I supposed to go out there like this?”
“It looks fine,” another voice says, desperately trying to sound soothing. “It’s not a gaping hole or anything, just a little tear. We can slide a cloth napkin underneath, so the eyes won’t be drawn to it. No one will notice.”
“I can’t put a napkin under my wedding dress, Sylvia! I’ll look like a scarecrow. Carlo’s mom already told me that she thought I looked dowdy.”
Oh, no she did not!
I make a silent face of outrage to Matt as he shakes his head.
“You won’t look like a scarecrow,” Sylvia says. At least, I assume it’s Sylvia. “I promise you, there’s no way anyone will even see it. All they’ll see is how absolutely stunning you look.”
The first voice is back to crying and sniffling. “I can’t believe that I planned this wedding for over a year and there’s a hole in my dress. This is the universe’s way of punishing me for making everyone travel. I know it’s inconvenient, but it was my dream to get married in Capri, and people are supposed to pursue their dreams, aren’t they?”
I can’t hold it in anymore. I burst out from my position under the archway and step several feet out until I can look up at the level above. “Excuse me,” I call. “Excuse me, is something wrong with your dress? Maybe I can fix it.”
Two heads pop over the balcony railing, one of which is wearing a veil that is currently blowing in the breeze.
