One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020

by Lori Nelson Spielman

  I lower my gaze, but Gabriele lifts my chin with his finger. “Please tell me you believe this.”

  I look into his eyes. “I believe this,” I say.

  And I realize how very good I’ve become at making believe I don’t believe.

  Chapter 31

  Emilia

  Day Six

  Trespiano

  Saturday morning, we gather around the old wooden table, feasting on a breakfast of hard rolls and cheeses, fresh prosciutto and melon. Gabriele claps his hands. “Today we will tour the countryside. Everybody in?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I’ve got the kids,” Sofia says. She looks at Lucy. “But you have fun.”

  “I’ll stay back with you guys,” Lucy says.

  She’s choosing not to go with Gabe? Again? She’s definitely up to something.

  “How about you, Poppy?” Gabriele asks.

  She coughs and shakes her head. “I have much to do here, preparing for Ravello.”

  A ripple of fear passes through me. The woman who never says no is begging off today. She’s ill—seriously ill. I should insist she go to the doctor, but for what? My aunt has a terminal illness. There is no pill that will cure it.

  I bend down and kiss her cheek. “I’ll stay with you.”

  “You most certainly will not!”

  “Then promise you’ll rest today. And eat some fruit. Don’t forget to wear your sweater.”

  She waves me off. “Don’t worry about me. I’m saving my energy for Ravello.”

  It dawns on me as I follow Gabe around the front of the house, he and I will be alone. All day.

  “We can cancel the tour,” I say, offering him an escape clause and praying he won’t take it.

  “And break my heart?” He holds out his hand. “Come.” He leads me into an old stone garage. “With just the two of us, we can take the Vespas. It is best to see the countryside on two wheels.”

  I freeze.

  “Go on,” he says, gesturing to a pretty aqua Vespa. “Sit.”

  My temples throb. I creep toward the motorbike as if it’s a caged beast. I will not ruin this day. I place my shoe on the footrest. Immediately, my body tenses.

  “You do not like this one?”

  “No. It’s beautiful.” I back away from the bike and take a deep breath. “But I don’t drive. Not anymore.”

  He tips his head and studies me. I turn away, feeling silly and cowardly and utterly petrified. Finally, he holds out his hand and leads me over to a shiny black Ducati. “Then you will be my passenger.” He pats the seat. “Hop aboard.”

  He smiles as he fastens my helmet, then settles himself in front of me. My thighs press against his; my arms clutch his waist. He turns his head.

  “You have ridden on the back of a motorcycle in the US, yes?”

  A surge of terror and excitement shimmies up my spine. “No. Never.”

  He tips his head and laughs. God, even his nostrils are sexy. “Buonissimo! I am honored to give you your first ride. I promise, it will be thrilling. You will be hooked for life.”

  Thrilling doesn’t adequately describe my day with Gabe. I try to sketch each moment into my memory, so that one day I can call upon this myriad of emotions when I’m writing a beautiful scene about a pair of young lovers.

  He handles the motorcycle with great skill, but still it unnerves me every time we come to a hairpin curve, or when he overtakes a rumbling motor coach a mile long. Every now and then he leans back and calls to me. “Everything okay back there?” Or, “How is my girl holding up?”

  I can’t keep the smile from my face. We pass groves of olive trees, fields of lavender. The wind grazes my skin, and I’ve never felt so alive, so free.

  We stop for lunch at a hilltop vineyard. Gabe parks the bike beneath a tree and helps me off. From the stone building beyond the house, a giant man appears. His long black hair is snarled and he walks with a limp.

  “Gabriele!” he calls.

  “Giuseppe Natoli!” Gabe rushes to greet him and pulls the big guy into a hug. “Meet my beautiful friend Emilia. She is here from New York.”

  Giuseppe takes my hand and kisses it. “Benvenuta a casa mia. Welcome to my home.”

  Giuseppe leads us to an intimate patio overlooking terraced hills of twisted grapevines. Soft music plays in the background. A single table sits in the middle of the stone patio, topped with a red linen cloth and a vase of sunflowers. It is set for two. Gabe pulls the chair out for me.

  “Just as you had hoped?” Giuseppe asks.

  “Perfetto,” Gabe tells him.

  I freeze. Gabe arranged this … for me?

  He squeezes my shoulder as he moves to his chair, and my entire body tingles.

  He’s right, I think to myself. This is perfection.

  “Wine is a family tradition here in Tuscany,” he tells me over lunch. “This vineyard has been in the Natoli family for four generations. We are drinking their Chianti Classico.”

  “It’s delicious,” I say, embarrassed by my unsophisticated descriptor.

  With his thumb, he swipes a drop of wine from my lip, then places it in his mouth. “Sì. Delizioso.”

  Another flutter lets loose in me.

  After lunch, we continue our trek through the countryside, stopping every now and then to explore a neighboring village or visit another of his friends’ vineyards. Always, Gabe is welcomed like family.

  The sky is tinged with violet when the motorcycle makes its way toward home. I knew the day would end, but still, my spirits dip. Eventually the country fields become dotted with houses, and the horizon reveals the outline of buildings; I’m puzzled when Gabe slows the bike on the outskirts of Florence and finds a parking spot on the street. He pulls off his helmet.

  “No reason to stop when we are having such fun, do you agree?”

  “One hundred percent!”

  He takes my hand, and together we stroll through streets narrow as bike paths, lined with boutique shops and shoe stores, gelato counters and restaurants. Smells of roast lamb and garlic spill onto the streets, softly lit by streetlights. We stop at a leather shop and I splurge on a pair of gloves for Daria. The beautiful woman behind the counter eyes Gabe as she rings up my purchase. A surge of pride wells in me. Is this really me, Emilia Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli? Yes, I think it is.

  It’s dark when we finish our dinner, a feast prepared by Gabe’s friend Claudio, in a tiny restaurant hidden in the basement of an old art gallery. The evening air is cooler when we step outside, and Gabe drapes an arm around my shoulders. We wander through Piazza della Signoria, just as my beautiful aunt and her yellow-haired love once did. A throng of teenagers laugh and chatter as they dart past us. Perfectly coiffed old women, dressed in dark coats and flat shoes, promenade arm in arm, the evening ritual of lifelong friends, I suspect.

  We stop in front of the statue of David. I study the naked shepherd boy as he must have appeared when sizing up his opponent, the giant Goliath. His face is stamped with determination, his body exquisite. The genius is staggering. I choke up unexpectedly, awed by the talent of Michelangelo, my fellow human.

  “This is a replica,” Gabe tells me, taking hold of my hand. “For protection, the real statue was moved to the Accademia Gallery in 1873. I will take you tomorrow if you’d like to see it.”

  I shake my head. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

  “Ah. Yes. We will save it for your next visit.” He squeezes my hand. A bubble of joy rises, so immense it threatens to lift me off my feet.

  We move on. Young people hustle past, speaking languages I don’t know. Their gazes seem to linger on us, as if we—Gabe and I—project some sort of energy.

  A voice in the distance catches my attention. A note here. A chord there. Gabe hears it, too. Without a word, we quicken our pace, the melancholy drawl of a violin luring us nearer. Ahead, people have gathered in front of the Loggia dei Lanzi, a covered open-air space on the piazza filled with statues and marble inscriptio
ns. Gabe pulls me through the crowd. Beneath one of three wide arches, a young man in a T-shirt and jeans glides his bow across his violin strings.

  “Rico,” I whisper and put a hand to my lips.

  Beside him, a pretty redhead waits with her eyes closed, swaying to the music. Finally, she opens her mouth, and an angel’s voice rings out, gilding every note from Schubert’s opus.

  Ave Maria.

  Chills blanket me. The entire square seems to still. People draw near, silently making their way to the sound of magic. The woman’s voice reverberates on the tile flooring. A bird passes overhead, making its way into the night, its wings beating in time with the music. In the background, even the statues seem to listen, statues created hundreds of years ago by then little-known sculptors.

  “Ave Maria,” she sings. “Gratia plena.”

  My eyes well. Gabe pulls me to his chest, where I fit perfectly. He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my head.

  “Ave, Ave, Dominus.”

  Her voice is heartbreaking and haunting. The song reaches a crescendo. Tears spill down my cheeks. She hits her last note. The music fades. For a moment, the entire square falls silent. Then, it erupts in applause.

  “Brava!” I cry through a haze of tears. “Brava!”

  I turn to Gabe. He’s cheering, too, his face wet with tears. He wraps me in his arms, but neither of us speak. We don’t need to. As my wise aunt once said, there are no words when one has witnessed magic.

  It’s midnight. The bike’s engine quiets, giving rise to the din of night—a dog howling in the distance, the chirping of cicadas. Gabe leads me up the walk, his hand in mine. The house creaks its welcome when we step inside. An amber light shadows the kitchen. Without a word, we make our way toward the staircase.

  My chest fills with a dozen clamoring hummingbirds. Together, we climb the stairs. Do I assume I’m going to his room? We’re almost to the landing. Or should I continue up the stairs to my room in the attic?

  We reach the landing and Gabe stops. He turns to me. I can’t breathe. In the darkness, his eyes seem to question mine. He finds a stray lock of my hair and spirals a curl around his finger. My heart thunders. His hand slips behind my neck. He pulls me toward him, his breath grazing my cheek. His mouth inches toward mine. I’m in agony until, finally, our lips meet.

  My head swims and my mouth fills with the sweet taste of port wine. A ripple goes through me. I step back.

  “I’m a little out of practice,” I say, and give a little chortle.

  “It is okay, Emilia.” He pulls me against him, but I put a hand on his chest.

  “Seriously. It’s been, like, eleven years.”

  “That is fine.”

  “I’ve only been with one—”

  He silences me with his finger. “We can discuss this later, sì?”

  Finally I know what the fuss is about. All my life, I thought sex was overrated. My brief dalliance with Liam was nice—really nice. But being with Gabriele is magical. I pray one day Lucy finds this.

  I lie in the crook of Gabe’s arm, the pad of his thumb absently grazing my arm. He kisses the top of my head. My throat squeezes shut. I never knew … I never let myself realize … how deeply I was missing the sound of a heartbeat next to mine.

  “You are a woman of great passion, Emilia. I only wonder how you could survive eleven years without love in your life. Your heart is so full it is spilling over.”

  I swallow hard. Later this morning, I will leave this beautiful Tuscan innkeeper. Poppy, Lucy, and I will be on the Amalfi Coast by nightfall. Gabe and I live on different continents. It’s likely I’ll never see him again. I knew this when I opened my heart. But already I am homesick for him.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I whisper, smoothing the hair on his belly.

  “I will miss you, too, my flame.” He pulls me closer. “You see, most people create a spark. Sparks are fine. But you, my love, are a flame.” He raises himself onto an elbow, so that he’s looking down at me. “You lit a fire in me, Emilia. And I shall never, ever forget you.”

  I smile in the darkness. Aunt Poppy promised she’d break the curse. I never should have doubted her.

  We make love again, this time more slowly, more thoughtfully. I allow myself to explore his body and welcome his touch, which rocks my entire soul. When we finish, Gabriele collapses against the pillow and closes his eyes. His breathing slows.

  I wait. What am I supposed to do now? I’ve just had the best sex of my life and I’m wound tighter than a Timex. I feel like I’m at a sleepover, and I’m the only one who wants to party.

  “Gabriele,” I whisper in the dark.

  “Hmm.”

  “Did you enjoy that?”

  His hand falls limply on my arm. “Sì. Very much.”

  A smile takes hold of my face and won’t let go. “Should I go back to my room now?” I whisper, half out of courtesy, half to hear him beg me to stay.

  “Sì,” he says. “I will see you in the morning, carissima.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Seconds later, deep, contented inhalations come from his slack mouth, ebbing and flowing like ocean tides. Soon, the sun will appear. I pad barefoot across the wooden floor. Gabe is right. There are children here, after all.

  His bedroom door creaks when I open it. Just before stepping out, I peer back into the dusky room that still smells of us.

  “Grazie, Gabriele,” I whisper. I turn, leaving his bedroom door ajar on the off chance he’ll call me back to his arms.

  Lucy stirs when I cross the floor. Very slowly, I slide into my bed, trying not to wake her. My head reaches the pillow. From the opposite bed, Lucy’s hand rises. She gropes the bedside table until she finds the clock.

  “It’s two in the morning. Shouldn’t you have a tongue in your ear about now?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, Luce. I will never forget this day. Gabe is incredible.”

  She groans and rolls over. “Then why the hell didn’t you dock the boat?”

  “Dock what boat?”

  “You should have finished the job, Em. Gabe’s a guy. Guys expect that.”

  I could confess that I’ve just had the best sex of my life … twice in one night. She’d probably be impressed. But I don’t. That’s my secret, and Gabe’s.

  “Good night, Luce.”

  It’s still dark when I wake again. I glance at the bedside clock: 4:13. Thoughts of last night send a rush of heat through my body. I close my eyes and grin. I did it. I fell in love. Or as close to love as I’ve ever come. Pride and excitement and the purest of joys rise in me.

  When will Gabe and I see each other again? Christmas is just two months away. I’ll invite him to New York. My chest flutters with anticipation. I feel like an Italian Jennifer Aniston. I’ll decorate Emville and make all my favorite holiday treats. I’ll get a real Christmas tree this year. We’ll pick it out together. Dad will love Gabe. Nonna … she’ll tolerate him. But Daria will be thrilled. Lucy and Mimi will be free!

  I shake my head. I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to put on the brakes. But Poppy’s right—it’s possible. The curse—the one I actually, foolishly embraced—is lifting, just as she promised.

  I roll onto my side. Do I dare wake Lucy? I want to tell her everything. She was right. I was checked out. I never gave love a fair shot.

  In the darkness, I try to make out her figure.

  “Luce?”

  Her bed looks flat. And the room is strangely quiet. She’s not snoring tonight. I prop myself onto an elbow, my eyes slowly adjusting to the silvery moonlight.

  “Lucy?” I say, louder this time.

  I pull back the covers and grab my glasses. My heart speeds. I rise and flip on the bedside lamp.

  Lucy’s bed is empty.

  My gut turns inside out. No. No. She would never do that. I rub my temples and spin in a circle. She must be in the bathroom. Or maybe she’s downstairs already.

  But the bathroom light is off. My cousin does
not rise at four in the morning.

  My stomach churns. I’m going to be sick.

  I let myself out of the room. Quietly, I tiptoe down the steps. Never have I more desperately wanted to believe my instincts are wrong. Please be open! I reach the end of the hall.

  The door to Gabe’s bedroom, the one I purposely left open, is closed.

  Chapter 32

  Emilia

  Day Seven

  Trespiano

  I yank my suitcase from the closet and pitch it onto the bed. I will not cry. I throw open the dresser drawer and heave my clothes into the suitcase. I need to get out of here. I cannot bear to see Gabe. How will I ever forgive Lucy? We’ve got forty-eight more hours of this damn trip. The forty-eight most crucial hours.

  My hand hits something hard buried beneath my leggings. I lift my notebook from the drawer. I haven’t written in two days. I hold it to my chest like my neglected best friend. Then I reach for my pen.

  I shove the suitcase aside, making space for myself on the bed. Propped against the headboard, I write fast and furiously. Words flow with greater clarity, deeper emotion, more honesty than I’ve ever dared put on paper. I fill one page. Then another. By the time Lucy steps through the doorway two hours later, I’ve written three chapters of a new book. This time, it’s not a happily-ever-after romance.

  Lucy’s hair is a tangled mess—sexy bedhead, to be exact. She’s wearing her pajamas—cotton shorts that come up to her ass and a tank top that’s so tight it may as well be stamped on.

  “Em?” she says and takes a step back. She smiles, but not before a flash of guilt strikes. “You’re up early.” The girl who barely speaks before noon is cheerful today. “And you’ve already started packing.” She gestures to the suitcase. “Could you be any more organized?” She plops down on her bed and looks around. “I don’t want to leave this place.”