The Year of Luminous Love

by Lurlene McDaniel

  Ciana and Eden exchanged guilty glances. Eden said, “Why do you think—”

  Arie interrupted, “You have been acting paranoid ever since we left my party. Don’t tell me otherwise. I watched you throw your cell phone away in Atlanta, and you acted as nervous as a squirrel in a taxidermist shop for most of the flight.”

  Eden shrugged. “Can’t use our old cells over here anyway. No reason to hang on to it.”

  “And the villa has a phone if we need to call anyone. Plus I have calling cards,” Ciana added. In truth, she and Eden had opted out of rental cell phones. Wasn’t their whole purpose to get away from everything? “And I lugged my laptop to send email to make everybody at home sick with envy.”

  Arie ignored Ciana’s devilish grin. “You’re not telling me what the two of you are hiding. I’m in this group, too, you know.”

  Ciana said, “It’s your story, Eden. Tell her.”

  Eden blew out a long-held breath. “I was always going to tell you, Arie, but not until we arrived in Italy.”

  “I believe we’re here.”

  “We are.” Eden took a gulp from her wineglass and launched into her story about her years with Tony, of her naiveté, of his slow but steady takeover of her life, of his obsession with her, of how she’d been ensnared beyond escape. And she told them both of his involvement in drug trafficking, of how he hooked kids at their very own middle and high schools, and of Meghan’s plunge into prostitution and death by overdose. It took a while for her to get it all out. Arie and Ciana sat spellbound and were horrified about Meghan’s death.

  “But he … he never hooked you? With the drugs, I mean.” Fear from concern creased Arie’s brow.

  “He said he’d hurt me if I did drugs. I believed him. For some reason he saw me as this pure, flawless woman. A symbol of some kind. Totally unrealistic. He could defile me, but no one else could.” She shivered. “I was his prisoner, and I couldn’t escape. He had eyes on me all the time.”

  “Why didn’t you say something to somebody?”

  “I was afraid. I knew too much about his drug business.” Eden’s voice grew small. “And I was ashamed of who I’d become.”

  Ciana had known the relationship had been difficult, but hearing details was truly terrifying. Soon all three of them were crying and wiping their tears on napkins from the basket. By the time her story was over, the wine bottle was empty and the napkins were wadded in a soggy heap.

  “I wish you’d told me this back home,” Arie said in a quivery voice.

  “I felt that I couldn’t tell anyone because of the drugs. What if I was sent to jail? Besides, you had enough on your plate,” Eden said. “I only told Ciana what I had to. This trip was my get-out-of-jail free card.”

  Arie picked at a napkin still in her hands. “So this wasn’t all about me, then? You figured out how coming here could be for both of us.”

  Ciana nodded, unable to admit that coming had been about her too. She had planned the trip to flee from the temptation of Jon Mercer, from her desire for him and his for her. She had run from her fear that she might betray Arie if she stayed. And of knowing that even if she’d fled to Nashville and college classes, it wouldn’t have changed anything between them. She would have given in if she found herself alone with him again. She felt weak and pathetic. Coming to Italy was her fail-safe.

  “And the money was from an inheritance?” Arie asked skeptically. “Ciana, I know how your grandmother was. She would have earmarked the money to be used for something other than just a good time. Olivia was practical and Bellmeade was everything to her.”

  Ciana fidgeted, self-conscious under the questioning gazes of her two best friends.

  “You might as well tell us everything,” Eden said. “I told my secrets.”

  Arie asked, “What was the money for?”

  “College.”

  Arie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re spending your college fund? Your education from Vanderbilt?”

  “Highly overrated. I didn’t want to go there anyway. Besides, there’s always MTSU and online college.”

  “Oh, Ciana.” Arie shook her head in disbelief.

  “The deed’s done. We’re here, and we’re going to have a good time. End of story,” Ciana said. “Unless, of course, you have a story or a secret we haven’t heard.”

  Arie had a secret all right, one she wouldn’t share until she must. She raised her glass in an attempt to hide the lie already on her lips. “With me, what you see is what you get. A very grateful girl who’s going to examine every work of art in Italy. Now let’s unload the car and find our bedrooms. And supper? Who’s up for some Italian food?”

  As it happened, none of them made it to supper. Each chose a bedroom and unpacked, and when Eden went to see what was keeping Ciana and Arie from joining her, she found them both sound asleep on their respective beds. Eden didn’t have the heart to roust either. She was still wound up, so she ate more food from the basket and relived her escape, shuddering to think about what might have happened back home when Tony discovered she had fled. The only people who knew their exact destination were Arie’s parents.

  Over time, Eden had watched Tony turn cold and indifferent as his drug business grew. No mercy. The code of the streets. He had told her, “If you let down your guard, there’s a line of dealers waiting to pick off your spot.” She had been his only soft spot, but she couldn’t have counted on that forever. According to Gwen, Tony would tire of Eden and she, too, would be disposable. Eden had no idea how Gwen was so confident of this, but every one of her warnings had come true.

  Luxuriating in her solitude, she went into her private bathroom, drew herself a fragrant bubble bath, and soaked. She toweled off and snuggled naked under the heavy bedcovers, feeling safe and secure in the knowledge that she was half a world away from Tennessee and that Tony Cicero would not come to her in the dark.

  The scent of coffee lured Eden downstairs and onto the patio, where Ciana sat with a carafe of coffee and an assortment of cookies. Brochures were fanned out on the glass tabletop.

  Groggily, Eden reached for the carafe, but Ciana reached it first and poured a cup for her. “Let me before you hurt yourself.”

  “You the only one up?”

  “So far.”

  “How long?”

  “Since five.”

  Eden rolled her eyes. “Oh, you farm girls. This is vacation.” She sipped the coffee, which was so rich she could have chewed it.

  “Old habit. Remember I was up feeding horses and chickens before going off to school every day. You didn’t wake up until second period.”

  Eden glanced around at clay pots and urns full of brilliant red geraniums and climbing bougainvillea. The hills looked rugged, and on one hill a town nestled, surrounded by a stone wall. “Cortona?”

  “Yep. Hope you’re rested. Arie’s making plans for day trips.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Arie stepped through the open patio doors.

  “Ciana says you’re the tour guide.”

  Arie grinned. “Guilty. And today is the city on the hill.” She gestured toward Cortona.

  “Let’s get started,” Eden said.

  They drove a few miles to the ancient city while Arie provided historical tidbits. They parked outside the walls because no motor vehicles were allowed on the old stone and brick roads inside the wall. They walked into a place that seemed to have been untouched for centuries. “Whoa,” Eden said. “Did we fall through the looking glass?”

  “I feel like I’m in the Middle Ages,” Ciana said.

  “You are,” Arie said. “Older, really. Goes back to the Etruscans—the first settlers.”

  “Enough with the history lesson,” Eden said. “Let’s just find a grocery store.”

  The main street through the stone arch entrance turned out to be the only flat street in the town. A fountain stood in the town square, the heart of any town according to Arie. Shops surrounded the cobblestone square, and on one side was an old theater. Side stre
ets jutted off, all with stacks of worn stone steps that led upward through neighborhoods of stone and concrete buildings consisting of homes, small eateries, and shops. Pretty window boxes filled with flowers hung from windows and interior courtyard gardens could be seen through wrought-iron gates.

  They found a store, bought supplies, and started back toward the main street. Once there, Eden spied a coffee bar with picturesque café tables. The aroma drifting from the shop was heavenly. “Sit,” she told her friends.

  Inside, the tiny store held a bar with an amazing gleaming copper coffee machine. Behind the bar stood a grinning young man with an outrageous crop of blond curls, tan skin, and electric blue eyes. He asked a question in Italian. She looked blank. He laughed and repeated his question in English. “G’day. Help you, miss?”

  “You’re Italian?” Eden blurted, shocked by the unexpected non-Italian accent.

  “Aussie. From down under. Name’s Garret Locklin. You’re American, right? From across the pond?”

  “Yes.” Until he had asked the question, it hadn’t occurred to Eden that she was a foreigner too. “Um … three coffees.”

  “Sit with your mates. I’ll bring your espressos. I make the best in all of Cortona.”

  She ignored his boast and returned to the outside table where her friends had settled. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  Garret soon brought out their coffees and Eden introduced her friends. He asked, “Staying nearby?”

  “A villa a few miles out.”

  “Just clicks away,” he said.

  “Clicks?” Ciana asked.

  “Kilometers. We say click in Sydney. You new here?”

  “Does it show?”

  Garret’s easy smile lit up his face. “Most locals greet you with buon giorno, ‘good morning.’ When they depart, they say ciao, which also means ‘hello’—economy of words. Grazie is ‘thanks.’ Manage those phrases and you’ll never be identified as a newbie.”

  Eden realized that she’d been so focused on making an escape that she hadn’t really been aware of much else. She was woefully ignorant of all things Italian.

  “Are the stores closing?” Ciana asked, pitching forward, watching women locking up shops along the street. “I’m not finished looking.”

  Arie shook her head. “People go home for lunch. They eat, rest, play with their families. I told you all that on the plane trip. Weren’t you two listening?”

  Eden drew a blank. She had barely heard Arie’s discourse about Italy on the long plane ride.

  Garret bent over the table and in a conspiratorial voice said, “Yes, but everything reopens about four. Come back about five and have antipasto and meet my mates. We all eat dinner about nine, then come back to the square for whatever’s happening.”

  “We?” Eden asked.

  “There’s a group of us. We work here and play when the work’s done.” His mischievous gaze flirted with Eden’s. “If you come, I promise you’ll have a good time.”

  Eden rolled her eyes at his less-than-subtle innuendo. “Puh-leze.”

  “Won’t know unless you join us.” He bounded back into the bar, where he shut and locked the door before she could react.

  “I think the Aussie has plans for you,” Ciana teased.

  “He’s cute,” Arie added.

  “Not interested. And he talks too fast. I can hardly understand him.”

  “I’m sure he has other ways of communicating,” Arie offered in a sweet singsong voice.

  Eden growled at her.

  Ciana stood. “Let’s get the food home and have some lunch. I’m starving.”

  Arie yawned, stretched, and stood. “I love Italy. We need to soak up the culture.”

  “I need to spend the afternoon with an Italian dictionary,” Eden groused. “And you”—she pointed at Arie—“are going to tell me everything you know about this country all over again. I won’t be upstaged by some hairy, smart-aleck Aussie.”

  Eden returned to the square with her friends around five o’clock, going over Italian vocabulary words in her mind. True to his word, Garret was waiting along with a small group of twentysomethings. “The American sheilas,” he said. He pointed to individuals in his group and rattled off names. “Tom, my best mate from Sydney, his girl, Lorna.”

  And after that Eden sort of lost track because the names were strange to her. She was amazed by the variety of countries they represented—South Africa, Denmark, France, Ireland. “Are you on a tour?” she asked.

  “A walkabout,” Garret said.

  Ciana shrugged, saving Eden the trouble.

  “A long trip,” the girl from Denmark offered.

  Garret added, “Tom and Lorna and I took off five months ago. Met several of these blokes in Cape Town, South Africa. We traveled up the east coast of Africa, took a ship from Morocco, and hopped over to Gibraltar, worked our way over to Italy and decided to spend summer and fall here in Tuscany. Good wine, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows and his friends laughed.

  “Five months?” Eden said. “Where do you stay?”

  “Here we have apartments, but when we travel, we stay in youth hostels. Places are cheap. We get a night’s sleep and sometimes a meal.”

  The girl from Denmark said, “Communal bathrooms inside if we’re lucky. Otherwise outside. Not always hot water, though.” She shivered and hugged her arms to illustrate her point.

  Eden was intrigued. “All of you? Together?”

  “Sure,” Garret said. “All for one and one for all. Cozy. Safety in numbers. We sort of agree on a travel course. Some peel off, others join up. You meet a lot of people, travel the world, have a lot of fun, make mates for life.”

  “And you work along the way?”

  “When we need the money. Which is often.”

  Everyone laughed at that.

  “Can we talk over wine and olives?” the guy from France asked. “Come with us. Tell us about your travels.”

  Eden hated to admit that this was her first real trip.

  Arie said, “We live near Nashville, in Tennessee,” then launched into an account of the state.

  As the group trudged up the street and the stacks of stone steps, Garret fell in with Eden, whose head was buzzing with questions. “How do you land jobs in different countries?”

  “It helps to speak two or three languages. English is preferred for shop work. I man the coffee shop, Tom’s working as a bellman in the only hotel in town with a few of the others, and Lorna’s selling tours for a Cortona travel business.”

  “And then you quit and move on?”

  “That’s right. Going to France next. Jacques says we can crash at his family farm.”

  “How do you travel?”

  “Trains, mostly. And we walk.”

  Eden was astounded. Who just took off months at a time to travel? Maybe retired people with money, but kids in their twenties? “When do you plan to go home?”

  “When I feel like it. Look, my mum and dad are good people, but I look at them, working hard to pay for a mortgage and cars and furniture. They take one vacation a year.” A grin split his face. “Not for me. Not yet. World’s a big place and I want to see all of it before I settle in.” He spread his arms. “I keep a journal. Take photos. Try to sell an article to a magazine now and then.”

  “You dream big.”

  “I do! But I also act on my dreams. And that makes a difference. Dream or act. Safety, like my folks, or adventure. No contest for Garret Locklin. None at all.”

  “Hey, look. Here’s a brochure for a winery that’s not too far away. We can take a tour, then do a tasting.” Ciana brandished her find in the air while having breakfast on the patio.

  “That should be fun,” Eden said over her mug of steaming coffee.

  “Most people in my family drink beer, so I have the palate of a gerbil,” Arie offered.

  Eden snickered. “My one benefit of hanging with Tony was drinking good wine. He loved the stuff, so he only drank the best, although he preferr
ed French wines. I think we should give Italian wines equal opportunity.”

  After lunch and while Cortona rested, Ciana drove the three of them up into the hills on a serpentine road to the Bertinalli Vineyards, a long-established vineyard fronted by long-abandoned stone watchtowers that stood like silent sentries. Beyond the walls lay fields of well-tended grapevines, heavy with leaves and clusters of hanging grapes ready for harvest.

  After parking, they gathered with a group of tourists signed up for a tour of the winery on a tiled loggia. Conducted by a young woman, the tour led them into large stone buildings heady with the scents of wine tinged with fruit and chocolate. Ciana saw stacks and rows of oak barrels—harvests from years before, awaiting their time of perfect maturity.

  Drawn to the outdoor sunlight, she slipped out the door and headed for the verdant fields. She tucked herself between the rows, away from the buildings, and leaned over the grapes, closing her eyes and sniffing the velvety clusters, swollen and heavy with juice. She crouched, dug her fingers into the soil, and examined it closely. She held a fistful in her palm, balancing the weight.

  She was lost in the process when a man’s voice said, “Signorina! Cosa stai facendo?”

  Startled and with heart pounding, Ciana leaped to her feet. She thrust her hands behind her back like a child caught stealing cookies. “Oh! I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “English?” he asked.

  “Si … I mean, yes. American.”

  The man was ruggedly handsome, with black hair and dark brown eyes, but he looked angry. “Do you know it is a crime to steal vine cuttings from Italian vineyards?” he said in excellent but accented English.

  “But I’m not stealing anything. Honest.” She was petrified. What had she been thinking?

  “And behind your back? What are you hiding from me, signorina?”

  Guiltily she brought her hand around and opened her fist to show him. “Dirt,” she confessed. “I … I was studying your dirt.”

  He looked incredulous.

  She hurtled ahead with her explanation with one long rambling sentence. “I’m a farmer from Tennessee, really … your crop is amazing and I was looking at the soil … you know, what it’s made of … and what makes the grapes so wonderful … I’m on a winery tour, actually, but the fields are so beautiful I came over to study them and the soil and … and …”