Italian Summer (Mina's Adventures Book 3)
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THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Grazie for reading Italian Summer!
I wrote Italian Summer, the third book in the Mina’s series, while in Italy. It’s true. I had another book under contract (Lella York’s series) and since both stories shared the same location I thought this was the perfect time for me to go back to my little town tucked away in the Alps and see people and places with clean eyes. So I did. It was as seeing everything for the first time because instead of limiting my time to visits with old friends and family, I had to go out there, walk the streets, visit the cemetery, sit and sip Italian aperitif, go to the Friday market. All things I had not really done in about twenty years. And I cried a lot. I think it was worth it, it’s sort of my way of paying homage to my past.
If you have questions or suggestions, I welcome the feedback. That’s the best way for an author to grow. So, do share your thoughts, good or bad, they are welcome. You can write to me at maria@mariagraziaswan.com
If you’re the type of reader who doesn’t like to get too close and personal, would you consider writing a review of Italian Summer? More and more authors are dependent on readers like you to keep our writing life relevant. Thanks again for taking the time to read and review my book, here is a link: http://mybook.to/ItalianSummer
Mille grazie
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LOVE THY SISTER
is the first book of the Mina’s Adventures series:
In Love Thy Sister Italian-born Mina Calvi lives in a mansion in idyllic Orange County, California with her protective older sister, Paola. Unemployed again and aimless, Mina can’t seem to find her niche in her adopted country, but confusion and restlessness soon become the least of her problems. Someone is stealing from the software business owned by Paola and her husband, losses so great the business is sinking like the Titanic. And the strange death of a company employee turns out to be murder. Then, while facing a loss so terrible she can’t bear it, Mina discovers an old family secret that turns her world upside down. There’s some solace in the arms of her blue-eyed lover, amateur sleuth Brian Starr, but danger still stalks her at every turn, edging closer and closer as Mina tries to untangle the web of lies, adultery and treachery, and put her life back together.
Bosom Bodies
is the second book of the Mina’s Adventures series:
Italian-born Mina Calvi has a way of finding trouble, but when she offers to help a friend by moonlighting at Bosom Bodies restaurant, it’s trouble that finds her. The body of the restaurant manager is discovered on the beach, a hit and run victim, and Mina’s VW Bug is impounded as the vehicle used in the crime. Stunned beyond belief, Mina is suddenly up to her ears in assault, betrayal, smuggling and murder. Now the police are watching her. The mob is targeting her. And who comes riding to her rescue on a metal steed—none other than the cook at Bosom Bodies, the mysterious Diego. Is he more than a bad cook and a good lover? Is he protecting her, or setting her up? Scared, clueless and on her own, Mina struggles to reclaim her life and stay two steps ahead of the those stalking her, but it’s a treacherous path and she’s losing ground fast.
ASHES OF AUTUMN
is the fourth book of the Mina’s Adventures series.
On the eve of the final sale of her mother’s business, Italian import Mina Calvi faces a crossroads. The road she dreams of foretells a life of rosy bliss in a quaint Laguna Canyon cottage, sipping cappuccino with her lover, Diego. When a chance detour brings her face to face with the love of her life caught in the wrong place, with the wrong crowd, that road to paradise takes a turn onto a rocky trail dotted by death, betrayal and loneliness. Mina’s friends, old and newly found, rally to keep her safe while she navigates through intense drama and self doubt to finally find redemption.
Ashes of Autumn is possibly the most poignant sequence of Mina and Diego’s intensely obsessive love story.
MURDER under the ITALIAN MOON
is the first book of Maria Grazia Swan’s Lella York mystery series.
I tend to do my crying in the car.
On this starless, moonless night, without a car or a Beatles song to cry to, I spent my last night in Florence, Italy, as anonymous as any other tourist.
An outsider in my motherland.
I stamped my feet on the old bridge, trying to keep warm. Memories of Nick and our last time in Italy filled my head and pained my heart.
The glow of a candle caught my attention. On impulse, I crossed Ponte Vecchio and walked toward the man sitting by the candle, the heels of my boots clicking against the quarry slabs. The stranger didn't move. He stared at the worn book that lay in front of him on a table covered in red velvet.
Around us, Florence’s underground nighttime economy thrived. Peddlers displayed their wares and called out to the tourists on the walkway. Most of the sellers were African and donned colorful native cottons. The smart ones wore overcoats.
The candle flickered in the wind and cast leaping shadows on the man’s bony face. Thick lashes framed his eyes and a deep furrow crossed his forehead. I stood, intrigued yet hesitant. Cold sneaked down the back of my neck and spine. I pulled the collar of my mohair coat up to my chin. The fuzzy wool chafed my skin.
“What are you selling?” I asked in Italian.
He focused his dark eyes on me. Their intensity reminded me of my friend Ruby’s eyes.
“I am an astrologer.” He returned his attention to his book.
“You are?” I felt silly, not sure why. “Quanto costa?”
“Ten euros.” About $15. A pittance.
“Va bene.”
He pointed to a stool. I sat, then rested the plastic bag that contained a gift for Ruby against the leg of the table. I pressed down two bills beside his candle.
The astrologer held a pencil over a square sheet of white paper.
“When were you born and where?” He spoke Italian with an unusual accent.
“Where are you from?”
He frowned at my question.
I squirmed on the edge of the stool so much my foot kicked the bag. It fell over, and a corner of the turquoise silk shirt peeked out.
“Madrid.” He doodled, waiting for my information.
Something didn’t feel right. I fought the urge to get up and leave. “December twenty-ninth, 1952,” I said.
“Where?”
“L.A. I mean, Los Angeles, California.”
“Los Ángeles.” He repeated the name as if it were a prayer.
The paper showed a circle divided into segments, like a wagon wheel. He scribbled in one of the sections. My previous charts had been done by computers. I almost wished he had my birthdate. The one I’d given him was Ruby’s.
Tanned fingers held the pencil the way an artist held a brush. He scrawled numbers, consulted his book and transcribed his findings on the wagon wheel.
He sat back, his thin lips stretched in a smile. “You are a Capricorn with Gemini moon, Mercury in Sagittarius. Fascinating.”
That smile. I shivered.
“Happy childhood.” His eyes searched my face. “I see… a sibling. A sister, perhaps?”
Ruby was an only child. “No, I’m afraid not, no sister or brother.”
Did he sense the triumph in my voice, my wanting to prove him wrong? With his fingertips on the table, he leaned back so his face was outside the circle of light. Then he leaned forward again to study the paper.
The gold stud in his right earlobe reflected the gleam of the candle.
How old was he? I couldn’t tell.
“Close bond with your mother. Only child, you say. Still… she could have lost a child…”
“You mean a miscarriage?”
“More like a stillbirth, an abortion, lots of anger, pain…”
By now I regretted my lie. I was tempted to tell him to keep the money and forget the whole thing,
but my lips refused to form the words. His voice seemed muffled. I felt disoriented, the way I would after an unexpected kiss.
“Twenty-two degrees Venus conjunct Mars. Very active love life.” He sounded amused.
Was he reading my mind?
“At a young age, fifteen, maybe sixteen… am I correct?”
I remembered Ruby’s smoky voice: “Hell, I gave it away before my sophomore year.”
And my reply: “Ruby, at that age I hadn’t even been kissed.”
“I would say that’s your problem,” she’d said.
I agreed. We laughed and toasted good sex and bad men.
“Correct?” The astrologer urged me on.
“Yes, you’re right.” I pulled my collar a little higher. I felt more bewildered than cold, but didn’t want him to know. “Can you tell all that from a birthdate?”
In the background, someone played a guitar. A violin joined in.
“You are a very creative individual. You could be an artist, an architect?” He paused. “A dress designer?”
Ruby had been a fashion editor before her accident. “You’re good.”
He didn’t seem to be listening. He grasped the edge of the table with such force the velvet cover slid toward him. The candle tilted. Strands of gray hair peeked out amid the black at his temples.
“Pluto opposing Mars. Venus conjunction.” He shoved his chair back. His hand hit the chart. The paper became airborne then landed in front of me. Craning his neck, he stood, almost hovering over me, anger distorting his features.
“Vattene. Go away.”
“What?”
He pointed to the bills on the table. “Take your money and go. Now.”
I jumped to my feet, knocking over the stool. I turned to walk away. His hand grabbed my shoulder.
“Take your money. Take this chart. The chart of a dead woman.” He let go of me as if the touch had scorched his fingers.
Angry tears threatened my eyes. I clutched the paper and money against my chest and ran. I ran to the end of the bridge, ignoring the vendors and bystanders. I ran until Ponte Vecchio became a series of blurry lights and dark store windows. A bicycle grazed me; the rider swore.
I leaned against the cold stones of an ancient palace and caught my breath. Unbelievable. I looked at the crumpled paper and the ten euros. Well, Ruby Russell, you got yourself a free chart.
The chart of a dead woman.
I put the money in the inside pocket of my coat. I’d left Ruby’s gift under the astrologer’s table. Too bad. Nothing could make me go back there. I’d get her something else tomorrow, but it was my last night here. My last night in Italy. I quivered from the inside out. I wouldn’t let a lunatic intimidate me.
I marched back to the bridge.
Ponte Vecchio now looked deserted. The few remaining vendors were packing their merchandise. Where was that man?
I reached the center of the bridge. No table, no candle and no astrologer. I looked in all directions, searching for the stranger with Ruby’s eyes.
Nothing.
When I asked one of the peddlers, he shook his head and offered me some knock-off designer sunglasses at a bargain price. Next to him a tall, thin man proudly showed off row after row of Rolexes.
“L’astrologo, era li.” Even after over twenty-five years in the States, my Italian was still good. Plus, I underscored my words with my hands, local style, something that always made Nick smile. “You must have noticed him. He had a candle on the table…”
I didn’t like the way they stared at me. “No,” one after another they told me. They had been selling on the bridge for years, and none knew of any astrologer. Ever.
I touched the crisp paper in my coat pocket. Okay, that was real. I hadn’t imagined the strange astrologer.
I headed back to the hotel with Ruby’s chart.
Exclusive boutiques lined Borgo San Jacobo. The street, with its row of brightly lit windows, gave me comfort, and I welcomed the sight of Hotel Lungarno’s marquee. All I wanted now was to get out of my clothes, take a long, hot shower and forget the disturbing confrontation.
The crystalline sound of the bell brought Primo, the bellman, to the front desk before the door swished closed behind me.
“Signora York. I had hoped to be able to say goodbye.”
More likely he hoped to make sure he collected his tip. No, that wasn’t it. Primo was a dear man, not very smart, but nice. The management kept the bright ones for the day shift. Primo was always willing to help, even when no help was needed. He gave me a big smile, showing his chipped front tooth. A souvenir, he’d told me, from his brief, but glorious boxing career—at least according to him. I had my doubts. Short and skinny, he wasn’t built like a boxer.
“There was a telephone call for you.”
“A phone call?” Oh, no. I wasn’t expecting a phone call. The announcement set my paranoia in motion, and with good reason. The last time I received an unexpected call while out of the States, my life as I knew it ended. Who would call me on my last night away? It had to be an emergency. What else? My American cell phone didn’t work in Europe, so I always gave out the hotel front-desk line for emergencies.
Primo may have sensed my concern, because he attempted to give me his translation of the caller’s conversation. It seemed to involve chocolate? Surely not.
“The name, what was the name of the caller?” I pressed.
“Well…” He scratched his nose. I could see he was trying hard to remember. “Well, it was a signora.”
“Thank you, Primo. Good night.” Wonderful. Just wonderful. I’d have been a thousand times better off not learning anyone called. Might as well go up to my room and phone everyone I knew. I wouldn’t get any sleep. Not until I found out who called and why.
About the Author
Maria Grazia Swan was born in Italy, but this rolling stone has definitely gathered no moss. She’s lived in Belgium, France, Germany, in beautiful Orange County, California where she raised her family, and is currently at home in Phoenix, Arizona—but stay tuned for weekly updates of Where in the World is Maria Grazia Swan?
As a young girl, her vivid imagination predestined her to be a writer. She won her first literary award at the age of fourteen while living in Belgium. As a young woman Maria returned to Italy to design for—ooh-la-la—haute couture. Once in the U.S. and after years of concentrating on family, she tackled real estate. These days her time is devoted to her deepest passions: writing and helping people find happiness.
Maria loves travel, opera, good books, hiking, and intelligent movies (if she can find one, that is). When asked about her idea of a perfect evening, she favors stimulating conversation, spicy Italian food and perfectly chilled Prosecco—but then, who doesn’t?
Maria has written short stories for anthologies, articles for high profile magazines and numerous blogs tackling love and life. Her romantic suspense novels Love Thy Sister and Bosom Bodies are available at Amazon.com. She engaged her editorial and non-fiction skills for Mating Dance: Rituals for Singles Who Weren’t Born Yesterday.
Website: http://www.mariagraziaswan.com
Contact Maria: mariagswan@gmail.com
—or—touch base with her on Facebook.
I hope you enjoyed Italian Summer. The best part about being a writer is getting some response from the readers. If you have questions, or feedback I would love to hear from you and if you could find time to leave a review that would really make my day. Here’s the link to my amazon book page!
Table of Contents
ITALIAN SUMMERCopyright © 2013 Maria Grazia SwanFirst Edition* * *
This book is dedicated to my Italian Tribe with a big shout for Lauretta, her place is my home away f...
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter 1Veneto-Italy. Summer 1992
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
LOVE THY SISTER
Bosom Bodies
gemini