by Heloise Hull
It had taken a hefty bribe to get the boatman to come this far, and even then, he’d kicked me out before we’d gotten to the shore, throwing my suitcase into the surf after me. Now, I stood dripping wet in a courtyard while a chicken pecked at my feet and two goats bleated balefully for a snack. A series of raised garden beds took up most of the yard, but they were long past weeding.
I didn’t think I could hate Marla more than I did when she messed up my coffee order day after day for two years or when she forgot to book a sales meeting with one of our most important clients. Or when I found her tangled up in my husband’s arms. I was so wrong. Story of my life these days. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong, wrong, wrong.
I’d even been wrong about how much of my savings was actually mine in the impending divorce. It turned out that Jim carried a lot more debt than he’d let on, and I was on the twenty-year hook. My secret bank account would serve as a nest egg for a few weeks, but that was it. There went my attempts to Under the Tuscan Sun my midlife crisis.
At most, I could spend a long weekend in Italy and then hurry back to the States to find a job. Probably selling insurance. Worse, I wouldn’t be my own boss. I’d have to start at the bottom of a ridiculously high corporate ladder at some other schlub’s company and never get out of a cubicle again. I’d die there, hunched and curled over my keyboard, my phone perpetually attached to my ear with half-formed words coming out of my mouth when they found me. Then I’d haunt the cubicle for the rest of my existence, repeating, “I promise to halve your current raaaaate.” It would be eerie and sad.
Or maybe just sad.
Was being with Jim really the golden years? That was a depressing thought. I wish I could say Jim was ugly, but he was perfectly symmetrical with a dimpled smile and blue eyes. I had let him sweep in like a white knight to save me all those years ago, giving up my freedom for security.
I hadn’t pretended when we got married that it was deep, soul-shattering love. Rather, it was a way out of my troubles. As an orphan, I had a lot of troubles. Usually money, but there were a few brushes with the law, too.
Jim had cracked my heart with his infidelity, but he never held the power to break it. My heart was too well sealed for that. If he hadn’t screwed me with debt, I would’ve sent him a fruit basket for setting me free. If only the cost of freedom hadn’t been so high.
I looked one more time at my printed check-in documents to confirm.
Yep. Right place, but oh so wrong. Marla could have picked any island. Capri, Sardinia, or even Sicily would have worked.
The sun was already setting and my ride long gone. Unless I wanted to shell out more of my dwindling cash to charter a private boat back to the mainland at this hour, I needed to put on my big girl panties and stay for the night. Then I’d consider my options.
The bed and breakfast wasn’t the worst thing. I could tell it used to be beautiful with tan paver stones, matte green shutters, and white wrought iron balconies over each window. But the paint was peeling and the white iron flaked with rust.
So, it was a tad run-down. The scenery was spectacular. Rocky outcrops, cypress trees, and the sweet smell of honey and saltwater mingled together as waves crashed against the rocks. Near the horizon, the water looked like a piece of turquoise glass, buffed to perfection. Someone had erected a stone statue of Venus to point over the waves toward the mainland. The statue was cracked and crumbling at the base, but the whole place could be picturesque with a little DIY work.
I had an immediate affinity for the statue. She could be me. I was her. Cracked and crumbling but fixable. Now, I only needed to figure out who I was. Not Ava Longsworth, mediocre insurance seller and mother of hellion boys. The possibilities, while not endless, were out there. I just needed to find me. Then I could work on fixing me.
Maybe I could get a job at a bookstore. Or a pet boutique selling fancy dog bones. I’d always liked animals, unlike Jim who claimed he was allergic. Anything to get experience running a small business and regrow my nest egg. I knew how to pull the bootstraps tight. The reflexes had grown a little rusty over the years, much like this house, but it’d all come back with practice.
I didn’t have a choice.
A sparkle of something flashed out over the water. I went closer to the cliff’s edge. A dolphin? That would be a nice welcome. Dolphins were so playful and fun. And a sign of good luck. The beach was about fifty feet below, and there were tangles of pink and purple bougainvillea flowering at will. Like the statue, everything about this small island felt a little wild.
The flashing scales caught my eye again. So not a dolphin. Maybe a fish, then. The sparkling water was mesmerizing and soothing. I let myself sit down on the edge with my feet dangling. The waves crashed and receded with such regularity, it was like an expensive meditation class and therapy session all in one sun-soaked minute. Oh, to be as free as a fish—
“Hello!” a high-pitched voice screeched behind me.
I shook myself out of my jet-lagged fog, as a little old Italian nonna stood at the top of the cliff. She quickly hobbled over to me as I realized I had climbed half-way down.
The little nonna looked suspiciously over my shoulder for a moment. “You okay, girlie? You’re not in a trance, are you?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“No reason. Come, let’s get you inside. It’s Mrs. Longsworth, sì?”
Hearing those words shook off the last spidering threads of my fog. Never again did I want to go by that name. “God no. Call me Ava. Ava Falcetti. It was my parents’ surname.”
“Ah, parli Italiano?”
“I wish,” I said wistfully. I loved the musical, gesticulating language of the Italians, but my parents died when I was a baby. “Alas, I never learned it.”
“You’re a spring chicken compared to me. Plenty of time left.” She put a wizened hand on my arm. Despite being hunched to almost half of my height and wearing a flowering night gown that swallowed her tiny frame, the woman had an air of old glamor around her. Her bone-white hair was carefully coiffed into a French twist, and she dripped jewelry. Gold bangles hung from her wrists, and gemstone rings adorned every finger.
“Thanks,” I checked my details again,“Signora De Giorgi.”
I left it at that. The only way I would learn a new language was if an alien body swapped with mine. Perhaps compared to this creaking, wrinkled, little grandmother figure I was young—but I had also pulled a muscle with that involuntary shudder back there, so she was literally the only person who would consider putting me and young in the same sentence.
“Call me Nonna. Everyone does. In an ironic sense. Never had children, let alone grandchildren.” She took the porch stairs surprisingly fast and threw open the front door. “Here we are! I’m so glad you decided to stay at Villa Venus. There’s only one other guest, and I haven’t seen him in weeks, so the inn is practically yours. I live in the far bedroom, but the master suite looks out over the ocean. It’s the best room in the villa by far. Aurick—that’s the other occupant—doesn’t like sunlight. He’s from the northern countries, and I’m fairly certain that he’s a vampire.”
At the look on my face, Nonna laughed a wheezing smoker’s laugh. “I’m only teasing, dear. He’s eaten plenty of my garlic Bolognese. But I do believe he’s allergic to sunlight. Now that I think about it, I should probably make sure he’s still alive when we’re done here.”
I took in the villa as she spoke. Under the thick layer of dust, I could tell it used to be magnificent. The kitchen shelves were lined with brown earthen jugs and bowls, and thick cords of braided garlic and dried strings of pepperoncini hung from the cedar rafters. Bundles of rosemary had been placed over the lintels next to half a wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano with a cheese knife stuck in the center. The windows were all thrown open to catch the sea breeze, and faded yellow curtains were drawn to let the sunlight filter inside. It wasn’t five-star, but it was charming and picturesque. I had let Jim and his lavish ways lure me into five-star se
nsibilities. Turned out he had Lobster Thermidor taste on a popcorn shrimp budget.
But this? This was beautifully simplistic. This was perfection.
“Here’s your room key and a house key,” Nonna said, handing me two large, bronze keys. The weight of them in my hands felt like they could double as a deadly weapon if need be. “I don’t ask that you keep curfews, just that you be respectful of how late you’ll be getting in each night. We’re early sleepers around here.”
I laughed. “You don’t have to worry about me, Nonna. I haven’t been clubbing since I was eighteen. And I was a sad excuse for a rager then, too.”
Nonna patted my cheek. Her hand was freezing and looked a little like a skeleton’s appendage. “Don’t underestimate the Aegean sun, girlie. It brings back life.”
A black and white portrait on the terracotta-tiled counter caught my attention. “Wow, is that your mother?” It was a beautiful woman with deeply glossed lips, thirties-styled ringlets, and porcelain skin. She held a cigarette in her mouth and stared seductively at the viewer. “She’s beautiful.”
Nonna laughed. “That’s me at the height of my film career in Rome. I was a beauty, if I may say so.”
“But that would make you over a hundred years old!” There must really be something to that Mediterranean diet mania. I mentally added eat more olive oil and fresh fish to my to-do list. And drink lots of red wine, of course.
“115 next month,” she said proudly. “Once you spend time here, you’ll never want to leave.” She eyed me with a glint. “I promise.”
Chapter Three
I sat down on the bed and bounced on the handmade quilt. Luckily, I was alone on this rickety thing. If Nonna heard it squeaking, she might have a heart attack, and I refused to be the reason why a 115-year-old keeled over.
She’d set up flowers in a small vase on the dresser and left out lavender soap and a thread bare towel. Everything looked at least fifty years old, but it was adorable. Already I was falling in love. Maybe Nonna was right. Either the Aegean sun was working its warm magic on me or she was with her Old World touches.
I plopped open my suitcase to see what I’d grabbed. “Good,” I murmured as I pulled out my favorite yoga pants and racerback workout shirt, a few jeans, one sundress, a more formal dress, and three t-shirts. “Crap.” No underwear except the pair on my ass.
It was only a weekend. I could survive. But I should probably let someone besides Jim and Marla know where I was staying. What if I suffered a weird, untimely death? Like me stumbling over the cliff after a bottle of Chianti. God, when had I become so fatalistic? It had to have been when the twins were born. Suddenly, everything could kill, and I started seeing danger around every unsecured bookcase corner and botulism-laced dirt the boys stuffed in their mouths as toddlers. The thought of the boys made me hope they were settled and happy in college. A sinister part of me wondered if Jim had gotten caught on purpose. The twins were gone, so what did it matter? We could finally pull the trigger on our fizzled marriage.
I flopped back on the bed. Like it mattered if he wanted to get caught or not. Here I was, a forty-something housewife and pretend-business woman in a run-down Italian villa on an island no one has heard of. And that was after surviving an earthquake that no one else had felt. No matter how many times I Googled it, I couldn’t find any hint of it. Not even on a conspiracy blog. What if it happened again? I really should call someone. But who?
All of my close friends were our close friends. My girlfriends from my twenties had moved on, gotten married, had kids, and drifted apart. It happened all too often. Keeping in touch had become a once a year thing until it faded to nothing. I had no one.
That idea, that I truly was alone and starting over, hit me with the force of an ocean wave. It took me under and for the first time in years, I put my head in my hands and cried, a really good long sob that had been working its way out of my system since the morning I found Marla and Jim together. Maybe even before that.
The worst part? Jim was right about one thing. Hating my life wasn’t completely his fault. I had done enough damage along the way, thinking if I worked harder or had more money, I could take a break. I could take that trip to Italy and indulge in pasta and wine. Now, here I was, but it felt wrong. Like I had only gotten here by getting lost. Jim’s last words kept haunting me. Over the hill. Forty-year-old woman. They have Italian women for that.
I resisted the urge to pinch the extra inches around my hips that no spin classes could melt away after twins. Instead, I ran my fingers over the faint, silvery streaks on my thighs from my sudden growth spurt during puberty.
I’d done the late nights with sick babies, the no sleep for years, the potty training, the teenage rebellion years. Twin boys with a propensity for skateboarding injuries were no joke. I was supposed to be in the good part now. I could sit on the couch with a glass of wine and a bowl of popcorn and binge Ghost Hunters all weekend without feeling guilty. I’d suffered a horrendous childhood and appalling teen years, never getting the chance to attend college or even graduate high school, then chaining myself to a man I didn’t love to provide some semblance of comfort and regularity in my life. Comfort I’d never had. Now, I was supposed to enjoy the peace and quiet.
“This sucks,” I said quietly.
I stood up, feeling defiant and a little cleansed. So I said it louder. “This really freaking sucks!”
“What sucks?”
I yelped and spun, frantically searching for the voice, but I didn’t see anyone.
“Hello?” I asked cautiously. “Nonna?” At the silence, I tried again, whispering, “Aurick?”
In every book I’d read, vampires had to be invited in before they could suck your blood. Did it count if Nonna had already invited him into the villa or was my room protected, too?
“Hello?” I asked one last time, but no one answered, leaving me waving a bar of lavender-scented soap into thin air, the hairs prickling on the back of my neck.
Chapter Four
After another good cry—this time about the fact that I was losing my mind in addition to everything else in my life—I took a short, lukewarm cat bath in the bathroom sink down the hall. It was the best the house could do, but it felt good to scrub the last thirty-six hours off of my skin. Then I wandered back into the kitchen, my stomach growling.
I heard two voices, Nonna’s and another deep and rumbly. I expected to meet mysterious Aurick, but when I turned the corner, I found Nonna conversing with a chipmunk.
The tiny creature took a hazelnut from her hand and gestured at me. I squeaked and pointed, which apparently offended him. The chipmunk gave me an intense once-over and scurried off. If chipmunks could read souls, he would have imprinted mine in his memory.
Nonna brushed it off, like it wasn’t the weirdest thing in the world to be conversing with a chipmunk. “Do you feel better?” she asked. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have? Was that…?”
She waved her hand through the air. “Yes, yes. A chipmunk. He keeps me company.”
“Was he…”
“Eating from my hand? Yes, he’s grown to trust me over the years.”
I was going to say talking, but I didn’t push it. I didn’t need Nonna worrying about my sanity. “What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“That depends on what you order.”
“You run your inn like a restaurant?”
“No, of course not. You’ll be eating at the local taverna in town.”
“Nonna, I really don’t think I’m ready to go meet people,” I protested. Neither the WIFI nor my cell service worked out here, and anyway—I was going crazy. Strangers did not need to be subjected to that. “I’ll find something little here on my own, and then I’m going to collapse.”
“Nonsense. A young lady like you should be out with others your age.”
“I’m forty. I have wrinkles that could be considered young.”
Nonna took me by the elbow and led me to the door. “I�
��ll go with you. This crisp air is just what my old bones need. Besides, it’s aperitivo hour!”
She dragged me to a lime green Vespa. It was the kind I’d seen in television ads, usually with a young, beautiful woman with her hair flowing in the wind and a smile lighting up her face.
Nonna handed me a helmet, muttered something under her breath, a prayer perhaps, and creaked awkwardly on board. I climbed up after her. Having only met her an hour ago, I couldn’t very well start mothering her. If she wanted to break her back, that was her business, but I really wished I could just drive her old bones into town.
“Andiamo!” she shouted into the salt wind, and after a few revs, we were off.
A week ago, I never would have believed I’d be hanging onto the oldest woman in world’s sagging waist on a tiny, Italian island while my husband shacked up with my assistant. It was too absurd. So instead of thinking, we rode. I wished I’d brought my Fitbit. The last time I’d worn it—a passive aggressive birthday gift from Jim—I’d accidentally connected it to Facebook and then everyone knew I’d only walked eighteen steps that day. Approximately.
“Why is this place so quiet?” I asked, shouting over the wind. There were barely any tourists and everything in town felt medieval. In fact, I was positive the only upgrades on this island in the last hundred years had been plumbing and electricity.
“We used to be a tourist destination, back in the 70s. That’s when I started running Villa Venus. I quit acting during the Nazi and Fascist business and was considered too “old” to get back into it at forty. Pah. What do men know about age?”
I nodded. What indeed? Forty was absolutely the new thirty. I sometimes needed an aspirin to get up in the morning, but I could still touch my toes—with a bent knee. It wasn’t like I was that bendy in my twenties, either, so I could hardly blame that on turning forty. Yoga hadn’t helped in that department.