Susan Phillips - Breathing Room

“Whatever works for you.” She had to either sit down again or get out of here, so she headed for the door.

“Hey, Fifi.”

She turned, then wished she hadn’t.

“The thing is…” He picked up the polished marble ball that had been resting on a stone plinth next to him and ran his thumb over it. “Unless you want my fans crawling all around that little farmhouse, I suggest you keep your mouth shut about my being here.”

“Believe it or not, I have better things to do than gossip.”

“Let’s make sure it stays that way.” He squeezed the marble ball in his fist in case she hadn’t gotten the message.

“Overacting a bit, aren’t you, Mr. Gage?”

The menace evaporated, and he laughed. “Nice meeting you, Fifi.”

She made it to the salon door without bumping into anything, but she couldn’t resist one glance back.

He was tossing the marble ball from one hand to the other, a gorgeous Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

The stitch in her side forced her to slow down before she reached the farmhouse. Gravel had sifted through the toes of her Kate Spade sandals, probably the last pair she’d ever be able to afford. She was glad she hadn’t crumbled in front of him, but the fact was, she had to leave. If she packed up now, she could be back in Florence by four o’clock.

And then what?

The house came into view. Bathed in golden light, it looked solid and comforting, but also somehow magical. It looked like a place where the vision of a new life could be born.

She turned away and followed a branch of the path into the vineyard. The deep purple grapes, fat with juice, hung heavy on the vines. She picked one and put it in her mouth. It burst against her tongue, startling in its sweetness. The seeds were so small she didn’t bother spitting them out.

She pulled off a small cluster and walked deeper into the vineyard. She needed her sneakers. The heavy clay soil felt like rocks beneath her thin sandals. But she wouldn’t think of what she needed, only of what she had-the Tuscan sun over her head, warm grapes ripe in her hand, Lorenzo Gage in the villa at the top of the hill…

She’d given herself away so cheaply. How would she ever get past that?

Not by running away.

Her stubborn streak set in. She was tired of her sadness. She’d never been a coward. Was she going to let herself be chased away from something precious by a degenerate movie star? The encounter had been meaningless to him. He obviously disliked her, so he’d hardly come searching her out. And she needed to be here. Every instinct told her this was the place she had to stay, the only place where she could find both the solitude and the inspiration that would let her figure out how to set her life on a new course.

Right then she made up her mind. She wasn’t afraid of Lorenzo Gage, and she wouldn’t let anyone force her to leave here until she was ready.

Ren put away the seventeenth-century flintlock he’d taken out to examine just before Fifi had barged in. He could still hear the echo of those efficient little heel taps as she’d swept from the room. He was supposed to be the devil, but unless he was mistaken, Ms. Fifi had left the scent of brimstone behind her.

He chuckled, then closed the cabinet door. The pistol was a beautiful piece of workmanship, one of many priceless objects in the villa. He’d inherited the place two years ago, but this was his first chance to visit since his Aunt Philomena had died. He’d originally planned to sell the property, but he had good memories from his three visits here as a kid. It didn’t seem right to sell the place without seeing it again. He’d been impressed with both the housekeeper and her husband when he’d spoken with them on the phone, and he’d decided to wait.

He retrieved his bottle of scotch from the table on the loggia so he could resume the drinking Ms. Fifi had interrupted. He’d enjoyed giving her a hard time. She was so uptight she vibrated, yet her visit had left him feeling almost relaxed. Weird.

He stepped through one of the loggia’s three arches out into the garden and made his way along the clipped hedges toward the swimming pool, where he sank into a chaise. As he absorbed the quiet, he thought about all the people who usually surrounded him: his faithful posse of assistants, business managers, and the bodyguards the studios occasionally wanted him to keep around. A lot of celebrities encircled themselves with aides because they needed reassurance that they were stars. Others, like himself, did it to make life easier. Aides kept overzealous fans at bay, which was useful but came at a price. Few people spoke the truth to the person responsible for their paycheck, and all the brown-nosing had gotten old.

Ms. Fifi, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know anything about brown-nosing, and that had been oddly restful.

He’d pushed aside the bottle of scotch without uncapping it and sank deeper into the chaise. Slowly his eyes drifted shut. Very restful…

Isabel cut a wedge from the aged pecorino she’d purchased in town. This was the sheep’s cheese so beloved by the Tuscan people. While she’d counted out her money to pay for it, the female store clerk had pressed a tiny pot of honey on her. “It is the Tuscan way,” she’d said. “Honey with the cheese.”

Isabel couldn’t imagine it, but wasn’t she trying to be less rigid? She arranged the cheese and honey pot on a ceramic plate, along with an apple. All she’d eaten today were those few grapes she’d picked on the way back from the villa three hours ago. Her encounter with Gage had stolen her appetite. Maybe a little food would make her feel better.

She discovered half a dozen crisp linen napkins in a drawer, removed one, then arranged the others in a tidier pile. She’d already unpacked her suitcases and organized the bathroom. Although it was barely four o’clock, she opened the Chianti Classico she’d picked up in town. Chianti could only be termed classico, she’d learned, if it had been pressed from grapes grown in the Chianti region that lay a few miles to the east.

She found stemless wineglasses in the cupboard. She wiped off a water spot, filled one, and carried everything out to the garden.

The delicate scents of rosemary and sweet basil drifted up from the gravel path as she made her way toward the old table that sat in the shade of the magnolia. Two of the garden’s three cats came up to greet her. She settled down and gazed out over the ancient hills. The plowed fields that had been grayish brown in the morning had turned to lavender in the late-afternoon sun. So beautiful.

Tomorrow she would begin to follow the schedule she’d set up for the next two months. She didn’t need to check the notes she’d made to remember how she planned to organize her days.

Awaken at 6:00

Prayer, Meditation, Gratitude, and Daily Affirmations

Yoga or brisk walk

Light breakfast

Morning chores

Work on a new book

Lunch

Sight-seeing, window-shopping, or other pleasurable activity (Be impulsive)

Revise morning writing

Dinner

Inspirational reading and evening chores

Bed at 10:00

She wouldn’t worry about the fact that she had no idea what kind of book she would write. That’s why she needed to stay here, so she could unblock her mental and emotional channels.

The wine was full and fruity, and it melted on her tongue, but as she leaned back to savor it, she noticed a dusty film on the marble tabletop. She jumped up and went back inside for a rag. When she’d wiped it off, she sat back down again.

She inhaled the wine and the rosemary. In the distance a road curled against the hills in a pale, smoky trail. This beautiful place… To think that only yesterday she hadn’t wanted to be here.

On top of a hill off to her right she noticed what might have been part of a village but now looked like ruins with a crumbling wall and the remains of a watchtower. She started to get up so she could find her opera glasses, then reminded herself she was supposed to be relaxing.

She took a cleansing breath, settled back in her chair, and reached inside herself for contentment.

It wasn’t there.

“Signora!”

The cheery voice belonged to a young man coming her way through the garden. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, and slender. Another handsome Italian. As he came closer, she saw liquid brown eyes, silky black hair caught back in a low ponytail, and a long, beautifully shaped nose.

“Signora Favor, I am Vittorio.” He introduced himself expansively, as if his name alone should bring her pleasure.

She smiled and returned his greeting.

“May I join you?” His accent indicated he’d learned his elegant, lightly accented English from British teachers instead of American ones.

“Of course. Would you like some wine?”

“Ah, I would love some.”

He stopped her as she began to rise. “I’ve been here many times,” he said. “I’ll get it. Sit and enjoy the view.”

He returned in less than a minute with the bottle and a glass. “A beautiful day.” A cat rubbed against him as he settled at the end of the table. “But then, all our Tuscan days are beautiful, are they not?”

“It seems that way.”

“And you are enjoying your visit?”

“Very much. But it’s more than a visit. I’ll be staying here for several months.”

Unlike Giulia Chiara, Anna Vesto, and the dour Marta, he looked delighted with the news. “So many Americans, they come on their tour buses for a day, then leave. How can one experience Tuscany like that?”

It was hard to ignore so much enthusiasm, and she smiled. “One cannot.”

“You have not yet tried our pecorino.” He dipped the spoon on her plate into the honey pot and drizzled a dab on her wedge of cheese. “Now you will be a proper Tuscan.”