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I fluttered my fingers over my shoulder, dismissing the suggestion. Luigi was an amusing fantasy, but I was headed to Tuscany to find myself, not a man.
Chapter Three - Elle
I was dreaming. I was lying on a plastic lounge chair that stuck to the back of my sweaty thighs with a prickly hotel towel over my eyes to keep out the hellish Florida sunshine. My skin was turning lobster red while my new husband sat in the shade of a palm tree, slurping down a frozen drink. Headphones blocked out the sound of screaming kids, but why wasn’t the noxious smell of hotel-pool chlorine burning my nostrils?
Ihadto be dreaming because the panorama in front of me was too perfect to be real.
In the foreground, verdant fields of green carpeted gently sloping hills that undulated off to the horizon, a backdrop of hazy bluish-green peaks. Ochre farmhouses and sage-green vineyards, the symmetry of the rows a soothing pattern, dotted the landscape. Above, the azure sky was accented by billowing banks of sheep’s-wool clouds.
I spun around, eyes tracking the narrow, twisty road flanked on either side by tall, thin cypress trees that meandered over the countryside, as if to reassure myself I hadn’t teleported here. Nope. There was the little red Fiat that looked like a toy car which had transported me from the Pisa International Airport to this magical place.
Flavio, the driver, had nattered the entire distance. Somewhere between sixty and a hundred, shorter than me and rounder than Mrs. Sturtmutt, he pointed out sights and gesticulated with his hands to the point the car seemed to steer itself. His heavy accent made it hard to understand everything he said, but I got the basics and filled in the rest from the travel guide I’d purchased from a bookstore in the Detroit terminal.
Frantoio, the estate where my farmhouse apartment was situated, overlooked Lucca, a historic city of about ninety thousand people. It sat on the Serchio River at the foot of the Apuan Alps and was known for its well-preserved medieval architecture and churches. I couldn’t wait to explore it, and my heart gave a little pang that I couldn’t share the adventure with Talley.
“SignorinaMadden.” Flavio stood outside the open door leading into the farmhouse, a wide smile creasing his lined face. “I set zee luggage inside. Eva, my wife, prepared thecucina,zee kitchen. Tomorrow, she will show you zee market in Lucca.”
Of course. He had other things to do besides wait for me to finish gawking at the impossibly beautiful landscape.
“Thank you,Signore—” I handed him a folded banknote, fumbling with how to properly address him.
“Just Flavio.” He chuckled, his belly quivering beneath the rumpled white linen shirt he wore. “I drive for Alessio. He isil padrone.Your host. There.” He pointed to a pale-yellow structure barely visible through a stand of trees behind my small guesthouse.
“So, should I go findSignore…Alessio if I need something?”
“Just Alessio. Like just Flavio.” More friendly laughter and a shake of his head as he corrected me.
“Okay, just Flavio.” I smiled, determined to overcome the language and cultural differences.
“Arrivederci!”
I had no trouble responding to his farewell. Even I knew the Italian word for goodbye.
He sped off, tires crunching over the gravel drive, and I wandered toward the small building described on the Airbnb site as a romantic farmhouse apartment with a private terrace, fireplace, and pool. “A blend of Old-World ambiance and modern-day amenities.”
The stone plaster exterior was the same buttery shade as the main house where my host,just Alessio, resided. The doorway, easily ten feet in height, and window frames were painted white, giving the building an inviting, well-cared for appearance. I stepped through the entry and gasped.
The pictures online failed to capture the rustic elegance of the centuries’-old farmhouse. The floor was tiled in rough-hewn squares of pinkish-brown stone, as was the hearth. The fireplace, a modest two-by-two-foot opening in the wall, was framed by a huge gray mantle that contrasted with limoncello-yellow walls and a wood-beamed ceiling. Astonished and unable to move, I took in the spacious room, noting the woven area rugs, dark hutch and dining table, wicker accents, wrought iron fixtures, and the comfy-looking upholstered sofa opposite the fireplace. A tiny nook adjacent to the dining area housed a kitchenette.
I was impatient to see the rest of the apartment. Dropping my backpack on the sofa, I scurried into the bedroom. Oh, I was going to love retiring here every night. A huge white armoire offered plenty of storage, while the antique bedframe and frothy embroidered bedding promised sweet dreams. Near the window, which flooded the room with marmalade sunlight, a reading chair and small table were arranged invitingly. A quick peek into the bathroom revealed a walk-in shower, pedestal sink, toilet and bidet, and a basket containing neatly folded towels and miniature toiletries.
But there was more!
Back in the main room, I found what I was looking for—French doors that led out to the veranda. I flung them open…and…and…and vowed to do whatever was necessary to live out my remaining years in this dreamy farmhouse apartment with the fairytale terrace.
A huge old tree—no idea what kind—shaded the expansive area enclosed by a three-foot high stone wall. Planters of varying heights overflowed with greenery and vibrant pink and purple flowers. Hydrangeas? Two wicker loungers with mounds of pillows made me think of lazy summer afternoons reading or dozing, a dewy glass of lemonade at hand. At the sight of a wicker dining set with wide-backed chairs, I knew this was where I’d eat every single meal. And yes, there were the lanterns in the tree and along the top of the wall that would cast a romantic golden glow over the terrace come twilight.
It had been those photos that convinced Talley to book the place for me. “Two weeks,” she advised. “We’ll ask if there’s an option to extend your visit if you need more time.”
She should have asked if there was an option to buy.
I strolled to the edge of the terrace, curious about the swimming pool listed in the property description. Only a portion of it had been visible in the photographs—a curve of aquamarine surrounded by greenery. I found a small gate where the stone wall connected with the house, lifted the latch, and ventured into the garden.
Meandering along a path of steppingstones, the perfection made me sigh. While the grass, hedges, and flowers were neatly manicured, there was still a sense of idyllic wildness, as if I’d stepped into a forest glade inhabited by fairies and fauns. The blooms were huge, scenting the air with sweetness tempered by the fresh tang of recently mown grass. I came around a tall shrub and found the pool.
Only, it wasn’t anything like the kidney- and rectangular-shaped swimming pools back home. About fifteen feet in diameter, it was embedded in the ground with just a foot or so of the frame above ground, a thick ring of bushes with small white flowers encircling it so it resembled a natural spring or pond. I took a closer look and giggled, realizing it was actually an oversized galvanized stock tank. The water was the same tropical blue in magazine advertisements for Caribbean vacations, the surface rippling as a light breeze drifted through the garden. Nearby were two more wicker loungers and a basket holding yellow towels rolled into plush cylinders.
I trailed my fingers through the water, surprised by its warmth. Not hot-tub hot, but not shock-your-system-chilly either. Cool enough to be refreshing; tepid enough to be comfortable. My fatigue evaporated, replaced by the urge to submerge myself in the crystalline pool. I took a step, intending to return to the apartment to change into my swimsuit, when a ridiculous notion hit me.
