at sea, but Annabelle is forever changed for the better.
I guess what I’m caught up on is the fact that her love interest dies at the end. If it was a romance, he would live and there would be a happily ever after. With women’s fiction, it feels like the more sorrow and depth the character goes through, the better, at least to the publishers. Besides, the focus of the book isn’t on her love interest—he’s an enigma most of the time, closed off to her and the reader. The focus is on her personal growth.
And yet, why shouldn’t my character have a love that lasts? Why isn’t she worthy of it? Did my book only sell because I promised that conflict and a bittersweet ending? Or is it possible that I can change it to a happily ever after? Would that cause it to lose all credibility?
I don’t know anything about writing romance. In the Sleuths of Stockbridge, my character never had a romantic arc. Robyn’s character did because she was younger, and she was often dating a different guy, but it was never the focus. I guess it doesn’t help that my own love life is completely lackluster. The adage goes, “Write what you know.” I always suspected that was bullshit, but I still think I’m deeply unqualified to write a romance.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my dilemma.
I sit up straight. “Yes?”
The door opens and Vanni pokes his head in, straight-faced. “Here is your first lesson, Grace. Pranzo. It means lunch. Il pranzo è pronto. Lunch is ready.”
I get to my feet and repeat the phrase after him. “Il pranzo è pronto.”
“No, no, no,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “You have much to learn.”
I bite back another smile and follow him out of the room and down the stairs to the first level.
The glass doors to the backyard are open. Beside it, the door to Claudio’s studio is closed. Vanni leads me outside, past the bar to the patio where the table and chairs are set, leafy grapevines growing over the pergola, giving just enough shade. The heat is in full force now, strong and heady.
The table is set for three, with a small bottle of mineral water, two wine glasses, and a bottle of chilled white wine in the middle, condensation running down the sides. My mouth starts salivating at the sight.
“Ah, you’re here,” Claudio says, appearing behind me in the doorway, carrying a giant bowl of salad. He places it on the table and then waves at me to sit down.
“Please sit.
I sit down beside Vanni and peer into the bowl. It’s definitely not a salad you’d find in Scotland. There are big pieces of red tomatoes, onions, olives, basil, cheese, and hunks of bread glistening with olive oil.
“It’s all we had left,” Claudio says. “And luckily it was all we needed to make panzanella.”
He leans over and using ceramic tongs, piles the salad onto the plates, then sits back and pours us both a glass of wine.
When he’s done, he gives me an impish smile that makes him look positively boyish. “I suppose it would have been polite of me to ask if you wanted wine. I just assumed.”
“Well, you assumed correctly,” I tell him, lifting my glass. “Cheers to that. And for letting me stay and for being so understanding.”
Claudio’s eyes are soft as he stares at me. He raises his glass, gaze locked on mine, and I feel strangely exposed. I’m not used to this much eye contact with a stranger, and while I guess he’s not so much of a stranger anymore, it still feels a lot more intimate than I’m prepared to deal with.
“It’s cin cin,” Vanni speaks up. “Not cheers. And when can I have wine, Papà?”
“When you can drink it and not make a face,” Claudio says to him while he continues to look at me. “Cin cin, Ms. Harper. Buon appetito.”
“Please, it’s just Grace,” I tell him, taking a sip of wine. It’s so cold, and so good. “Ms. Harper makes me sound like my mother.”
“You don’t like your mother?” Vanni asks.
I almost laugh at how earnest he sounds. “No, I love my mother. But, I don’t know, it makes me sound … old. Older.”
“How old are you?”
“Vanni,” Claudio chides him. “That’s not polite to ask.”
“Why not? I’m ten. And you are old.”
“I am not old,” Claudio counters.
“I’m thirty,” I tell them.
“Ah,” Claudio muses as he spears a tomato and munches on it