It’ll probably be Ryanair or Easyjet, so don’t get your hopes up. It’s just a step up from flying cargo.”
I’m so overwhelmed that I feel like I’m going into autopilot, like none of this is real.
“Are you sure you want to do this for me?” I ask her.
“Darling, I’m doing this for me,” she says. “Now, I’ll email you the plane tickets once you’ve got them. Emilio has a key, so I’ll arrange for him to meet you at the airport. He’s an old fart, but he’s dependable.”
“Okay. Well … thank you so much, Jana.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just hope this pays off.”
“It will,” I tell her before we say goodbye and hang up.
I stare at the phone in my hand for a moment before my eyes sweep across my flat. Jana is right about being haunted. It’s not about being across from a cemetery. It’s that all the memories in this flat are tinged with shades of Robyn. From our character and plot breakdowns over copious amounts of coffee (Irish Breakfast tea for her) while bundled up in blankets on the couch, to me texting her from my desk as I feverishly wrote and immediately emailed her chapters. I feel like there’s no escape from her.
And for the first time, I realize the only way I’m going to be able to move forward is if I physically, then mentally, make the change and leave her behind.
I put the phone back on the charger, then head into my bedroom to start packing.
When Jana first told me about Emilio Bertuzzi, her villa’s groundskeeper, I was expecting, well, an old fart (her words). But the Emilio that meets me at the airport in Pisa is anything but.
Yes, Emilio is old, at least eighty, and he has a forest of hair growing out of his ears, but beneath his bushy brows are kind and sharp eyes. He walks at a fast pace and practically wrestles my suitcase from my hands, hoisting it into the back of his beat-up truck with ease (and considering my suitcase is absolutely stuffed with clothes, that’s no small feat).
The only problem is, Emilio barely speaks English, which makes me realize that Jana must speak fluent Italian if she’s able to communicate with him at all. Who knows, maybe by the end of all this, I’ll be speaking Italian too.
You don’t need another distraction, I remind myself as Emilio takes a corner at breakneck speed. Focus on the book, not learning a new language.
Or at least focus on not dying. I don’t know if Emilio used to be a race car driver or what, but he’s been driving like he’s in it to win it ever since we left the airport. Actually, everyone on the road is keeping up, like pace cars, which makes me think that driving aggressively fast may just be an Italian thing.
I’ve only been to Italy once, to Rome, on a book tour with Robyn. I had food poisoning the night before, in London, so I don’t remember much of it. I do know it was for book number five, and that Robyn had a great time at the bookstore party, whereas I went right to the hotel room after the signing was over. Didn’t get to see any of the sights, or eat any of the food, which is the ultimate shame when it comes to Italy. I hope to rectify it with this trip.
Except you’ll be writing most of the time. Remember Jana’s words. You didn’t come here for a vacation. You came here to work.
Which means no day trips to Pisa.
Or Florence.
Or Siena.
Or Cinque Terre.
And I probably won’t be eating out often either. Jana assured me there was a large kitchen and that Emilio could drive me to the grocery store.
I steal a glance at him, marveling at both his ear hair and the amount of concentration he’s giving to the road. At least I know I’m in capable hands.
I wonder if I should attempt to talk to him again but decide it’s probably not for the best when he’s driving, considering the amount of hand gestures we had both used earlier trying to understand each other.
Playing it safe, I bring out the Translate app and start prepping the list of questions I have for him when we arrive at the villa.
Then I take out the email that Jana sent me with all the information I need for the next month and look over it for the hundredth time.
The official name