Free Summer in Tuscany by Elizabeth Adler Page A

with the porch had disappeared into the past, I just knew it. And I also knew that dissuading her meant my work was cut out for me.

Chapter Sixteen
    The next afternoon I was sitting under a shady grape arbor in an old wicker chair in the overgrown garden in back of the inn. There was a book on my lap and a glass of fresh lemonade on the table next to me. Tiny hard green grapes the size of raisins dangled over my head, the yellow-flowered zucchini conquered the plot of lettuces, and I could smell the sweetness of those rosy tomatoes radiating from the hot stone wall. In the distance, up on the hill and through the trees, I caught a glimpse of the coral roofs of the Villa Piacere glittering like a mirage in the slanting late-afternoon sunlight.
    I closed my eyes and sighed. As if life were not complicated enough, now we were stuck with a big old crumbling house. We would be liable for the taxes, and heaven only knew what taxes were in Italy. Not that we could afford them, unless the summer rental brought in enough, which somehow I doubted it would.
    A few days ago, in Rome, I had been wishing I’d never come here, but despite all the new problems, I felt suddenly at peace with the world. At least for this afternoon I did.
    I could not remember the last time I had spent an entire day doing absolutely nothing. This morning I had slept late. I had showered, then breakfasted on bread still warm from the baker’s oven and fresh-roasted coffee with hot frothy milk. I had waved good-bye to Nonna and Livvie, who had driven off to Florence, with Nonna confidently at the wheel, to shop for new dresses for the Fourth of July party. I’d refused to go with them. Instead I had resolved to contact Signor Donati, the attorney, and sort out the “complications” that came with the villa.
    I had already tried to call him, but the number Don Vincenzo had given me did not answer. Now I tried again. Still no answer. I walked over to the church, where I caught the father in mid-prayer while at the same time dusting the brass altar candles with his handkerchief.
    “ Signor Donati is probably in Lucca,” he told me cheerily. “He does much business there. Try him domani, why don’t you?”
    Why don’t I indeed? I thought, getting into the lazy Italian mood. Tomorrow will probably be just as good.
    I wandered around the square, stopped every now and then by new friends, met just yesterday, who wanted to clasp my hand and inquire as to my health. I beamed back, struggling to say in Italian, “I am fine. We are all fine. Thank you for your hospitality.” I groaned with the effort. How was it I knew how to diagnose a brain aneurysm and yet had gone my whole life without learning to speak my mother’s native tongue? Resolve number two that day: learn Italian.
    I peeked into the bar. A tiny black-and-white TV with a rabbit-ears antenna blasted a soccer game, even though the place was empty. I backed quickly out, crossed the square, and bought a delicious pistachio ice cream cone at the gelateria . Licking my ice cream, I inspected rows of mortadellas and salamis and the fragrant Parma hams and cheeses in the salumeria and came back in a slow circle to the albergo, where I took up residence again in my wicker garden chair. I had thought I would try to figure out a few of my problems. Instead I promptly fell asleep.
    It was maybe the most restful day of my life. And for once I did not even think of Cash Drummond.

Chapter Seventeen
    The next day was the Fourth of July, the day of the grand party at the villa. Of course, I would have preferred to linger in the shade of the grape arbor with my book, but now I was forced into some semblance of dressing up.
    When Livvie and Nonna had returned from Florence late the night before, they had been laden down with smart shopping bags, but they’d refused to show me what they had bought. Wait and see, they’d said mysteriously, though Livvie couldn’t suppress a giggle. So now was to be their