Chapter 9 Maddie
I wake up before dawn with my heart racing and my mind already spinning with plans. The dying embers in the fireplace cast a faint glow across the cottage, and for a moment I can't remember why I'm so excited. Then it hits me. Enzo said he'd consider my tourism proposal. Actually, consider it.
I grab my notebook and dive back into the research I'd started after he left last night.
There's so much potential here it's almost overwhelming.
Monte Vento has everything tourists dream of: authentic architecture, incredible history, dramatic coastline, and that elusive quality Americans pay thousands to experience—genuine local culture untouched by commercialization.
By the time the sun comes up, I've outlined a comprehensive presentation in my notebook, complete with hand-drawn charts, timeline estimates, and implementation strategies.
I spent hours last night at the village's one café with Wi-Fi, researching local contractors, permit requirements, and examples of similar tourism initiatives in other Italian villages before my laptop battery died.
This could actually work.
This could save the village’s economy and give me a real purpose here, something beyond just hiding out in Sicily while my life back home falls apart.
I need real coffee, but since my ancient stove is still a mystery and I have no electricity, I settle for cold water and leftover bread from yesterday.
The bread comes from the baker, Signora Ricci, who keeps refusing my money despite my insistence on paying.
Every time I try to hand her euros, she waves them away with rapid Italian and what I'm pretty sure are blessings.
The language barrier is frustrating, but her warmth comes through clearly. Yesterday she patted my cheek and said something that sounded worried, but I assumed she was just concerned about me living alone in Giuseppe's old house.
Speaking of which, I should talk to more villagers about the tourism idea. Get their input, understand their concerns, maybe even identify potential partners for cooking classes or artisan demonstrations.
I dress in jeans and sneakers. If I'm going to give Enzo a proper tour of my ideas, I need to be practical. Plus, something about his suggestion to wear comfortable shoes made me think he takes these things seriously.
My first stop is the bakery. Signora Ricci beams when she sees me, immediately bustling around to prepare a bag of pastries I definitely didn't order.
"Signora," I try in my terrible Italian, "tourists... turismo... good for village?"
Her face lights up with understanding, and she launches into rapid Italian while gesturing enthusiastically. I catch maybe every tenth word, but her excitement is unmistakable. She keeps pointing toward the harbor, then the church, then back to me with obvious approval.
"Si, si!" she says finally, pressing the bag of pastries into my hands along with what looks like a thermos of coffee. "Brava, signorina!"
Success! My first local endorsement.
The harbor is my next stop, where I find an elderly man mending fishing nets in the morning sun. This must be Carlo. Several people have mentioned him as someone who knows everything about the village's history.
"Buongiorno," I say, approaching slowly so I don't startle him.
He looks up with weathered eyes that seem to assess me carefully before he nods. "Buongiorno, signorina."
"Carlo?" When he nods, I point to myself. "Madison. American."
"Ah, si. Giuseppe's house." His English is heavily accented but clear.
"Yes! I'm hoping to bring tourists here, help the village grow. What do you think?"
His expression shifts to something I can't quite read. Caution? Concern? But then he glances toward the upper village, toward Enzo's villa and his face clears.
"Is good," he says carefully. "Village needs new life."
"Could you tell tourists about fishing?"
"Perhaps." He seems to choose his words carefully. "You speak with Signor Benedetti about this?"
"Yes, we're meeting this morning to discuss possibilities."
Surprise flickers across his face, then he nods approvingly. "Is good. He knows best for village."
Everyone keeps saying that about Enzo. He knows best for the village.
Clearly, he's some kind of local business leader or maybe involved in regional politics.
The respect people show him is obvious, though there's something else in their reactions I can't quite identify.
They respect him and his judgement which makes me feel better about working with him.
I spend the next hour walking through the village, taking notes and photos, talking to anyone who'll listen. The responses are universally positive once I mention Enzo's involvement.
A woman working in her garden mentions the old customs house that could be restored. Even the teenagers hanging around the church steps seem intrigued by the idea of jobs that might let them stay in Monte Vento instead of leaving for Rome or Milan.
By eight o'clock, I've filled six pages with notes and ideas. My presentation materials are organized by location, my notebook is full of detailed plans, and I've even borrowed a wooden crate from behind the bakery to use as a makeshift table for my papers.
The harbor is the perfect starting point for the tour.
It offers the most dramatic first impression with its ancient stone buildings rising from crystal-clear water, fishing boats bobbing in the morning light, mountains providing a stunning backdrop.
This is what will make tourists fall in love with Monte Vento.
I arrange my papers on the weathered crate, organizing everything so I can walk Enzo through each area systematically.
Financial projections here, renovation estimates there, photos I printed at the café yesterday of similar successful projects for reference.
This needs to look professional and well-researched.
Because despite the butterflies in my stomach every time I think about seeing him again, this is business. A real opportunity to create something meaningful here. I can't let my attraction to him interfere with what could be the most important presentation of my life.
Even if the memory of sitting by the fireplace last night, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin, keeps making my concentration slip.
Focus, Madison.
This is about saving the village and creating sustainable tourism. Hopefully something lasting and beneficial for everyone involved.
The fact that it also means working closely with the most compelling man I've ever met is just... a bonus.
I check my phone. He'll be here any minute if he’s prompt.
I smooth my hair, straighten my papers one more time, and take a deep breath of salt air. This is it. My chance to prove that buying Giuseppe's house wasn't just an impulsive mistake.
It’s the beginning of something amazing.
I hear footsteps on the stone path and turn to see Enzo approaching, looking perfectly put-together as always despite the early hour. My heart does that fluttering thing it's been doing every time I see him, but I push down the reaction and focus on the task at hand.
"Good morning," he says. He almost seems amused by our planned tour. Or maybe he’s curious? His expressions are impossible to read.
"Enzo! Perfect timing." I beam at him, unable to contain my excitement. This is going to be amazing.
I can feel it.