12. Following the Direction of the Muse
Chapter 12
Following the Direction of the Muse
T wo weeks on the island, and every day felt like I was waking up to a new scene. Maybe my work schedule was routine, but the beauty of the island was not. It reminded me of reading an enthralling novel more than once, always finding new things to discover each time.
Same with the story swirling inside of my head.
Every morning, I woke up before the sun rose in the sky, and in the glow of flickering candlelight, I sat at a plain desk and wrote before the balcony while the gauze curtains fluttered with the soft breeze.
My phone was all I had still, but Giulia, who was my “boss,” said she was going to speak to her husband about getting me a typewriter from the mainland. I had never enjoyed music to write to before, but after I decided to go with the flow, I started listening to it as background noise. Maybe because the music I enjoyed was mostly romantic.
A few times, I was almost late to work because the story had consumed me. I had forgotten all about the time and poured the story inside of me onto the page, er, screen. The story flowed as the water did around me, and I was almost afraid my word count was going to be as wide and deep as well. But it didn’t matter if I published it or not. I was pulled inside of it, and I couldn’t untangle myself, nor did I want to.
Writing never felt like a job to me, and neither did my job on the island.
It should have been illegal to label “work” here as such. Maybe some people truly had to work, but I had been assigned one of the citrus stalls leading into town. I was a fruit peddler! I sold lemons and blood oranges. A Sicilian couple who had moved to the island, Iliana and Pirtinaci (Pur-ti-na-chee), delivered the citrus every morning, fresh from their fields, and I sold the fresh goods to whoever wanted them. I also made cold drinks on the spot from either the lemons or blood oranges. It was a booming business on the island, and rarely did I go a day without selling out.
During the slow times, I daydreamed about what I was going to write that night. Actually, it was past daydreaming and into obsession territory. As I walked to work, I built on the last sentence I had written that morning. Sometimes, if I went a stretch of time without a customer, I’d quickly pull out my phone and write notes or entire paragraphs if I could. The story had taken hold of me and refused to let go.
I hadn’t even given the characters names yet. It almost didn’t matter; not yet, anyway. I used Ghost for him and CK for her—Curious Kitty. The man in the window was my inspiration for Ghost. And for Curious Kitty…I found myself using…me for inspiration. I felt I needed to impart real feelings into the words to truly feel what CK felt when she described the first time she saw Ghost. Or as she roamed the streets of her new home and constantly looked for him.
Which, I did. I constantly looked over my shoulder, up the hill, my breath always catching when I noticed movement coming down. But I couldn’t recall a time I saw anyone else climbing that high. It was as if the furthest point of the island was off limits, and I had broken the rules and trespassed.
Maybe what I’d caught was a figment of the light? My camera distorting it into what looked like a man?
I wasn’t sure, but I was getting anxious. My word well was starting to dry up, and I knew it was because that first sighting had me intrigued. It sent my imagination into overdrive, and the island supplied the rest. I was going to need another hit of that mysterious top of the island to keep going.
And it wasn’t like this island wasn’t full of men worthy enough to become the leading man in a romance book. The Fausti men could almost make a woman tongue-tied. I’d seen it happen with a few of the other girls. But just like back home, I noticed good looking guys, even though that was a lame term for the Faustis, but there was still no click . Just a sense of curiosity that I wondered if all writers had.
I studied the way the men walked, talked, interacted with their wives or other men. I watched them eat. Study the lemons and blood oranges, deciding on which ones to choose. Watching people helped flesh my characters out. It imparted a realism about them that a sculptor would use, like studying the naked body while sculpting the human form.
It was worth noting, though, that the Fausti men—easily pegged for Fausti because the resemblance was strong with them—in casual clothes almost seemed like they were airing out after a long, hard winter. I wondered if it had anything to do with the suits they wore. When they came to the island, no man was without one, but once they were here, it seemed more acceptable to go without. I guessed it was hard to swim in a suit.
And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that none of the men I’d seen were my ghost. I could just feel it.
“Pisolino!” I smiled down at my four-legged sidekick. He found me before every break in my day and in the evenings before quitting time, and he walked me home like he was part German Shepard.
He hopped up on the covered bench next to me, like he owned the spot, and his tail started flicking as he watched with me as island life seemed to move at its own pace, like the gentle breezes .
We sold out of lemons and oranges earlier than normal, and I closed shop, setting a sign on top of the baskets that said, Tutto Esaurito . Sold out. After I lowered the cover, I moved back with Pisolino on my heels and took a picture of the stand with my phone. I had forgotten to grab one, and I wanted to remember it.
The body was wooden with a white, yellow, and orange trim. The cover was white and blue. A painted picture of citrus fields was the backdrop underneath the cover. The writing on the side, Agrumi , was handwritten too. My bench was right in front of the backdrop, in the shade. The machine and all I needed to make the iced drinks was on the side. An old wooden scale hung from the wooden stall, and it had a gas lantern that turned on by itself in the evening. It was so picturesque, and I smelled of a fresh citrus perfume every evening. Even in the mornings. The scent clung to my skin and hair.
I looked to the left and to the right, unsure which way to go. I could grab dinner in town, where the staff ate, or go to the apartment and cook my own dinner and try to write. That morning, though, I had gotten frustrated because getting the number of words down that I usually did felt like milking a dried up well.
“I’m worried,” I said to Pisolino. “What if the words are gone? What if it was just that first feeling of falling in love—which I’ve only ever experienced with this story—and the excitement of it is already starting to fade? Is it a fake? A fugazi?”
He rubbed himself against my legs, his new collar I made for him soft against my skin. Nonna was an excellent seamstress, and she taught me how to sew. I wasn’t as good as she was, but I could handle a dress, and it was easy enough to make Pisolino a collar from fabric I bought from one of the stalls. He looked fancy in purple velvet. I’d get a tag made for him once we left. Giulia said it was okay if he wanted to adopt me too.
Leaving.
That seemed to tear my heart out at the mere thought of it. I wasn’t sure why, but in that small time I’d been here, the island had become home to me. My stalker passed my mind once or twice, but that was it. I felt so safe here.
As Pisolino circled me, I took out the map from my crossbody. I’d been all over the island, but there were still a few places left to go. I wasn’t in the mood to explore though. The sun would be setting soon, and parts of the island didn’t have electricity, so it could get dark. There was one spot that drew my eye every time I referenced the map. An area with a big X drawn across it. I’d made a joke and asked Giulia, “Is this where the lost treasure is buried on the island?”
She gave me a stern look and said, “NO! This place we do not go. It is haunted, and the ghost there will inhabit you, and you will die.”
Okay, noted.
I didn’t need another one of those. Especially one who had the power to get inside of me and… what? Steal my heart? That was a very promising premise to a sci-fi novel—or would it be horror?—but I shook my head. My heart was deep into the pages of the romance story already.
The sun was growing softer, the breezes more tepid than cool, and I decided to head into town for dinner. Pisolino became my shadow. When he’d first started following me, I was afraid he wouldn’t return to the apartment if he traveled with me too far into town, but probably because I fed him fresh fish from a fishmonger every day— I hunted for him —he followed me around and was always in the apartment. When I was there and even when I wasn’t. He entered through one of the windows or the balcony. He was a good climber.
As the sun began to set, the island grew pink, blushing over the water, which seemed neon in its glow. Tiny fairy lights—there must have been more than a thousand strings of them—woke up to take over lighting the paths. Their reflections landed on the narrow streets and brightened them. Music played in the distance. It was Italian, but I’d never heard anything like it.
After I entered the tavola calda (a cafeteria-like setting), I asked one of the guys who worked at the fish market what the music was. He said he wasn’t entirely positive, but he thought it was what ancient Roman music would have sounded like. He offered me a seat at his table, but I thanked him and declined. He was young, boyish, and whenever he winked at me, I got the feeling he wanted more than dinner.
I wasn’t interested in a hookup. I was in a semi-relationship before I left New Orleans, and it ended on a dull note, as usual. Remy was his name, and I decided to block his calls while I waited at the airport to leave for Italy. I tried to explain to him about the click thing, but he refused to believe me. He said he could change that. I would just have to give him time. But I knew forever wouldn’t be long enough, and I refused to settle for anything less. I’d rather go to my grave as a spinster. I preferred to let that area of my life collect dust.
Love was the one thing in my life that I knew my standards were almost too high for. Nonna used to listen to me recount my dates, and she would get this knowing grin on her face.
“That’s my girl,” it always seemed to say.
She never gave me a hard time about it. I think she knew my parents’ relationship had royally screwed with me, but she was proud that I refused to lower my standards just to have a man in my life.
Food, though? I’d try anything. Worst case scenario there—I didn’t want to think about it. Still. The porcelain throne was easier to survive than wrong love.
Balance.
That was the key to life, if anyone asked me.
Dinner was fresh and delicious, as always. I had lost some weight since I arrived. Not because I stopped eating, or didn’t have enough, either. I ate double, or more, what I did in New Orleans. But I was walking more, and the fresh food was void of preservatives. I felt better, physically, than I had in my entire life. I stopped for gelato after, Pisolino on my heels, and instead of going straight back to the apartment, I decided to walk along the shore.
I didn’t put my earbuds in. The sound of the water was peaceful. A susurrus that seemed to be the sea whispering its many secrets to the shore. A few of the guys from the tavola calda had the same idea as me and were walking together. The winker winked at me again, and I wondered if I should put my earbuds in to scare him off.
All my life there was something…peculiar about me. And when I blocked the world out and listened to music, I really got into it, just like I had on the bus. I lip-synched like I was the actual artist, but no sound came out. I added hand motions, and, well, it creeped most people out for whatever reason.
One girl in high school had told me it seemed like I was casting spells on them.
That made me laugh.
The guys looked at me.
I laughed even harder.
They went in another direction.
Pisolino rubbed himself against my legs and purred.
“Ready to go home?” I asked him.
He ran ahead of me, so I took that as a yes. I watched him disappear into the darkness, thinking how I had never told him I was taking him with me when I left the island. Deep down, I wondered if he would have a better life here or there. Yeah, I took care of him here, made life a little easier, but he had probably been born here, and the island had been taking care of him since then.
Sighing, I followed behind, glancing in the windows of the different shops. A girl with a scarf in her hair rolled pasta in one. The one next door, three women made cannoli. My eyes were still on them, even if my feet had started forward, and my body collided with another.
“Oh!” we both seemed to say at the same time.
Then we both laughed.
“Aria Bella?” the woman asked .
I squinted at her. “Scarlett?”
“Ari!” She pulled me into a rose-scented hug.
I held her back. I had met Scarlett a few times, and I had always been starstruck by her. She was a famous ballerina and almost too gorgeous for words, especially with more curves than I recalled. Her auburn hair was cut shorter than I remembered, too, but everything else seemed the same, except for the silver in her hair. She was still pale, with the same knowing jade eyes. She had the same eyes as Eva, except in a different color. The same eyes Nonna said I had in a different color. Hazel.
The man next to her. I didn’t remember him, and I didn’t want to stare, but…
Scarlett grinned at me. “Ari, this is my husband, Brando Fausti. Brando, this is Aria Bella. Her Nonna, Mrs. Elisabetta Bella, used to work for my parents.”
He nodded like he already knew this, then he nodded at me. He said nothing, but damn…he was gorgeous and intense, and the entire time, he kept his hand on his wife protectively. Talk about gentlemanly.
“Nice to meet you too,” I said, even though he hadn’t said it. I did that sometimes. Reacted to things people were probably thinking before they could give voice to the thought.
Brando glanced at his wife. She smiled at him and turned back to me. It was like she had said something to him.
“Walk with us?” she asked. “We’re out for a late dinner.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
After Scarlett and I caught up on the general state of life, she cleared her throat.
“You’re here, so it all worked out getting you from Naples to the island?”
“Yeah, it was all fine. Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” she said. “Are you enjoying the island?”
“I love it!” I said with way too much excitement. I grinned. “As you can tell. ”
She laughed. “I do too. Even though this island has its share of dark history, it’s mostly?—”
“Romantic,” I said.
She studied my face. “Was everything okay, before I mean? The reason you were late getting to the boat in time?”
I couldn’t lie to this woman, just like I couldn’t lie to Eva. Lying to them was like lying to myself—a waste of time. I had to tell someone. I should tell someone.
“Not really,” I said. “I—I caused an accident, by accident, while I was on the bus to Naples. A…” I stopped for a second, finding it hard to go on. Finding it hard to breathe. But I pushed through with a whispered, “A woman was killed.” This was going to be the real kicker. Especially if these two were fans. “Rosaria Caffi.”
Brando’s eyes didn’t snap to mine but seemed to stick to the side of his wife’s face.
“It was an accident,” I rushed to say again. “I had a bad dream, woke up thinking someone was after me, and it scared the driver. He swerved. She was driving really fast, it seemed. The cliffs are high,” I lamely finished with.
Scarlett reached out for my hand and squeezed. “I know,” she whispered. “Rosaria was married to my brother-in-law.”
Oh.
My.
God.
Rosaria was a Fausti!
She had told me to stay away from her husband.
Was he on this island?
Of course he isn’t.
He’s home mourning his wife!
Panic settled deep inside of my chest, and I tried to hide it, but my face felt stuck in this weird limbo. It was frozen between shocked eyes and a trembling lip.
And what had Scarlett meant?
I know .
She knew?
Did the Fausti family know it was me who had caused the bus to swerve? Or did she know that it was truly an accident? Or was it? Sometimes it felt as if Rosaria and I had beef in another lifetime, and I was somehow getting back at her.
This was all so effing weird!
I finally took control of myself. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I whispered. “She sang beautifully.”
It wasn’t Scarlett who gave me a peculiar look at that, but her husband. He looked between us and then shook his head, like he should have expected it.
Expected what?
It was hard to get a read on him. The only thing I felt was the love and adoration he had for his wife. Scarlett…she was neutral. I felt nothing coming from her one way or another, I just pieced together the clues her tone and body language shared. She seemed to get a read on me, though.
She squeezed my hand, forgiveness in her touch that words could never do justice. “Would you like to have dinner with us?”
“Thank you,” I said, touching my stomach. “But I’ve already eaten, and I’m full. It was so good seeing you again though. Will you be around for a while?”
“A while,” she said, and she hugged me again, harder this time.
Her rose scent lingered on my clothes as Pisolino met up with me on the walk home. I walked in a daze, wondering if this entire island knew what I had done, or if it was just Scarlett and her husband. What good would worrying do now? None, I decided. It was what it was. Maybe in a day or two, some bulky Fausti would come to my door and escort me off the island. Hopefully I wouldn’t “accidentally” fall over the boat halfway from here to the mainland of Italy.
I stopped in my tracks.
The “they” Rosaria had referred to.
The Faustis ?
And what about the man with the bun at the nape of his neck and the scar on his face?
“You have killed the wicked witch of Italy, ah? I will alert the village.”
After spending time on this island and seeing Fausti flesh every day, I knew he was related to them somehow. How did I not remember that?! And what was with me lately? Why was I attracting so much trouble?
At my apartment, I waited right outside of the door, looking up the hill.
I was almost tempted to climb it, to see if the ghost would come out to play in the darkness, but a menacing hiss came from my feet. Pisolino stood on all four of his paws like he was trying to make himself seem bigger. A fat orange tabby was coming straight for the open door. Pisolino took the first swipe, and they started scrapping in the middle of the street, making sounds that were disturbing in the night.
The orange tabby had weight on Pisolino, but Pisolino was lithe and fast. Still. I didn’t want to see either of them get hurt. I knew better than to come between them, so I ran upstairs and filled a cup with water. I slipped going down the stairs but righted myself in no time and had enough water to spare. I doused them both with the contents of the cup, and it broke them apart.
Trembling, I pointed to the door, ordering Pisolino to get inside. Unlike a dog, he refused to listen. He had some patches of hair missing, and the other cat’s eye was gouged. I didn’t go near him, though, because he was hunching down, like he might go after me. I decided to go inside. A minute or two later, Pisolino followed and jumped on the sofa, licking his wounds.
I shook my head at him, then took a bath. Afterward, I sat at my desk naked, my hair wet and dripping cool water on my hot skin, and lit my candle. My phone was small in the middle of the midsized desk, but I tried to convince myself it was good enough. I played romantic music .
The bright screen stared back at me, empty and mocking. No words would come.
I could try to sleep, but I knew once my head hit the pillow, I’d be so frustrated with myself for not getting a word down, I’d be up and down all night long until I did.
Sighing, I typed out:
Her second week on the island, two male cats got into a pissing contest—one lost fur, and the other an eye. She had had enough of the avoidance, of small situations that didn’t bring her close to where she wanted to be. The next day, she would follow her muse and would return to the spot where she first encountered her Ghost.