Chapter Four
I keep that ball in my court for a couple days.
Longer than I should, really, but I think I’ve freaked myself out.
It’s annoying, because I am a grown-ass adult woman who should know what she’s doing by now, but instead, I have the business card of a girl much, much younger than me propped up on my desk, apparently so I can stare at it in confusion every time I sit down to write.
I am not prone to silly crushes or obsessions over women I barely know.
I may write about those things, but they are not my reality.
That being said, Marina Troiani has been on my mind for days now, and that’s new for me. And it’s the reason I’ve been sitting on her number and not reaching out.
Because I’m not sure I should.
I don’t know a thing about her, least of all whether she even plays on my team. I don’t think my gaydar works in Italy. I haven’t been able to pick out a single gay person since I’ve been here, which is slightly worrisome. They’re going to take my lesbian card if I’m not careful.
As I sit at my desk with my laptop open, a very sparsely worded page on the screen, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Serena.
Lonely. Lunch?
It makes me grin what a woman of few words she is when it comes to texting, but she can talk your ear off in person. I also feel a little pang for her, because I know her company is gone. But I’ve already gotten a DM from Sophie. I think we’re going to be fast friends, that kid and me.
As for going to Serena’s, I’m torn. I really should work. But I also need to eat, or I’ll collapse from hunger and won’t be able to write anyway, so it only makes sense that I should have some lunch. Right? Okay. Fine. Not so torn. I text back.
Lunch sounds great.
I really want to buy her a meal, because the woman has fed me since I met her, but she won’t hear of it and tells me to bring Reggie and come on over to her place.
Twenty minutes later, Reggie and I head out.
Mother Nature has decided to give the Italian people a break for a day or two, and it’s cooled off enough so that I don’t feel like the soles of my shoes are melting into the cobblestones as I walk.
Ria meets us at the door as if she’s been waiting for us—which she probably has—and greets us with a smile and a cheerful Ciao .
She gives Reggie some scratches on his head, and I appreciate that.
It bothers me when people ignore my dog. Like, say hi to him. How hard is it?
Ria leads us straight through the house and into the back courtyard, where Serena sits under an umbrella that’s opened over a round table laden with dishware, utensils, and a bowl of fruit.
She’s wearing bright yellow today, and her hair is up and wrapped with a yellow scarf.
Her cat’s eye sunglasses complete the look of wealthy eccentric, and it’s a role she plays magnificently.
I have grown very fond of her in a fairly short time.
“Lily, darling,” she says, standing up and opening her arms. “So good to see you.” She air-kisses both sides of my face, then sits back down and beckons for Reggie to hop into her lap.
Which he does without hesitation, the traitor.
“How goes the writing?” she asks after Ria pours us each a glass of sparkling water from the bottle in the center of the table.
I groan and pluck a green grape from the bowl.
Serena cocks her head and studies me.
“What?”
“Sweetheart, that’s been your response every time I’ve asked you how the writing is going.”
I nod. “Yup.”
“Seems to me that somebody of your success and—well, dare I say it—fame in your industry wouldn’t struggle so much.”
I squint at her, noting the slightly smug, satisfied look on her face, and then I point at her. “Somebody’s been googling me.”
Serena grins and takes a sip of her water before responding with, “Yes, but not me. I don’t google my friends. If I were, however, fourteen and had just met a writer I connected with, I might.”
“Sophie googled me,” I say with realization.
“Of course she did. She’s a teenager. They google everything.
” Serena waves a hand. “God forbid they have a conversation about something or ask a question. Nope. Google.” She sounds a bit like my dad right then, and a small poke of homesickness hits.
She sips again, then looks at me and asks, “How come you didn’t tell me? ”
“Tell you what?”
“That you’re famous! That you wrote Heartbreaker and Emily and more. Do you know how many times I’ve seen Heartbreaker ?” She’s leaning over the table now, and I realize she’s not being hurt or critical. She’s excited . “Like, a thousand. Easily.”
“I’m not famous,” I say, and it’s true. The writer of a movie rarely is. Directors, actors, even producers, sure. Writers? Not so much.
“You’re famous to me. And to Sophie.” She sits back in her chair and regards me with a grin.
“Now what?”
She shakes her head as Ria appears with salads for lunch. “Nothing at all. Just looking at my friend. My famous friend.”
“Stop it.”
She snorts a laugh and puts Reggie down so we can eat. “I’m just pokin’ at you.”
We dig in, and I wonder how it’s possible that even something as basic as salad tastes better in Rome. It makes no sense. I munch happily.
“So, what are you working on?”
I sigh as I gaze off into the courtyard where birds flit around a couple of olive trees and I chew.
“Oh, well, that’s ominous,” Serena says.
“I’m blocked,” I tell her, just blurt it out.
“Like, not in the ‘ha ha, every writer gets blocked now and then’ way I told Sophie. I mean, seriously blocked. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in weeks.
” I catch myself and close my eyes as I amend my words.
“Months. I’ve been blocked for months. I owe my publisher a new novel by mid-fall, and I can barely write my own name.
” I blow out a forceful breath and take a slug of my water, feeling a surprising sense of relief at having told somebody.
I don’t think I understood just how much it’s been eating me up inside.
“Is that why you’re here?” Serena asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes are kind. I don’t want her sympathy, I want her to take a whip and make me go back to my desk and write. But the sympathy also feels nice. I won’t be getting it from Scott, that’s for sure. Not that I blame him.
I nod. “Yeah. My agent is also a good friend, and he thought sending me to one of the most romantic cities in the world would…” I grimace. “Unstick me.”
“It hasn’t?”
“Not so far.”
“Maybe you haven’t seen enough,” Serena says, leaning forward on the table again. “Rome is filled with inspiration. Filled . Overflowing. The architecture, the art, the history, the food . Maybe you need to explore more of it.”
“I mean, you’re not wrong. I haven’t seen a ton.” I think about the business card on my desk. “Marina did offer to give me a tour.”
“She knows this city like the back of her hand. You should take her up on it. Speaking of inspiration…” She grins at me over the rim of her glass, then grabs a grape and pops it into her mouth, still grinning as she chews.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just that you two seemed to really…” Serena clears her throat. “Hit it off.”
I narrow my eyes at her and search her face. “And what does that mean?”
A snort. “Honey, if you’re not picking up what I’m laying down, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She chuckles and adds, “Sophie taught me that.”
“I mean, Marina’s definitely cute and all, but she’s super young and I’m not here to hook up and—” I’m interrupted by Serena opening and closing her hand like a mouth.
“Blah, blah, blah. You’re here. She’s here.
You’re obviously attracted to each other.
Have her show you the sights. Why not? You already know she’s fun.
I’ve told you she’s knowledgeable. And you might find some inspiration to…
unstick you, as you said. You know? Where’s the harm?
” She sits back in her chair, clearly satisfied with her argument, and I have to admit, it’s a good one.
“I mean, she did offer,” I say softly to my plate.
“She did. I’d take her up on it if I were you.” Serena is so matter-of-fact that I almost laugh. “She was flirting with you like crazy during the food tour.”
I look up at her, surprised.
“Oh, honey.” She smiles and reaches across the table to pat my hand as she shakes her head. “Please tell me you are not that blind.”
I make a face because sometimes, yeah, I am that blind.
Hi there! I think I’d like to take you up on that offer of a guided tour…
I sit up on the rooftop terrace of my hotel and stare at my phone.
Then I set it down without sending the text and pick up my wine glass.
And then I sigh like a woman with the weight of the whole goddamn world on her shoulders, which makes me roll my eyes at myself because what is my problem, anyway? Jesus.
And I pick up the phone again.
Reggie is lying next to me on the outdoor couch, and he lifts his head to give me a look that says, “Seriously? What are you doing?”
I set the phone down, text unsent.
Reggie groans and lowers his head, clearly disgusted with me.
I am officially ridiculous. Even my dog thinks so.
More sighing and more wine, and I gaze out at this incredible view that I’m shocked isn’t taken advantage of more by the guests of this hotel.
I guess maybe it’s similar to living someplace like Denver, where the view of the mountains on the horizon is just normal, and you get so used to it after a while that you barely notice.
This hotel isn’t tall. I’m in their penthouse on the top floor, and that’s only five stories up, but I can see the tops of so many buildings.
Rooftop gardens and living spaces are prominent.
There’s a little party of some sort going on to my left about four buildings over.
I can hear the music faintly, see the mingling bodies.
And then church bells begin, and when I say they ring through the air like it’s a Hallmark Christmas movie, I am not exaggerating.
They’re not obnoxiously loud, but they’re clear.
Melodic chimes that must echo through the city.
And as I’m thinking that, another set of church bells begins to chime from behind me.
Soon, there are at least four different sets of bells singing to Rome.
A glance at my watch tells me it’s six o’clock.
I sit and sip and listen. Even Reggie is paying attention now.
It’s beautiful. An almost religious experience, which I’m sure is the point.
When they finally end, I pick the phone back up.
I don’t know why I’m hesitant. Marina offered.
It’s not like I’m asking her a favor, right?
She offered. And Serena’s right: I clearly need something to help me with inspiration, or Scott’s gonna have my head.
The last thing I need is for my publisher to request I return their advance.
It’s hard to come back from had to give back her advance ’cause she didn’t deliver.
Finding another publisher after that—because I’d likely have to—would be a challenge, to say the least.
“That’s how I’ll look at this, right, Reg?
” When my dog meets my gaze, I go on. “As research. Work.” He stares at me for a good five seconds before putting his head down and snuffling out a breath that makes me think he’s just done with my crap.
“Fine,” I say, then snatch up my phone and hit send on the text before I can think about it any more.
I drop it face down on the couch and take a slug of my wine.
Okay. It’s fine. It’s done. She’s probably having dinner or she’s got—
Ping!
Holy shit. That can’t be her already.
I pick up the phone and slowly turn it over.
It is. It’s her.
Fantastic! her text reads. How about we start with lunch or dinner so I can learn what you’d like to see?
This seems reasonable. I mean, how will she know what to show me if she doesn’t know what I’m interested in, right? I text back.
Sounds perfect. When?
The gray dots bounce and her text comes quickly. Tomorrow? Lunch?
It’s not like I need to check my super busy schedule. I know what it’ll say. Work. That’s it. Or maybe some variation of it. Write, maybe. Or Try to Make a Living, that’s a good one. Pretend You Know How to Write is a favorite, one that’s being used more and more often lately.
Great , I type back.
How about I pick you up? Meet you in the lobby at half past eleven?
Gotta say, I like a woman who doesn’t wait for me to make all the decisions. Been there, done that, it’s fucking exhausting. I type back, Looking forward to it , send it, and set the phone down, feeling like I’ve just run a race.
I reach for the wine bottle and refill my glass.
It’s a lovely white with a name I can’t pronounce that Marco left in my room when I arrived.
I sit back on the couch cushions, sip my wine, and go back to admiring the view.
Reggie is snoring now, so he’s clearly over the view, but I’m not sure I ever will be. It’s too magnificent.
Something many people don’t understand about being a writer is that there is a large portion of the job that doesn’t involve the physical act of writing at all.
There’s the thinking and the working out of plot lines and the development of characters and a lot of that stuff happens—at least for me—when I stare off into space.
It also happens when I do other things. Tending to my houseplants is a good way for me to work out a kink in a storyline.
Many of my ideas have come to me in the shower.
Running the vacuum often helps me create just the right Dark Moment for whatever I’m working on.
I can remember being accused more than once of being lazy, of lying around, and now I shut that memory down before it can surface all the way.
No, thank you. I’m going to sit here on this lovely rooftop, drink my fabulous Italian wine, and try hard not to look forward to the idea of seeing Marina again.
Two out of three ain’t bad. Right?