Chapter 11
After returning to Rome, Aida threw herself into her work with a desperate fervor, trying to escape the emptiness that had
settled within her. Two months had passed since she left London, since she cut ties with Graham and called off the wedding.
She hadn’t spoken to Erin. The betrayal still festered, but beneath the anger was something heavier—grief for the friend she
had once trusted, the girl who had been part of her life for as long as she could remember.
Rome was alive with the energy of tourists flocking to the city as the season ramped up, but the bustling crowds and vibrant
streets only served to highlight how isolated she felt. At least her days were consumed by the demands of MODA, and she welcomed
the distraction, using her work to numb the lingering pain. Each site she recorded, each artifact she cataloged, was a small
victory toward keeping the ache at bay.
But even the rigor of her work couldn’t fully silence the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her. So, following Fran’s
suggestion, Aida had turned to a different kind of escape. Mo’s words about writing something that people would want to read
continued to ring in her ears, prompting her to dig up the manuscript she had nearly forgotten, a mystery titled The Shadows of Tuscany that she had abandoned years ago, doubting her talent for fiction.
It became her refuge. Aida threw herself into editing The Shadows of Tuscany with a single-minded intensity. Each chapter she revised allowed her to escape the relentless replay of her last moments
with Graham, the bitter taste of betrayal, and the void of their abandoned future together. She wrote at a breathtaking pace
when she wasn’t working for MODA, and before she knew it, the edits were complete. She passed the finished manuscript to Mara,
the new agent that MODA had arranged for her, feeling a strange mix of relief and trepidation.
But Aida didn’t let herself linger in the uncertainty of what would happen next. She immediately began working on a new project,
The Botanist’s Muse, inspired by her earlier conversation with Felix about Goethe’s Italian Journey. This novel, set in eighteenth-century Italy, would weave together art and science through the eyes of a young woman caught
between the ambitions of a famous German writer and a charismatic Italian painter. Diving into this fresh narrative, Aida
found a different kind of solace, a way to channel her academic interests into something imaginative and compelling.
As she crafted scenes and developed her characters, she was no longer just working to forget her past. She was beginning to
imagine a future where she could create something beautiful from the wreckage. It was a means to reclaim a part of herself,
to find meaning beyond the pain. With every page she wrote, Aida felt the faint stirrings of hope—the possibility that maybe,
just maybe, she could write her own new beginning. It made her feel alive. No, it made her happy.
One sunny June morning, Aida sat at the breakfast table in the garden loggia. “Mamma mia,” she said aloud. She put down her coffee cup, alarmed at the news she read on the tablet before her.
“è tutto ok?” Chef Ilario set a plate of eggs and sausage on the table before her. He prided himself on being able to make a proper American
breakfast, which had always amused Aida. She was more partial to a good chocolate-filled cornetto pastry but a couple times
a week she indulged the chef.
“Sì. It’s just that they’re closing the Goethe museum indefinitely. It lost its funding. They may have to sell off the collection.”
“Is that tragic?”
“It is to me. It was the first place I recorded when I first came here to Italy. I have such love for Goethe and his Italian Journey,” she said. Losing the museum was like losing a part of her connection to her research and the novel she was pouring herself
into. “It’s also vital to my research. I was hoping to revisit some of Goethe’s original manuscripts and personal letters
there, to weave more authenticity into the story I’m writing.”
“MODA certainly has enough money to support it. What if you talked to them? If you recorded its history, it must be important
to them too.” Ilario poured her a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice from a carafe on the marble counter next to them.
“I’ll mention it to Trista. Or Mo, whenever he shows up again.”
“That bloody bastard,” Pippa said from her spot on the other side of the counter, where she was mixing something Aida couldn’t
see.
Aida grinned. Pippa’s hatred for Mo wasn’t anything she tried to hide, not even from him. He egged her on every chance he
got. Aida and Ilario had to intervene on more than one occasion before Pippa completely lost her cool and threw a knife at
him.
“You’re right. He probably wouldn’t be the right one to ask. I can always try Disa and Fran next time I’m in London.”
“MODA won’t do nuffin’ for ya.” Pippa stopped her mixing. “Johannes asked ’em more than once to chuck in a few quid for stuff
’e reckoned was important, and they always said nah.”
Ilario cocked his head at her, his mouth twisted, eyebrow raised. He switched to English. “I don’t recall this, Pippa.”
“My memory is better than yours, ya ol’ goat.”
“No! You can’t remember a single recipe. But I have them all here.” He tapped the side of his head.
Pippa rolled her eyes. “’Cause yer makin’ ’em up every bleedin’ time ya cook.”
Ilario winked at Aida. He lowered his voice. “She might be right about that.”
After breakfast, Aida went to find Trista, who was where she almost always was, bent over her desk in her office.
“Trista, did you see the news about the Goethe museum?”
She lifted her watery eyes from the computer in front of her. “Yes.”
Aida was surprised by her assistant’s response. “Doesn’t it upset you?”
“No, being upset by something like that does no good.”
“We spent so much time there though. It was the first place I researched for MODA. I’d hate to see it close. It’s also crucial
for my novel research. Losing access to those collections would be a huge blow.”
Trista clicked her nails against the desk. “What are you asking me?”
Aida’s frustration rose within her, a tight ball that sat at the back of her neck. “Do you think MODA might consider giving
them funding? They must have charitable obligations. Or Lady Ozie might.”
For a moment, Aida thought that Trista might laugh.
“No, they wouldn’t consider it. After MODA records a location, they never go back.”
Aida had stopped asking Trista why she was doing this work, because the aide never had an answer for her. But now she couldn’t
keep that curiosity in.
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t MODA care about the location afterward? They went to all the trouble to understand it in
the first place.”
“The project is over. There is no need to go back to it.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why doesn’t it matter anymore? The very reason we cataloged it is to record how it makes people
happy. And now the happiness will be gone.”
Trista returned to staring at her computer. “And your point is?” She didn’t look up.
Aida knew she wasn’t going to get anything else out of her assistant. Angry and disheartened, she left Trista to her work
and retreated to her own office. She slipped through the glass double doors to the balcony that overlooked the garden, leaned
on the marble railing, and stared down into the squares of cypress below.
Several parakeets flitted between the bushes, their green wings a blur, their song a balm to Aida’s frustration. She had found
herself coming to this spot more and more often lately, as she mused on the increasing uneasiness that had started to creep
into her work at MODA. During the first three months of the job, when it was just a trial period, she could ignore the weird
ways of the company. Now, where there was once just weirdness, there was a wrongness, an undercurrent that could sweep her under if she let it. She tried to pinpoint when the unrest had lodged. She suspected
it was before she returned to Boston, but she couldn’t fix her feelings about any specific place or incident. When she attempted
to recall those moments, her memory was hazy and indistinct. And when she reflected on her duties for MODA, she could only
find enjoyment in her work, an extremely lucrative paycheck in her pocket, and full support for her shift toward work in fiction.
She especially loved writing novels. So why did she feel so weirdly discontent?
“I’m only thirty-four,” she said to the parakeets. “I can’t be losing my mind yet.”
One of the birds flew up to the railing near her and alighted for the briefest second. It noted Aida, then swooped back down
to be with its friends. Aida sighed and went back inside.
She’d barely settled into her chair when her phone buzzed.
She almost sent the call to voicemail but paused when Mara’s name flashed on the screen.
Her new agent was another strange thing to come out of this bizarre MODA arrangement.
It still baffled Aida that she had been assigned an agent before she even had a finished book to show for it, let alone the credentials to justify one.
The whole process had been surreal, moving at a speed that didn’t quite seem real.
Mara had been enthusiastic from the beginning, oddly so, as if she already knew The Shadows of Tuscany was destined to sell. And sell fast.
It turned out she was right. “Aida, I’ve got fantastic news!” Mara’s voice crackled with excitement. “HarperCollins is thrilled
about The Shadows of Tuscany!”
Aida’s breath caught in her throat. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m very serious. They loved the concept—the suspense, the layered narrative, the way you’ve crafted the mystery against
the beautiful backdrop of the Tuscan countryside. They think it’s exactly what readers are looking for, especially with the
growing appetite for atmospheric, character-driven mysteries. But here’s the thing—they want to fast-track the publication