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 tobe 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 cheerfulCiao. 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 wroteHeartbreakerandEmilyand more. Do you know how many times I’ve seenHeartbreaker?” She’s leaning over the table now, and I realize she’s not being hurt or critical. She’sexcited. “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.
