“Rome.” He’s practically giddy. I can hear it in his voice.
“Rome?RomeRome? As inItalyRome? That Rome?”
“Exactly that Rome, yes.”
Okay, so not isolated. Not close, either, not by a long shot. “Ugh. I don’t know, Scott.”
“Come on, Lils, all that history? The art? Thefood? I mean, think of the wine, for Christ’s sake.” We both chuckle at that, and he goes on, but his voice does that softening thing again, and it occurs to me that he might actually be worried about me. “Don’t you think you could find some inspiration there?”
I hate to let him down, as my agent and as my friend. And I am kind of stuck as to how I can break this block. “Lemme think about it?”
His relief is almost palpable. “Absolutely. In the meantime, I’ll send you some of the info Devon’s sister gave me. Places to visit, restaurants to check out. I even have a place for you to stay.”
“You’ve done some work on this already, I see.” I want to be mildly insulted, but I’m actually not. I’m not surprised either. Scott is good at his job because he’s always prepared. Like I said: He excels at badassery.
We hang up after I promise Iwillactually think about it, that I’m not just killing time before saying no. Using my toes, I spin my chair around so my back is to my desk, and I take a good look around my office.
It’s a sizable space because I live in a sizable house. There are four framed movie posters hanging on the walls—four of my books have been made into screenplays. There are awards on one shelf, polished and shiny, some glass, others brass or gold-plated, various writing awards. Not bad for a romance writer. We don’t get a ton of credit, since we’re rarelyconsidered “literary.” Which is bullshit, but don’t get me started. That’s another topic for another day. I’ve got photos of Reggie everywhere, because he’s adorable, and also because I’m a childless, crazy dog mom who loves her pet more than life itself. My desk is large, my laptop state of the art. My chair is leather, ergonomic, and expensive. I had shelves built on two walls and over and around the doorway, and they’re stocked with books. It’s my favorite room in the house, truth be told. I love the huge windows, especially in the winter, when I can sit at my desk and watch the snow fall as I write. It’s peaceful and comfortable, this room. Overall, it’s the office of a highly successful person.Iam a highly successful person. I am very good at my job.
Or at least I used to think I was.
I take in a slow, deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth.
“Rome, huh?” I say it out loud and the words seem to float around the room, hanging in the air like clouds.
I do actually think about it. For the entire day—the entire day of not writing, let me clarify. When I’m not writing—and when I’m supposed to be, but struggling, I do other stuff. Laundry, for example. I walk Reggie. I watch TV. I bake. I surf the internet under the guise of “research,” but really, I just look for cool clothes and things for my house. I would leave and go do stuff, except I feel like if I stay in my house, I’m at leasttryingto work. This block is bad, though. Worst I’ve ever had. I’m trying my best not to drown in concern, so I decide to scrutinize my own face in the mirror while I ponder Rome. Why? Because I want to see what a procrastinating and completely creatively empty writer looks like? I don’t know. Don’t ask me stuff like that.
It’s not a bad face, if I do say so, but it seems like there’s a new line every time I look. My eyes are a pretty cool blue, and now they crinkle at the corners when I smile. They didn’t used to do that. I’ve got decent teeth, an oval face, and a strong jawline,thanks to my dad. Because of my amazing hair stylist, my hair is a nice rich shade of light brown, and I don’t have a single gray. Today. Ask me again in about three weeks. I always wanted to be taller, but I’ve had to settle for an average-to-shortish five foot five. I tuck some hair behind my ear and tip my head as I stare at my reflection and think about how there are still only two words on my computer screen.
“Well, Lily Chambers, what do you think? Maybe we should go to Rome, yeah?”
Chapter Two
“How was the cruise?” I’m on the phone with my mom. I’ve been in Rome for a week, but she and my dad were off on a ship in the Caribbean when I left, so I haven’t talked to her since I decided to hit up Europe in search of something—anything, at this point—to get me writing.
“No, no,” she says, and I can picture her waving my question away like a pesky fly. “My cruises are always the same. But you arein Italy. I want to hear all about it. How is Rome? Is the pizza as good as they say? How ’bout the wine?” If her voice is any indication, my mom is practically bursting out of her skin to hear all about my self-imposed retreat.
“Rome is…” I don’t want to tell her that I haven’t really done much more than walk Reggie and eat at a little café around the corner from my hotel, because I’m trying so hard to work. She’d get worried, probably decide I’m sick and/or dying, and she’d be on the next plane to Rome. That’s the last thing I need. “It’s good!” I’m likely overdoing the cheerfulness, but I push on. “The pizza’s amazing. The pasta is even better. And the wine? Incredible. And no headache!” None of those are lies, at least. “I’m gonna come home with several extra pounds, I think, and I’m not even mad about it.”
“And have you made any new friends?”
“Ma. I’m here to work. I’m not in college.” I try to keep my tone light because she’s just asking a question, and my mother is the most salt-of-the-earth, kind person you’ll ever meet. Even when she’s mad at you, she’s nice about it.
“I know. I just don’t want you to be lonely while you’re there.”
“I’m not lonely. I have Reggie.” At the mention of his name, Reggie lifts his head from the pillow on the couch that he’s decided is his now. I hold up the phone like he’s a toddler and tell him, “It’s Grandma. Say hi.” She baby-talks to him like she always does, and his ears prick up, and his head tilts, and I’m pretty sure he’s really listening to her. They have a thing, my mom and my dog.
We talk about a few more mundane topics like we usually do. My mom and I have always been close, and we talk just about every day, if we can. That means there’s rarely anything new for each conversation, so that’s where the mundane stuff comes in. Recipes we’ve tried or want to, books we’ve read or want to, movies and TV shows we’ve seen or want to. It’s mundane, and also wonderful. I do know how lucky I am to have such a great relationship with my mom. I promise.
After we’ve hung up, I glance over at Reggie. “What do you think? Walk?”
At the mention of the W-word, he uses the step I made him from the ottoman in the sitting area to get off the couch, then he spins in a fast circle at my feet, his way of saying yes, he would absolutely like to go please, Mom. Right now.
One thing I didn’t expect in Italy—and don’t ask me why, I have no idea, I checked WeatherBug and everything—is the heat. Yes, it’s August. Yes, August is hot. But I didn’t expect it to be surface-of-the-sun hot. Living-in-a-cast-iron-frying-pan hot. I have sweat more in the past five days than I have all summer back home, which says a lot because back home ishumid. Here? It’s just fucking hot. So, I snap my doggie kit bag around my waist and make sure Reggie’s little water bottle is full, because the heat’s kind of rough on him, too. Then I clip him into his harness and leash, swoop him up, and we head out to the elevator.
The name of my hotel is Hotel Cavatassi, which I love saying out loud. Such a cool word, Cavatassi. I’ve actually caught myself whispering it as I enter or leave. I like the way it feels, and since words are pretty much my life, it kinda makes sense that I do it. I wave to Marco, the concierge sitting behind the small front desk, and he waves and smiles back. He is a beautiful Italian gentleman with dark eyes and thick black hair, both on his head and on his face. His greetings always seem very genuine to me, but I realize I’m also staying in the penthouse, so maybe he feels obligated. Regardless, I appreciate his kindness, especially being so far from home.
It’s late morning and the sun is high, and because it’s closing in on lunchtime—and there are many restaurants close by the hotel—scents hang in the air. Basil. Tomatoes. Garlic. Fresh bread. Italy smells goddamn delicious, that’s for sure.
