I decide to keep my dress on, changing into nicer sandals, and then we’re all cramming into his father’s classic Porsche 911. The interior is as flawless as Claudio’s is (or was until recently, ahem), but the backseats are tiny. I barely fit myself, while Claudio’s knees are rammed right up against his mother’s seat.
His father also drives like a maniac. I should be used to it by now, from the way that Claudio drives, and everyone else in this country, but his father seems to think he’s a rally driver. We go flying around the corners, Claudio and I rammed up against each other, his mother, praying in Italian and doing the sign of the cross.
The restaurant is about twenty minutes away from the house. We go down a gravel road for a while, rows and rows of olive trees passing us, their leaves twisting to silver in the wind. Finally, we stop in front of what looks like an old country house, albeit with half a dozen cars parked out front.
“Here we are,” his father says, slamming on the brakes so that Claudio and I nearly bonk our heads against the front seats. “Right on time.”
We wait for them to step out of the car, taking their time, and Claudio discreetly reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze.
There’s a lot more effort getting out of the car than getting into it, but soon we’re entering the restaurant, greeted by a dashing older man who seems to know the Romanos very well.
He leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant, my eyes taking it all in. The restaurant has red tiles, a low white ceiling with dark wood exposed beams. There are rustic touches everywhere, from the antique framed photos on the walls, to the lace curtains, to the hanging sausages near the kitchen.
It’s fairly small too, maybe seven tables, almost all of them occupied.
We sit down, and the waiter brings out a bowl of olives while we look through the menu.
“So, Grace,” his mother says to me after a bottle of red wine is ordered for the table. She folds her hands in front of her and gives me a sweet smile. “I know you are an artist like Claudio and my husband, because you don’t like to talk about your work. But please, what is the name of your series again?”
I finish my sip of wine. “The Sleuths of Stockbridge.”
“In Italian it is I Detective Scozzesi,” Claudio says to her. “I’ve read them all. They’re very good. You would like them.”
My heart does a little flip at that.
“I have not heard of them, but that doesn’t mean anything,” she says. “And if you write these books with another author, where is she?”
I have another sip of wine before I answer that one. “She’s dead.”
Her eyes widen, and she exchanges a look with her husband. “Oh. I am so sorry.”
I just nod. “She died over Christmas. Hit by a drunk driver. Suffice to say, I won’t be continuing the series anymore.”
The two of them lapse into silence, feeling sad. It’s inevitable whenever Robyn is brought up. The tragedy. The unfairness of it all.
“But she is writing a book on her own,” Claudio speaks up. “She won’t let me read it yet, but I believe it is a romance.”
“Oh?” his mother says, raising a single brow, that Romano talent. “I do like romance. Who doesn’t?”
“You’d be surprised,” I tell her.
She stares at me for me to go on.
I sigh. “As an author, you notice it. It’s always overlooked for literary fiction, whatever that means. People always thumb their nose at the genre, even though romance finds its way into every good story, every good movie or TV show.”
“Romance is art,” Claudio says. “No one knows that better than the Italians. Your book will do very well here, Grace.”
If I can finish it. I should be writing right now, instead of vacationing on Elba. But at least things are coming easier. I’m already at forty thousand words, which is a huge accomplishment. Now I’m just waiting for the right time to drop the sex scene. I can’t torture my characters for too long.
Especially when I’m being tortured myself. Every so often, I feel Claudio’s foot under the table, sliding up my calves, reminding me that I can’t have him at the moment.
“So is that why you’re here?” she asks after a moment.
I nod. “Aye. I thought Italy would give me some inspiration.”
“And has it?” asks his father. He eyes his son briefly.
I swallow, trying to keep my cheeks from going hot. Perhaps I can blame the flush on the wine. “It has. It’s, erm, very romantic here.”
“You know,” his mother says, a look of disdain on her face. “Claudio’s ex-wife is an agent. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. Jana Lee? She represents many famous authors. I would suggest she represent you, but that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Oh fuck. Here it is. Here is the moment.
I look at Claudio, fully expecting him to lie in order to sidestep a landmine, even though I think lying would be a bad idea in itself. What if word comes out down the line that Jana is my agent? All his mother needs to do is look me up on my long-neglected Twitter account and see that she’s proudly listed there.
Claudio lifts his wine glass to his lips. “Actually, that’s how we met. Jana is Grace’s agent.”
I try to keep my face from reacting, even though both of his parents look completely shocked.
“What?” his mother says, looking at the both of us. “She’s your agent?”
I nod. “She’s very good at what she does.”
She makes a face. “I have no doubt. But you must understand, she hasn’t been the best mother to Vanni.”
“Which has nothing to do with Grace,” Claudio says emphatically, pressing his fingers into the table. “And also, I’m his father. I am the judge. If I felt Jana wasn’t being a good mother, or being enough, I would call her on it. Talk it out like adults. We may be exes, but we communicate … well, usually.” I can tell he’s thinking of when Jana neglected to tell him I was using his house. “As it is, I think we’ve worked things out quite well.”
His father shrugs, obviously not caring too much about any of this.
His mother sighs. “Well, then I trust you to know what is right.”
After that, the Jana talk tapers off. I think we’ve escaped the worst of it, and telling the truth wasn’t so bad after all. Topics go back to more neutral affairs.
Then the food comes. Squid ink risotto. Stuffed sardines. Wild boar pasta. Pappardelle with wild mushrooms. I have guguglione, which is a stew of peppers and aubergine, a local dish and the restaurant’s most popular. I am in heaven.
By the end, all of us are in food comas, and we finish with glasses of Amaro, the sunset twinkling through the olive groves just outside our window, a fresh breeze coming in. Claudio’s father is paying the bill, and I’m just about to tell him I’ll be happy to pay my part (knowing he’ll dismiss that), when Claudio’s mother gasps. I look at her. Her eyes are wide and she’s looking over Claudio’s shoulder.
Claudio and I both turn at the same time.
There is a stunning woman in a very expensive looking black dress walking over to us, smiling with supermodel white teeth, and waving.
“Ciao, ciao!” she cries out.