Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Matteo’s gray sweatpants hung low on his narrow waist, and the muscles in his back flexed as he shifted his hips from side to side, pulling off some impressive dance steps. The performance went on a few minutes before he lowered the flame on the burner, transferred crisp bacon from the pan to a plate, and turned around. He took two steps toward the table before spotting me.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to wonder if I should leave a tip for the performer.”
He walked over and pressed a chaste kiss to my mouth. “Would the tip be for last night’s performance or this morning’s?”
I smiled. I didn’t have enough euros to show my appreciation for last night. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since four. I wanted to get the things I needed to do done before you woke.”
“Four a.m.? We didn’t go to sleep until at least midnight.”
“Breakfast will be a bit. Until then, I’ll make you a caffé, yes?”
“I will never say no to your cappuccino.”
Matteo pointed to the table with the spatula in his hand. There was an envelope at the spot where I’d been sitting last night. “I almost forgot. That is for you.”
“Did you write me a love letter?” I teased.
“Not yet. But I think you will like it just as much, if not more.”
I picked it up. “What is it?”
“It’s a letter from your grandmother. Her attorney sent it to me to give to you. It arrived the day before we went to Positano. I thought perhaps I would be able to give it to you during da trip. But it turned out I had to wait a bit longer.”
My nose wrinkled. “I’m not following.”
Matteo set the plate of bacon in the center of the table and dried his hands on a towel. “The letter came with a note. It said you were to be given this envelope once you began your love affair with Italy. She thought I might be a better judge of when that happened than your attorney.”
“My love affair with Italy, not my love affair with a man?”
He nodded.
“But…how could my grandmother have even known you and I would meet, much less spend so much time together that you’d be able to tell if I fell in love with Italy?”
“Her last letter told you to ask me for a lesson on da Vespa.”
“Oh, right.” I tapped my finger to my lip. “But still, how could she know we’d get to know each other so well?”
Matteo shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the letter will give you that answer.” He motioned to the living room. “Sit. Enjoy your letter. I will bring your caffé when it is ready.”
“I think I’m going to get dressed first.”
“Disappointing, but I don’t mind undressing you.” He winked. “Help yourself in my closet if you’d like a shirt or something.”
I was anxious to read the new letter from my nonna, but it didn’t stop me from taking a minute to check out Matteo’s walk-in closet. Not surprisingly, it was organized. I laughed at a tall stack of what looked like homemade sweaters and two stacks of knitted scarves. In one of the drawers, I found a Lucchese Vineyard T-shirt, and I decided he wasn’t getting it back even before I put it on and felt how buttery soft it was. It hung almost to my knees, so I figured that was good enough and headed back to the kitchen.
Matteo noticed the T-shirt I’d selected and flashed an approving smile. “Looks better on you.” He passed me a cappuccino and kissed my forehead, then held out the envelope. “Enjoy your letter.”
Sitting down in the quiet living room, I smiled at my nonna’s handwriting.
My Dearest Allegra,
So you’ve fallen in love with Italy, eh? Good. Let it spoil you. The food, the wine, the sunsets…the men with thick hair and thicker accents. Indulge in it all.
If you’re reading this letter, then you must already be hearing it—the little whisper that says, “Maybe this is how life is supposed to be.” Listen to that voice. Unless, of course, it’s telling you to cut your own bangs. Even our inner monologue gets drunk sometimes, yes?
Now, I never left my house. Three generations of Bianchis lived under the same roof. So you’re probably asking yourself, how can I know about change? And the answer is, change isn’t always moving somewhere new. Sometimes it’s staying right where you are, but living differently than you ever thought you could.
When your grandfather passed, I thought I’d never be able to breathe in my own house again. Everything reminded me of him—his chair by the fire, the sound of his old boots in the hall. I wanted to close the shutters and live in the dark. But instead, I forced myself to open the windows wider. I made new friends (if you need help stealing anything, Francesca’s your girl), bought the sexy purple scooter that made me smile riding it, and forced myself to laugh, even when it felt wrong.