Read Online Summer in Tuscany by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Ads: Link
guests.
I peeked into the bathroom and saw white tiles with little pink flowers, a deep tub with a flimsy handheld shower, and a pink plastic shower curtain with stars on it.
Back in my virgin’s room, I went to the window, pushed open the rusty green shutters, and stuck my head out. To my left, on the crest of a rounded hill, I caught a glimpse of the grandiose old Villa Piacere, half hidden behind the trees, and home, so Nonna had told me, to the counts of Piacere for more than three hundred years.
Livvie leaned companionably next to me, looking out at the silent square, at the hillsides covered in vines, at the groves of olives. The soft sound of the fountain filtered into the room, and the air was winey and clean. The sun felt hot on our faces, birds twittered, the church clock struck three, and somewhere a dog barked.
“Whatever do people do around here?” Livvie whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
Amalia was taking us to meet her mother, and Nonna had dressed for the occasion in a new black silk outfit, purchased at a Macy’s sale just a few weeks ago for what she had then considered an outrageous eighty-five dollars. It had a high round neck, a row of shiny jet buttons, a narrow belt, and a box-pleated skirt that sat nicely a few inches above her ankles. It seemed to have Plain but Good, Suitable for a Sixty-Year-Old Grandmother stamped all over it. Her shoes were plain black pumps with low heels, and she carried the expensive new Roman handbag, large, black, smooth, and shiny. She had scrunched her hair into its usual bun, and to top it all off she wore the large dark Hollywood sunglasses. She looked like the widow at a Mafia funeral.
Livvie and I walked on either side of her, arms linked in hers, like the mourners. Livvie was in her usual miniskirt, black this time, with a clinging white T-shirt and sneakers, and for some reason Nonna had insisted I wear my “best black” too, only now it was even more creased from being flung into my duffel bag at the last minute.
We were surely an odd trio, following Amalia up the steps by the church that led from the piazza to the ’Scuro, as Nonna called it, by which she meant Vicolo Oscuro, or Shady Alley, a narrow, cobbled little street that wound its way tortuously up the hillside in a series of steps.
The tiny iron Juliet balconies of the stone houses were crammed with pots of geraniums and jasmine, and lines of laundry fluttered unashamedly overhead. The long lunchtime siesta was over and life had started up again. Women were emerging from their houses with mesh shopping bags over their arms, small children scurried underfoot yelling at each other, and an old man sat in a doorway weaving a basket from some rushes.
“I remember this,” I heard Nonna mutter to herself. “Oh, yes, I remember .” The hill was steep, and she was breathing heavily. I suggested we stop for a while, but she insisted on keeping up with Amalia, who was leaping ahead of us like a plump deer.
Finally the narrow cobbled street leveled out into a sort of wide ledge immediately above the church, and we were looking down over the little copper verdigris dome with its big cross, at the Albergo d’Olivia opposite, at the fountain in the piazza, and at people like stick figures in a naive painting, strolling and shopping at the general store, the bakery, the butcher, and at the salumeria with the big plastic boar’s head stuck outside just so you would know they also sold wild boar salami. It was a microcosm of life, perfect and self-contained, a little world of its own.
On this little cul-de-sac overlooking the village was a row of six small stone houses, each with two windows downstairs and three up. A single scrubbed stone step led inside, while in front a mismatched collection of garden chairs and patio tables was set among a conglomeration of pots, wooden tubs, and old olive oil cans filled with bougainvillea and jasmine, begonias, lobelia, and geraniums. It was
I peeked into the bathroom and saw white tiles with little pink flowers, a deep tub with a flimsy handheld shower, and a pink plastic shower curtain with stars on it.
Back in my virgin’s room, I went to the window, pushed open the rusty green shutters, and stuck my head out. To my left, on the crest of a rounded hill, I caught a glimpse of the grandiose old Villa Piacere, half hidden behind the trees, and home, so Nonna had told me, to the counts of Piacere for more than three hundred years.
Livvie leaned companionably next to me, looking out at the silent square, at the hillsides covered in vines, at the groves of olives. The soft sound of the fountain filtered into the room, and the air was winey and clean. The sun felt hot on our faces, birds twittered, the church clock struck three, and somewhere a dog barked.
“Whatever do people do around here?” Livvie whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
Amalia was taking us to meet her mother, and Nonna had dressed for the occasion in a new black silk outfit, purchased at a Macy’s sale just a few weeks ago for what she had then considered an outrageous eighty-five dollars. It had a high round neck, a row of shiny jet buttons, a narrow belt, and a box-pleated skirt that sat nicely a few inches above her ankles. It seemed to have Plain but Good, Suitable for a Sixty-Year-Old Grandmother stamped all over it. Her shoes were plain black pumps with low heels, and she carried the expensive new Roman handbag, large, black, smooth, and shiny. She had scrunched her hair into its usual bun, and to top it all off she wore the large dark Hollywood sunglasses. She looked like the widow at a Mafia funeral.
Livvie and I walked on either side of her, arms linked in hers, like the mourners. Livvie was in her usual miniskirt, black this time, with a clinging white T-shirt and sneakers, and for some reason Nonna had insisted I wear my “best black” too, only now it was even more creased from being flung into my duffel bag at the last minute.
We were surely an odd trio, following Amalia up the steps by the church that led from the piazza to the ’Scuro, as Nonna called it, by which she meant Vicolo Oscuro, or Shady Alley, a narrow, cobbled little street that wound its way tortuously up the hillside in a series of steps.
The tiny iron Juliet balconies of the stone houses were crammed with pots of geraniums and jasmine, and lines of laundry fluttered unashamedly overhead. The long lunchtime siesta was over and life had started up again. Women were emerging from their houses with mesh shopping bags over their arms, small children scurried underfoot yelling at each other, and an old man sat in a doorway weaving a basket from some rushes.
“I remember this,” I heard Nonna mutter to herself. “Oh, yes, I remember .” The hill was steep, and she was breathing heavily. I suggested we stop for a while, but she insisted on keeping up with Amalia, who was leaping ahead of us like a plump deer.
Finally the narrow cobbled street leveled out into a sort of wide ledge immediately above the church, and we were looking down over the little copper verdigris dome with its big cross, at the Albergo d’Olivia opposite, at the fountain in the piazza, and at people like stick figures in a naive painting, strolling and shopping at the general store, the bakery, the butcher, and at the salumeria with the big plastic boar’s head stuck outside just so you would know they also sold wild boar salami. It was a microcosm of life, perfect and self-contained, a little world of its own.
On this little cul-de-sac overlooking the village was a row of six small stone houses, each with two windows downstairs and three up. A single scrubbed stone step led inside, while in front a mismatched collection of garden chairs and patio tables was set among a conglomeration of pots, wooden tubs, and old olive oil cans filled with bougainvillea and jasmine, begonias, lobelia, and geraniums. It was
Similar Books
