Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Luckily, the Florence airport is much smaller than JFK, my bag arrives quickly, and with a quick scan of the area, I see a man in a black suit holding a sign with the name Sasha Morelli on it. I approach him and smile. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure if he speaks English.
“Ms. Morelli?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
He doesn’t introduce himself, and I assume it’s because I’m supposed to know who he is already. Hopefully there is no reason to have to call him by name until I hear someone else address him.
He glances at my small bags and then asks, “Should we go collect your luggage, Ms. Morelli?” His accent is thick, but I’m grateful he knows English, which is good since I don’t know any Italian at all.
“I just brought these,” I say as I realize how unlikely it would be for anyone to travel for vacation with only two small bags. Especially a Morelli. I quickly try to cover up with, “I plan on doing a lot of shopping. I want a completely new Italian wardrobe.”
“Florence has some of the best shopping in the world,” he says, taking my bags from me. “I’d be happy to drive you into the city once you get settled.”
I nod and smile, unsure how Sasha would respond. I have to keep telling myself that Sasha was only a child the last time the staff at the Loro Ciuffenna house saw her. They won’t know it’s me. They won’t know this is all a lie.
Unless they ask questions…
I’m not even sure if I can remember the names of Sasha’s siblings.
Thankfully, the drive to the small Tuscan medieval town is quiet. The driver only speaks occasionally about how the weather has been lately, or how traffic is getting worse than the last time I visited. He doesn’t ask me any personal questions which allows me to at least breathe during the forty-minute ride.
The passing scenery is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I’ve watched movies that take place in Italy and seen pictures on social media. But never could anything capture what this country actually looks like unless you’re seeing it with your own eyes. Rolling hills, vineyards as far as the eye can see, cypress trees that seem to be painted by a master artist, ancient buildings that still stand from the Roman Empire days, and a magic that nearly sizzles in the air.
When we finally reach Loro Ciuffenna which nestles in the mountainside of Tuscany, I can instantly see why the Morellis wanted a vacation home in this small medieval village. It sits right on a river that cascades down a mountain with large boulders and foliage all around. Every building in the town is from another era, a time so long ago, and the historical beauty is breathtaking. It doesn’t seem real. The colors of the structures are bright yellow and orange which pops against all the natural green of the trees. A large bell tower dominates the view as we pull into the town, and I can hear it chiming as we arrive.
We drive down a dirt road along the river, passing a small house and vineyard with only three grapevines, several chickens, and a black rooster perched on a fence looking down on a lazy tabby cat sleeping in the setting sun. Laundry is hung outside, and I can see an older lady watering her tomato plants.
I roll down the window so I can take in the fresh smells of the Italian countryside, and for a minute I feel at peace. All is right in the world. Everything is perfect.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve been here,” the driver says.
“It has.”
“Violet has fixed up the west wing room that overlooks the waterfall. We weren’t sure which one you’d prefer, but that one has the sound of water to help you sleep at night.”
“Yes, the west wing room is perfect,” I say, hoping he can’t read into the fact that I don’t even know which way is facing west or east.
“You didn’t say how long you plan on staying.”
I see him looking back at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m not sure. I’m just taking it one day at a time.”
“I remember you always did like adventure as a child,” he says with a warmth in his eyes looking back at me.
The dirt road leads to a dead end and waiting at the end of the road is a house the size of an inn built on the large boulders along the other side of the river. A small bridge connects the dirt parking lot we are stopping in and the entrance to the house. The waterfall the driver mentioned is on full display, and I can see the room he was speaking of that literally hangs over it. It’s hard to believe that something so quaint, and yet so grand can be left vacant most of the year other than the caretakers living in it. If I was a Morelli, I would never leave this place. Well… if I was a true Morelli, that is.