Bella Toscana by Nanette Littlestone

Author:Nanette Littlestone [Littlestone, Nanette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Words of Passion via Indie Author Project
Published: 2018-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

We depart for Rome. I’m loath to leave Cortona, the place where I found enchantment, the place where I discovered passion. So many times in life I’ve tried to recreate an experience—the thrill of speed and fear on a death-defying roller coaster, the first time I tasted dark chocolate with raspberry liqueur, the joy of holding a squirming puppy that licks my face nonstop—but each attempt at re-creation failed. The magic of the past hours with Flynn are permanently etched in my memory and looping through my brain, but no wishing on my part will give them back. We’re leaving Neverland and heading into reality. Tomorrow I return to Atlanta.

Rain streaks the windows. Flynn holds my hand on the drive and I take comfort in his touch. My mind wants to jump ahead to our parting but I keep a tight rein on my imagination. I’m not an avid student of metaphysics or the power of positive thinking, but I know I only have the present. So I firmly repeat to myself Be here now.

The quiet of the ride, the drone of the engine, the patter of the rain lull me to sleep. With Flynn’s hand warm on mine, I close my eyes and shut out the world.

Flynn wakes me at Alex’s apartment. My purse is intact and I thank him profusely. He and Marcella offer us refreshments and a chance to sit and talk, but I tell them I’m tired and just want to rest. I can’t bear to sit here with Flynn and his friends and pretend that everything is fine and casual.

Then we’re at Flynn’s apartment in an older building on the Via Nomentana in the Trieste-Nomentana district. Shops and restaurants and parks surround the building which Flynn chose not only for its availability but the abundance of nearby antique architecture. A history lover’s dream, he calls it. If I get up early perhaps I can take a quick stroll around the block. Inside, there are tile floors with oriental carpets, cream colored couches, a dining table that seats four. Posters of Santorini, Greece and Provence, France and several impressionist paintings. Behind the couches, bookshelves fill one entire wall and I wonder if any of it is for pleasure.

“Home, sweet home,” Flynn says with hesitation as if he’s waiting for me to pass judgment.

Rather than critique, I say, “Thank you. For everything.” I pat my purse but I’m referring to so much more. “I need to make a call. Is there somewhere . . .” It’s awkward to ask for privacy after the time we’ve spent together.

“Sure. You can use the bedroom,” he says and I follow him down the hall. I’m expecting the typical dark colors of the masculine room, but I’m pleasantly surprised by the aquas and light greens on the bed and the cream carpet on the floor.

“This is nice.”

“Marcella. She said women prefer light colors and if I was ever going to settle down I should get used to that.”

I imagine a string of women in Flynn’s bed and am shocked at my jealousy.

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