Somewhere In Sicily

Chapter Two:

     That night, Rafael went home and sat down at his computer, the beginnings of a story humming from the tips of his fingers. His memories from earlier in the day flashing behind his eyes like scenes from a movie. The house, the paintings, the story Umberto had shared with him all coming together to make a picture he just had to get out. 

     This is the most inspired he had felt in months. Who would have thought that going along with Berto for a job could yield his first lead towards an actual story? But before he could get it out, he stumbled upon a crucial missing element: he didn't really know her. 

     Sure, he could make something up, something writers did often. In his head, the story wouldn't be a biography, so getting "the widow Bellucci's" story right wasn't integral to his work. Yet still, something about not knowing this woman's background presented a wall in Rafael's work. 

     In his notebook, he jotted down the elements of the story that seemed important and, with regret, closed his laptop screen. 

     There would be no writing done tonight, it seemed.

    When he put his head down on his pillow, however, the story wasn't over just yet. He imagined the heartbreakingly gorgeous young widow alone in her villa. Mourning death while the beautiful background of Sicilian life teemed all around her. 

     He saw the paintings and portraits in her house coming to life, jumping from their frames. Ghostlike, he saw the spirits of the paintings' subjects wandering the dusty halls of the house on the hill. As sunlight began to sparkle off the water and through the window of his flat, he dreamt once again of the face of Lelia Bellucci. He saw her full lips and her dark wavy hair drawn around her shoulders like a curtain. 

     The lips parted as if she were about to say something, her dark eyes looking at Rafael in yearning when he suddenly awoke. Muttering curses as he sat up in his bed, he tried to close his eyes and bring the dream back to him before it scattered like leaves to the wind. When it proved to be no use, he sat behind his computer and began typing the things out that he did remember. 

     He started by describing the villa he had been in yesterday. All of its cobwebbed corners and personified portraits. This took him quite some time, since there seemed to be so many little details that he wanted just right. When he got some of his writing out of his system, he began to draft an email to his publisher.

     "Querido Blanca,

     I'm sorry for my absence, but I've just come up with an idea for a story that I think you'll enjoy. What are your thoughts on a story about a young widowed pintora here in Sicily? The woman is heartbreakingly beautiful but weighed down heavily by her grief for her deceased husband, another painter. The man fell from scaffolding while painting a cathedral on the island. 

     It's just the beginning but I wanted to share my thoughts with you. Please let me know what you think.

     Rafael."

     He didn't expect to hear from Blanca for a while due to the time difference on the other side of the world. Getting used to the hours that Italy enjoyed ahead of his hometown of Ciudad México took quite some time for Rafael, whose body clock needed a while to adjust. Limoncello helped, he soon discovered, as well as long days spent laboring alongside Umberto in the hot spring sun. 

     He missed home to be sure, though there wasn't a single person there that he left behind. His parents were long gone and there wasn't any special señorita left waiting for him. There were dishes he missed and ingredients that were difficult to find on the island, like beans and certain peppers. But when he compared all of that to the paradise he had discovered here, he found it difficult to want to go back. 

      If things worked out with this new idea for a novel, he may be able to prolong his stay. He was shocked to see a reply from Blanca.

     "Rafael-

     I like it. Maybe a romance? What were you thinking? Send over any chapters as they come and I'll let you know what I think."

     He forgot that Blanca kept odd hours. He pictured the high-strung publishing executive nursing a glass of white wine at her computer as she responded. This news was amazing, however. She liked his idea! This was some progress to be sure. It was the first good idea he'd had in months. 

     He liked her idea of turning it into a romance. But what kind of romance? Should the story be about the heroine's relationship with her late husband or someone new? Either way, he realized that he needed to go back up the hill towards the Bellucci villa for more inspiration and information.

     Sneaking out of his building before he could run into his landlord, Rafael stopped by a local market to pick up some bread, cheese, sausage, and a bottle of nice wine before tucking it all into the basket of his bicycle and heading up the road. 

     He passed Umberto on his way out of town, he tried to wave him down. "Sorry amigo, I have plans today. Catch up with you later, yeah?" Umberto didn't respond, his face just read shock. There was only one place that little trail led to, and he knew that whatever his friend was up to, it wouldn't bode well.

     It was only a mile or two before the villa came into sight. The early afternoon sun sparkled off of the shingled roof. As he arrived, there were little details he noticed today that he hadn't yesterday. Like the little herb garden in the front yard that grew brilliant green basil and oregano. Or the little hand-painted flowers and scrolls that encircled the doorway. He wondered if Lelia had painted those?

    Parking his bicycle against the stucco wall of the building, he took the items out of the basket and knocked on the front door. He knew from Umberto's words yesterday that she didn't come downstairs to answer, but he was uncomfortable with just barging in when they didn't really know one another.

     As he expected, no one came down to answer the door. He contemplated leaving the items there on the doorstep but he had to see her again. He continued knocking for several minutes but nobody answered. "Signora Bellucci," he began. "I have some things here for you. Will you come downstairs for a minute?"

      Again, no answer. Rafael was beginning to grow frustrated, and was about to throw in the towel, when the front door squeaked open just a crack.

     "Signora?" He questioned.

     "Leave whatever it is by the door," she beckoned quietly. "Then you should leave," she added.

     Rafael tried to look for her face behind the door frame but to no avail. "Please, Signora. I brought a bottle of wine. I figured we could share?"

     Perhaps it was the desparation in his voice, or the loneliness in Lelia's bones, but she opened the door even wider. "Why?" She asked, not sure if she even wanted an answer.

     "Perhaps we could talk. Umberto told me about you yesterday...when we were painting. He told me how things...things haven't been easy for you," he continued.

     The door squeaked open even wider. An opening. Rafael ventured further. I'm an artist myself, though I'm no painter," he started. "I'm a writer. Another bohemian spirit, not unlike yourself."

     At that, the door opened fully, and Rafael's breath caught in his throat as he saw her fully. "What do you know of my spirit?" She asked gravely. Rafael took her in. All of her.

     Her hair was knotted back in a messy braid and she had a woven shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Small gold earrings caught the morning light and reflected back at him, just as her golden honey eyes mirrored back a number of emotions he wasn't yet ready to name. She turned away and walked back into the foyer of the house.

    As quickly as his trance had come on, it dissipated. Lelia slammed the door shut in his face and he heard her footfalls as she walked away from the door. Rafael sighed. It seemed that convincing the Widow Bellucci to share a bottle of vino with him would be harder than he'd expected.