The Inside Diaries

Villa Veneto

Several days later, the name came to her, suddenly so, amid the tropical breeze curling about the laureled vines, the long timbered table extending outward in the trellised vineyard courtyard, luscious grapes glistening in the morning's light.

"Villa Veneto," Melanija whispered, tasting the words upon her tongue. Classy and distinct, a hint of elegance, but not overly so. A cozy locale with the potential for resplendence, should the need arise.

She and Fernando had stayed up most of the past evening brainstorming names. Villa, House, Cottage, Property of. The property was too large to be a cottage-like area, too small to garner the imposing "property of" designation, which gave the writer Monty Burns miserly vibes. Not here, she'd thought to herself.

This would, after all, be a place of dreams. Dreams, sunshine, warmth, and everything enchanting and lovely. This she would ensure.

"I like it," Fernando came up behind her, sweeping her raven tresses to kiss her shoulder, the newlyweds they were. "Alliteration, and a bit of pun—" he paused. "But does Catticus approve?"

Immediately, their attention fell on the feline whose throaty purr made the creature known. Melanija kneeled, allowing the cat to sniff her fingers. "Villa Veneto, Catticus?"

Mrrrrrrrroooooooooooooow—

Melanija stood up, eyes sparkling as they met Fernando's smiling own. "Catticus approves."

So Villa Veneto it was.

The place has a name.

They spent the rest of the afternoon organizing and cleaning up the upper floors, one of which the writer turned into a dining area of sorts, based upon a fancy travel magazine. Panting slightly as she entered the chamber, she set a somewhat weighty brown cardboard box down upon the floor, then set to cleaning the café-style table before her. Square-like and Spartan, it radiated a sort of soothing simplicity she sought to further capture.

Removing the items from the box, she examined each with a critical eye, dusting and wiping all the while. After each object was clean, she decided upon their placement on the table.

Goldenrod-hued napkins, flanked on either side by stainless steel cutlery. Glossy wineglasses at center, standard water cups just behind.

Striding to the tightly-closed bamboo shutters, she opened them with some push and pull, until finally—she paused—the paired pieces opened, revealing a breathtaking view of mountainous tropical forestry, the tops of palm trees unfurling against the sill.

Wow.

Melanija gazed outside for a few minutes, capturing the scenery within her mind's eye, before turning her attention to the musty maroon velveteen cushioned chairs. More work ahead of her.

But she had time, for here, there was always time.

Many hours later, she retired to her...no...their...bedroom, falling fast asleep—

A deer (or was it a stag?) leapt and glided across the azure shore, chasing eleven birds fluttering, flying upward and away in the far distance. Was it sunrise that beckoned, with its buttercup hue, quickly enveloped by the surrounding cobalt blue, deepening into fervent slate where the ocean kissed the sky?

She awoke the next morning, unsure of exactly what the dream meant. The chasing. The birds, just out of reach. Were those her emotional state or her creative aspirations, her eleven story ideas, constantly evolving and changing? Or, more disquieting, her desire for others' approval? She shook her head. It was best not to think about it.

Besides, Melanija had a movie night to prepare. She checked her list, having procured many of the items in the days prior.

White paper lanterns: check.

Thick-knit blankets: check (though she doubted they'd be used, given the warm weather—so just in case)

Futon cushions: check

White petaled flowers: the florist

Wicker furniture: check, borrowed from Morgana

Hammock: borrowed from Matias

Projector: check (a recent discovery from one of Fernando's villa rooms)

Smaller tealights: check

As for the menu? She had decided upon a potluck of sorts. Morgana promised to bring some of her fresh-cut produce and dip, Matias mentioned something about a delicious slow-cooked roast recipe, and Marcella and Henry would bring fresh-baked cookies. Tory would supply materials for making s'mores, in order to achieve her campfire sweets badge (Melanija wasn't sure if such a badge existed, or if Tory just wanted an excuse to roast marshmallows). The writer bit back a smile. What a clever little girl.

Late afternoon into early evening, Melanija procured the blooms, Fernando clipping their stems and setting furniture and the projector up according to her direction. Once that was complete, she went to the kitchen (mostly renovated at this time), retrieving frozen berries, coconut water, and orange juice to blend up fruit smoothies for that evening.

It was fairly simple—blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, coconut, orange. And—she pressed a button, as the blender roared to life, combining the ingredients therein.

The process complete, she placed the delectable mixture in various matching cups along a tray she proceeded to place in the refrigerator.

Another hour passed, then two more, as the sun began to set.

She heard a knock at the iron gate. Showtime.

And two hours later, after a lovely outdoor dinner of Morgana's zucchini fritters, veggies and dip, Matias' slow-cooked pork, rice, and lettuce wraps, dessert and the movie commenced.

Marcella and Henry's cookies were passed around—chocolate chip pretzel peanut butter magnificence, plus Melanija's fruit smoothies to cleanse the palate. And finally, Tory's skewers and marshmallows, having gotten the idea to use those cookies in place of graham crackers.

The writer took a proffered skewer and marshmallow, watching as the sugary sweet browned over a candle flame, placing it within two cookie halves, not before inserting a rectangle of American milk chocolate. She took a bite and swallowed.

Oh, the tantalizing taste of summer!

Brushing the crumbs from her outfit, she glanced about the area. Matias and Morgana were situated closer to the screen, their backs anchored by the futon cushion upon which Marcella and Henry were seated. All bore expressions of the purest contentment. Tory was further away, swinging to her heart's delight in the waterproof cotton hammock.

And she?

Her fingers intertwined with Fernando's own.

She was finally home.