That's Amore

Chapter 8

Dawn crept slowly across the hills, spilling gold over the vineyards until every grape seemed to glisten with its own light. Isabella woke early, the echoes of dreams dissolving into the soft hush of morning. The villa was still, wrapped in silence but not asleep; she could feel it breathing, the faint groan of beams, the stir of swallows darting beneath the eaves. She slipped into a linen dress and sandals, her journal pressed against her chest, and wandered out to the garden while the air was still cool.

The roses waited for her, dew shimmering on their petals, their scent richer in the early hour. The garden seemed half awake, as though it was stretching after its slumber, cicadas not yet warmed enough to sing. Isabella sat on the stone bench where she had found her grandmother’s letter, the surface still cool from the night, and opened her notebook. The pages were blank, eager, like fields ready for seed.

She let her pen hover above the paper, listening to the silence, to the soft drip of the fountain, to Biscotto trotting up beside her with a satisfied snort before curling at her feet. She smiled faintly and whispered, “Sempre con me, vero? Always with me.” His tail thumped once, steady as a heartbeat.

Then she began to write.

The words came haltingly at first, as though her hand needed to remember the rhythm of confession. She wrote of the journey — the train that had carried her past hills like brushstrokes, the first scent of Villa delle Rosa after all these years, the roses that seemed to breathe around her. She wrote of the letters, of her Nonna’s looping script, how it felt like a hand reaching across time. She wrote of Giuliano, though she did not mean to: his silence at the table, his gaze steady as stone, his words that cut like shears and yet lingered like music.

Her handwriting grew faster, darker. She wrote of America too — of the restlessness there, the loneliness disguised as freedom, the way her return ticket still lay folded in her bag like a threat. “Am I a guest here,” she scribbled, “or have I come home?”

The question hung heavy in the air, as if even the roses leaned closer to listen.

The garden filled slowly with light. Bees drifted between blossoms, their wings flashing in the sun. A church bell rang in the valley, the sound soft and far, carrying through the morning haze. Isabella paused, pressing her pen to her lips, her eyes blurring with sudden tears. “Nonna, aiutami. Help me.”

She turned the page, her words softening, spilling into sketches. Her hand traced the shape of a rose, its petals curling outward, a bloom both fragile and fierce. She shaded each petal with care, her fingertips smudging graphite, until the flower seemed to breathe on the page. Beneath it she wrote, “La rosa porta nel cuore ciò che non si può dire.” The rose carries in its heart what cannot be spoken.

The breeze stirred, lifting her hair, carrying with it the faint scent of vineyards and earth. For a moment, Isabella swore she felt her Nonna beside her, warm, steady, the way she had always been. She closed her eyes and let the sensation linger, tears sliding silently down her cheeks but her mouth curved in the smallest smile.

A shadow moved across the path, faint but unmistakable. Isabella looked up, heart jolting, and saw Giuliano at the far end of the garden. He was carrying a basket of freshly cut herbs, his head bowed, but even from a distance his presence filled the space. He glanced toward her, eyes flickering briefly to the notebook in her lap, then away again without a word. His stride was purposeful, almost brusque, yet the air he left behind seemed charged, trembling.

Isabella’s hand trembled as she set her pen down. She pressed the notebook shut, hiding the fresh ink, and whispered to herself, “Basta. It’s only words.” But in her chest, she knew it was more than that. Each line she had written was a seed planted in soil she had once abandoned, soil now claiming her again.

Biscotto lifted his head, ears perked, as though to agree. He gave a low whine, nuzzling her knee until she laughed softly, wiping at her eyes. She tore a piece of bread from the breakfast she had brought with her and slipped it to him. He devoured it, crumbs falling onto her sandals. “Viziato come sempre,” she murmured, kissing the top of his head.

The sun climbed higher, gilding the roses until they glowed like stained glass. Isabella opened her notebook once more, her pen steady this time. She let herself write not for America, not for the future, but for the villa, for her Nonna, for herself. Her words became roots, curling deeper with each line, binding her to the earth, to the roses, to Villa delle Rosa.

And as the morning unfurled, Isabella understood that writing here was not an escape. It was a return.