The Villa(38)

CHAPTER EIGHT





Ten thousand words.

I look at the number at the bottom of the page on my laptop again, and no, I’m not imagining it.

In the past three days, I’ve written ten thousand words, which is more than I’ve written in the last eight months combined.

Granted, not a one of those ten thousand words is about Petal Bloom, a fact that probably won’t thrill my editor, and certainly doesn’t help my bank account, but for the first time in ages, I actually feel like me again. Writer me, losing herself for hours at her laptop, slipping into some kind of jet stream only I can feel.

The only problem is I’m not sure what it is I’m writing exactly.

The name of the document is “TheVillaBook.doc” but it’s not about the villa, really. Or not just about the villa. It’s part biography of Mari Godwick, part true crime dealing with the murder of Pierce Sheldon, and part personal narrative—my Italian summer, post-divorce, where instead of eating, praying, and loving, I became interested in the link between a horror classic and the real-life horror that unfolded at the villa where I was staying.

It’s not like anything I’ve ever written before, but there’s something there, I’m sure of it, and even Rose seemed cautiously optimistic when she replied to my email, reminding me that I should still make the next Petal Bloom book the priority, but that she was just glad I seemed excited about writing again.

And I am. As excited as I can remember being in a long time.

A couple of years ago, just after Matt made his big baby announcement at Thanksgiving, I’d been between Petal books, and decided to try my hand at something different, something darker, edgier. I think there had been a part of me afraid that if I didn’t start it then, I might never do it, that I’d get too busy with life, with a baby, with the other Petal books still under contract.

It was never a book, never anything more than a quickly sketched-out premise about twin sisters in North Carolina, one of them a murderer, but which one? Still, I’d loved working on it, stayed up late just to spend more time with those characters, made playlists and Pinterest boards, thought about them when I was driving, when I was at the gym.

I always thought that’s why Matt’s reaction had been so lukewarm when he read the few chapters I’d written. He hadn’t liked how much it had consumed me, kept asking if I “really thought this was the best time to veer from the course,” and of course, it’s hard to try for a baby when your wife is practically glued to her laptop.

But maybe Matt had seen something in the pages that I hadn’t because when I’d sent them off to Rose, she’d come back with a very kind, very gentle reminder that I still had two more Petal books under contract, and the thriller market was so crowded.

You’re so good at what you do! she’d said over the phone. Do you know how hard it is to write cozies? Anyone can write these kinds of dark, twisted books. Think of this as a fun little exercise you did to get limbered up to work on Petal #7, okay?

It shouldn’t have hit that hard. Books were a business, after all, and Rose was smart, and probably right, and whatever that book might have been, it was now sitting on a flash drive that I’d misplaced somewhere in the house.

Besides, right after that was when I’d started feeling sick, so it was probably for the best I hadn’t started some big new project then, but I still thought of it sometimes, still wished I could slip back into the flow I’d felt working on it.

And today I had.

Closing the laptop, I stand up and stretch, looking out my bedroom window to see Chess outside on the lawn. She’s sitting on a striped blanket, her laptop perched on her knees, and even though her sunhat means I can’t see her face, I can see that, for once, her fingers aren’t flying over the keyboard.

They’re just sort of … hovering.

I know that position well, but Chess always seems to be barreling through her book, so it’s weird seeing her just sitting there, tortured by the blinking cursor.

Tires crunch on the gravel out front, and I turn away from the window, heading downstairs.

As I’d thought, it’s Giulia, coming in with a load of groceries, and she brightens when she sees me.

“Buongiorno, signorina!” she calls out. Giulia is a little older than us, probably in her mid-forties, and she always seems to be in the best mood any person has ever been in.

I gesture to the open door, her car beyond.

“Let me help you with that.”

She gives me a grateful nod, and we quickly get the remaining food inside.

I always enjoy Giulia’s visits. Maybe it’s because she’s always so sunny and easy to talk to, or maybe I just need a little conversation that isn’t with Chess. In any case, I’m glad she’s here this morning because I’ve been meaning to ask her about something.

“Giulia,” I ask, sitting down at the kitchen table and pulling an orange out of the big bowl of fruit, “Was someone from your family working here in 1974?”

Giulia pauses as she unloads the bag and turns to look over her shoulder at me, a smile curling her lips. “Ooh, are you one of them?” she asks in her accented English, and I laugh, digging my nails into the skin of the orange.

“One of who?”

“The true crime people,” she says. “With your podcasts and your Netflix.”