Love Made in Italy Read online

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

  Copyright © 2016 by Ava Danielle

  Cover design: Jeanie’s Jewels

  https://www.facebook.com/jeaniesjewels/?fref=ts

  Formatting: Ava Danielle and Christopher Robinson

  ISBN-13: 978-1514287309

  ISBN-10: 1514287307

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Acknowledgements

  “L’Amore tutto vince”

  Warm sand beneath my toes, my kindle in my hand, I gaze at the sun setting over the beautiful ocean. The sky is blue, green, and pink, close to the rainbow if you look meticulously. The giant orange evening sun hangs low and fills the sky with its fiery glow. It’s warm, warmer than I remember Italy ever being in April. The waves keep inching closer and closer to me as the wind starts to pick up. There’s no one around, and I’m enjoying every second of Frank Sinatra on my iPod and the latest trashy romance novel on my kindle.

  I’m perfectly happy and content. Perfectly satisfied with my choices I have recently made. Life in Seattle had become too complicated, but monotonous. I’m a world traveler, and I need change; new places to see. I get bored easily, and moving to Italy is my latest life altering decision.

  As I sit here and enjoy the view, I remember all of my duties for tomorrow. I’m, now, a nanny of two beautiful children: a boy and a girl. My boss is an American doctor in Sant’Agnello. He’s one of the best in his trade and very well known here. When he moved his family from New York City, they wanted an American nanny to look after their children. I was lucky enough to get the job. Quite honestly, this is one of the most relaxing places I’ve been in my life. It has even surpassed my memories of the summer I spent in Hawaii. Every day I see more reasons they chose this city.

  – ### –

  I pack all my belongings into my beach bag, darkness is coming upon me quicker than I like. It’s been another beautiful day; a day that finished way too quickly. I can never seem to get enough time to reflect, to breathe, and enjoy every waking minute of this beautiful country.

  I open the creaky door to my quaint little apartment in Sorrento. The sink is still leaking. Buckets catch the water from the ceiling on rainy days and the windows don’t completely close, but I love this place and all its little quirks. It’s still an adventure walking around, even after living here for three months. I love seeing little specks of history on my walls. When I first moved in, I painted the walls. I made it as bright and colorful as possible. The bedroom is pink, of course. The kitchen is a sweet, calming, sunny yellow, not that bright mustard yellow everyone seems to love, here. It’s a warm your heart shade of yellow. I like it. The sea foam blue of my living room is fully complimented by the kitchen and I feel like I’m at the ocean, even when I’m not.

  As I drop my keys in the bowl on the sideboard by the front door, I hear a clacking noise coming from the bathroom.

  “Hello?” I shout, wondering if maybe the landlord has come to fix something again, I’m not really sure if that’s the Italian way of life, to pop in without a word, but he does. I don’t mind, though, Mr. Luciando is a kind and sweet man. I found this apartment through his son at the hotel I was staying at when I first came over. That was before I was sure I had the job with the Ellison’s. He was kind enough to give it to me providing I help a bit with the restorations. The restorations, however, had turned out to be a bit more than I had bargained for. We had made a deal to rent it for much cheaper than the previous tenants had. I do, however, enjoy this small, humble abode. It’s cozy and inviting, just the way I like.

  With no answer from Mr. Luciando, I make my way to the bathroom to check it out myself.

  “Oh no, not again.” I run over and turn the knob on the toilet. It must’ve gotten stuck this morning and I didn’t realize it. Luckily, it didn’t overflow or go crazy like it has before. It’s just clacking. I assume it’s a warning sign. I will call Mr. Luciando in the morning to have a look at it; this is beyond my expertise of home repair.

  As I finish washing my hands, the phone rings. It’s almost eight o’clock, who could be calling me?

  “Pronto?”

  “Hello, Sophia. It’s Mom. How are you?”

  “Mom! Hi. I just got home from the beach. I’m doing well. Is everything ok back home?”

  “Yes, darling. Your sister is getting married this summer, I was wondering if you would be able to attend the wedding?”

  “Lori actually called me a few days ago, I will try, but I can’t make any promises. How’s dad doing?”

  “He’s getting better. The doctors say he’ll make a full recovery, just has to quit eating so many sweets.”

  I sit down on the couch listening to her tell me all about Andrew, Lori’s fiancé, their wedding plans, and while I’m trying to listen to her, I remember exactly why I left. I couldn’t bear the ‘I have to please everyone’ feeling any longer. You’re never good enough and you have to continue to do better. It’s the hurry up and do, do, do life. I just wasn’t made to handle that life. Everything has to be top notch. God forbid you have a cluttered apartment. I always felt like no one was really enjoying life. They all pretend to love their lives and put on the act of being happy, all at the expense of actually letting go and enjoying what life, and the world, has to offer.

  “Sophia, are you listening to me?” Mom jerks me back to the present.

  “Yes, Mom, I’m just thinking about ordering some pizza, watching a movie, and relaxing.”

  “You need to get out more, darling. You need to see more.”

  “Mom, I get out every day. I’ve seen more than you can imagine.”

  “Whatever, my dear. Do try to come this summer. Talk to your sister, she’ll give you more of the details.”

  “Yes mom.”

  “And make sure to call more often. Don’t just focus on work.”

  “Yes mom.”

  “All right, I’ll give you a
call in a couple of days. Bye Sophia”

  “Ciao!”

  My mom: woman of many talents, overpowering, and controlling, at all times.

  – ### –

  She was the reason I became a dreamer, I sat in my room many days and dreamed of where I wanted to be in my life, anywhere but there. My dad was the one that pushed me, that told me to always follow my dreams, and look at where I am now. I guess my childhood wasn’t so bad after all, now that I think about it.

  I order a pizza from the little diner down the street, throw on my most comfortable sweatpants, pop in a really cheesy chick flick, and prepare my mind for the days to come. I’m writing out my notes into my journal, when the knock at the door brings me back to reality. I open the door to the delicious aroma of real Italian pizza.

  “Ciao bella”

  “Ciao, Timo.”

  Timo is the diner owner’s son; he’s a sweet thirteen-year-old that helps his dad out as much as he can. I’ve noticed the family dynamic here is very tight. Everyone seems to help everyone. Something I wasn’t accustomed to in Seattle. But that just might be from growing up in a big city. I take the pizza from him; pay him the 5-euros I owe him.

  “Grazie.”

  “Si Sophia. Arrivederci,” he says as he leaves.

  The best thing with pizza is wine. I pour a glass merlot. An American chick flick playing on the screen, French wine, and Italian pizza dancing on my taste buds… You can’t get any more multi-cultural, if you tried. I’ll give up hamburgers and fries any day.

  The sun is lighting up my room through the open windows. They are still open from listening to the man on the street play his mandolin, last night. The way he hits the chords just right, and his deep humming along, helps me relax and sleep. Every night, he has this ritual of walking the streets and playing. No one seems bothered by it. I have yet to meet him though.

  Stretching, I smile. Something I also never did in Seattle. I never was a morning person. I was, actually, the complete opposite. I was dreadful, rude, and just not pleasant in any way. It took an act of god to get me out of bed. Now, here in Italy, I always have a smile on my face. Even on cloudy days, I enjoy getting up and seeing what the day has to bring.

  I stare at my alarm clock and notice I could sleep for another thirty minutes. But instead, I get out of bed, make my bed, and head straight into the bathroom, banging my head on the doorframe. Something else I need to get used to. I’m a little taller than the tenants most local houses and apartments are designed to house.

  As I look myself over in the mirror, I see my blonde hair is growing. I came to Italy with a short bob, but decided to let it grow out. I’m admiring the semi curls crawling their way out.

  “Looking good, Sophia,” I say to myself brushing my hair.

  I put on my favorite floral summer dress. I step onto my tiny balcony that leads out from the bedroom. Today is the perfect weather for a sundress. I breathe in the myriad of aromas that are Sorrento, and get ready to go to work. I don’t even consider it a job, more of a family I visit, with the added bonus of a paycheck.

  I lock up my apartment and leave the building. I stroll past children playing in the streets. There’s laughter coming from every corner. Sometimes I feel as if I’m in one of those foreign films, but this is my life. Little cafés are setting up their tables outside. The flower shop I pass every day is pulling out their special of the day. Gorgeous peonies, which just happen to be my favorite, are today’s special. I stop to smell the flowers every time I pass, and the owner always smiles at me when she notices me smelling them. I’m sure she’s used to me doing this after so many months now. I just can’t resist the aromatic beauty of her flowers. Maybe today, on my way home from work, I’ll stop by and buy some for my apartment. The white ones would look beautiful on my little coffee table.

  I continue on my way to the bus stop. Public transportation is exceptional here, I’ll probably never own a vehicle, there’s really no point. Not only that, but trying to figure out the road signs would be quite the challenge for me. I have a hard enough time walking through the alleys here. As soon as the bus arrives, I get my seat in the back and stare out the window. I watch all the little shops open for the day, the children with their backpacks getting ready for school. It’s a picture perfect, beautiful Monday morning.

  I get off the bus in the hills of Sant’Agnello, overlooking the city and take a look at the ocean.

  “Sophia, Sophia,” I hear my little angel, Melina, scream.

  She runs up to me and hugs my legs. She’s my favorite three-year-old.

  “Melina, baby, what are you doing out here?” I ask her as I see her dad come out of the house with his medicine bag.

  “Sophia, Carol is still inside getting ready to go, we were about to call to see if you could come earlier today, but never mind, you’re here. Perfect. We have an early morning, one of our patients isn’t doing so well,” Mr. Ellison solemnly informs me.

  I nod my head at him and smile.

  “Come on Melina, let’s go inside and see what your brother is up to,” I say as I take her hand and we all but bounce into their restored farmhouse. This house they’ve made their home is beyond gorgeous. The marble floors, open entryway, and the golden oak staircase that leads upstairs, is overwhelmingly stunning, but not over the top. It’s comfortable and has a hint of an American ambience. I would happily live in this home any day.

  As I’m making my way into the kitchen with Melina, I see Joshua sitting at the kitchen bar eating a bowl of oatmeal. I tousle his hair. He hates that.

  “Good Morning, Joshua,” and laugh when I notice him fixing his hair back the way it was.

  “Good Morning, Sophia. One of these days I’ll catch you before you do that,” he says in between bites.

  “Keep trying buddy,” I tell him as I wave to Mrs. Ellison, who is busy talking on the phone.

  “The children will need to be dropped off at the school this morning, we have an early morning. I was just about to call you.” She says with her hand covering the telephone receiver.

  “I know, Mr. Ellison already mentioned it. No problem. We will see you after work tonight,” I tell her as I pour a cup of coffee.

  “Perfect. Joshua, behave, don’t drive Sophia crazy with your soccer stories. Melina, you better be a sweet little girl,” Mrs. Ellison says to the kids

  “Always am Mommy,” Melina says as she hugs her mom and kisses her.

  “Bye everyone,” and grabs her medical bag and leaves the house.

  “You kiddos have your school bags ready? We need to catch the bus and get you to school,” I say as I drink the last of the coffee in my cup.

  “Ready as ever, Sophia,” Joshua says.

  He’s acclimated himself very well into his fourth grade class here. The kids go to an international school. They are growing up bilingual, something I highly admire. If I had the career and money as they do, this would definitely be a place I’d settle in. The slow pace atmosphere in life is absolutely wonderful.

  Once the kids are dropped off at school, I decide to walk through the famers market. The smell of fresh fruits and vegetables makes my stomach turn. I look over the oranges, and decide to take one to eat as I walk along the stands, the lady behind the table smiles at me.

  “Uno arancione,” I say as politely as I can.

  My Italian still isn’t the best. I know most words, but putting a complete sentence together is still very challenging, plus the fear to say things wrong and make a complete fool of myself.

  She hands me the orange, after I pay, I peel it and walk along the stands. Enjoying the juicy orange and admiring the smell and colorful stands, I hear Americans. It’s a bunch of guys standing around a meat stand trying different Italian sausages. I’m watching them from afar; they are intriguing. I guess it could be because, not only are they extremely good looking, but their accents make me feel a little more at home.

  I realize that I have been staring for a while, when one of them looks at me with t
his big grin. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He has the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I smile at him as I pass by them, nodding my head ‘hello.’ I assume they are students from the university in Naples. One thing is for certain, they are some good-looking men.

  I shake that thought out of my head as I continue strolling through the farmer’s market, picking up some fruits and vegetables to have as snack for the kids after school. The personal chef of the family will prepare dinner, so all I have to do is make sure they have a snack that we can enjoy together.

  As I am paying for some fruits from a vendor, someone next to me starts to talk in English, American English.

  “Hello,” he says to me smiling. That same smile I noticed not but a few moments ago.

  “Hello,” I say back at him.

  “You speak English? That makes this so much easier,” he says.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘easier,’ but yes, I speak English, I’m American,” I say without even thinking twice.

  He smiles at me with that drop dead gorgeous smile of his and I’m instantly smitten. Instead of saying anything else, we just gaze at one another. With the awkward moment overtaking me, I pick up an apple and try to pay for it. While trying to get my wallet out to pay, I notice it’s not in my purse anymore. A foreboding panic sets in.

  “You left this at the orange stand and I tried to catch up with you sooner,” he says as he hands my wallet.