Stephanie Verni's Blog, page 3

It Has Become Something Different

Last week, I took the two-hour drive to Fenwick Island to meet with a book club who had read The Letters in the Books. My motto is: Have Books, Will Travel. I love getting out there and attending book clubs. It’s so gratifying. The women were so welcoming, asked great questions, and discussed the book. They also wanted to know what it’s like to write, market, and publish books. Afterwards, we ate dinner at the restaurant in Bayside. I enjoyed every second of it.

Bayside Book Club

While I was there, they asked me what I am writing now and if I have a new book coming out soon.

I do. It’s coming this summer, I told them. So I shared what the novel is about, and they asked me to read a bit of it. I selected a scene with Rosa in it, and proceeded to read with a New York accent. I tried. As for the story, I desperately need to get my 30-second pitch for this book together, because it has a few storylines, making it a challenge to relay the plot in 30 seconds. Nonetheless, I can tell you that I’ve had a lot of fun writing this book set in the 1950s about toxic relationships and kept family secrets. There’s a love story embedded in it as well, but ultimately it’s about the women in our lives who lift us up or tear us down. With a spicy mafia woman as a supporting character named Rosa Manetti, I have loved what this story has become. And Rosa has been so much fun to write.

The truth is, it didn’t start out the way it has ended; it has become something different.

Initially, I just meant to write a love story. However, once I introduced Essie as the antagonist (our protagonist Veronica’s sister), I couldn’t fight that the book wanted to go in a different direction. Then, the jailed Rosa Manetti, the subject of Veronica’s feature stories, enters the story, and all hell breaks loose in Veronica’s life.

This is what happens when you write a novel, especially when you write without an outline.

As with all of the books I have written thus far, I have never written with an outline.

Typically, I know the beginning of the book and how it will end. The rest fills in as I write and craft and rewrite. I like the fluid and organic way of storytelling. As it is in life, sometimes we don’t know where the path will take us. That’s me with novel writing.

I like to think I’m flexible like that.

Anyway, The Ones Closest to You is coming this summer. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it.

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About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Check out Stephanie’s books on Amazon here.

Cuckoo Clocks and Tossing Pizzas

One of the fondest memories I have from being a small child is that of my great grandparents, Lena and Matthew, otherwise known to me as Nana and Old Pop.

Nana, Old Pop and me as a baby

When I was little and we lived in New Jersey, my mother would take me to visit them, and I have very distinct recollections of their house, the kitchen, and the cuckoo clock. They say the sense of smell brings back instant memories, and I remember well the way their house smelled, especially when Nana made her homemade pizzas.

She would toss the dough in the air, and I would marvel at the way she would catch it and make the pie. I wish I had her recipe now. As it is, I make my husband’s family recipe for pizza, fondly called Aunt Marina’s Pizza, after my husband’s late aunt who recently passed away. Marina loved hearing that I made the family recipe regularly (much to my friends’ delight), which has been around for over 100 years.

As for the cuckoo clock, I loved the way it made the “cuckoo” sound. I would sit on the floor and wait for it to chime.

The shame of all of this is that I wish I had been older in order to know my great grandparents better. As we age, we wish there could have been more time for this, right? There are so many questions I would have liked to have asked them. As it is, I write fictional stories, many of them about the relationship between a granddaughter and a grandmother, and I can only imagine the wealth of information I could have gleaned had they lived longer. And while it’s true, I was lucky enough to have had good relationships with both sets of my grandparents, but I did not know my great grandparents that way, as I was very young. They spoke Italian and broken English, and I remember family dinners where my Poppy (grandfather) would talk to Old Pop (my great grandfather) in Italian.

And Old Pop outlived my Poppy, who died of Leukemia at 63.

All of this to say the obvious: remember to cherish the time you have with those around you. Keep a journal of things you want to remember and write down recipes that you want to hand down to the next generation. And always, always remember to toss the pizza dough.

About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Check out Stephanie’s books on Amazon here.

Jesus, Football, and a New Novel

Jesus & The Chosen

I promised I’d write about Season 4 of The Chosen, having just seen the full season in the theatre. It was so well done, emotional, and heart-breaking.

If you haven’t watched one minute of The Chosen, it’s the most successful crowd-funded series in history and the first-ever multi-season series about the life of Christ. It’s become a global sensation. The series is centered around Jesus and all the “chosen” people in His life. Seasons 1-3 are available on The Chosen app via Angel Studios. Season 4, only released thus far in theatres, will come to the app sometime in the near future.

If you have read the Bible and want to see it come to life, especially the New Testament, The Chosen gives you a glimpse into what life may have been like for those who followed Jesus as his disciples. And while the show sticks to Biblical scripture pretty closely, it also improvises and adds characters into the mix that help us understand what it must have been like to live during that time when Jesus was teaching. Jonathan Roumie plays Jesus in a way that is so nuanced and believable that all I can say after watching the whole of all the seasons is this: he makes you want to hug Jesus. Seeing Jonathan portray Him as God and as a man helps believers to see all that Jesus was up against as He spread His messages of LOVE, MERCY, and FORGIVENESS. If you don’t shed a tear during the raising of Lazarus, let me know. It’s pretty powerful stuff.

I say this frequently as someone who teaches communication courses and quotes Aristotle, Plato, Socrates and other Greek philosophers regularly: these aforementioned men all lived 300-500 years before Jesus, and their words are still powerful and relevant. The same should be true for Jesus and His teachings.

The Chosen is a delightful blend of history and scripture melded together with regular people with regular questions wanting to grow closer to the words of Christ. It’s difficult not to become swept up by its beauty, lessons, and love of God.

Friday Night Lights

With only one season remaining to watch of Friday Night Lights, my husband and I have REALLY enjoyed this series. Totally late to the game (haha, pun intended), Friday Night Lights is set in Dillon, Texas, and follows a high school football team (or teams) and the characters that make up the teams and of the town. If you like high school sports, football, and teen drama, this is the show for you. As the anchors of the show, Kyle Chandler plays Coach Taylor and Connie Britton plays his wife; these two keep everyone around them grounded. They are good-hearted people who try to do the best for all around them.

One particular thing I found interesting watching it all these years after it was produced (it ran from 2006-2011), is the lack of cellphones in the show. It reminds me of a simpler time; cellphones were just becoming popular for kids during that time, but the first three seasons of the show were devoid of cellphones. It’s just one small observation, but I wonder how much damage technology has done to our young ones over the years and how healthy it is to be connected to them all the time. The lack of them in the show is noticeable.

The show does a great job of getting you interested in each of the character’s lives. Some characters have great challenges that they must tackle daily. And as well, as they are all growing up, we get to see them morph and change into the people we hope they will become.

New Novel – Coming This Summer

Well, I’ve made it to the final editing stages of The Ones Closest to You. This historical fiction novel is set in New York City in the years 1956-1957, right as The Brooklyn Dodgers are about to leave New York for California. The main protagonist is Veronica DeMarco, a reporter for The News and a first-time novelist, who lives with her sister, Essie, who suffers from polio. As the story unravels, Veronica finds herself interviewing incarcerated mafia dame Rosa Manetti. During this time, Veronica writes the sensational story of Rosa Manetti, while also uncovering some secrets from her own past.

This novel is different for me. It’s only the second time I’ve written historical fiction, and I’ve had a great time researching the time period, the Dodgers, and mafia women of that time. I even visited a prison to help make the prison visits believable.

I’ll keep you posted as to when it will be released.

Pie + Hemingway in Key West

How low can you go? This is it. The southernmost point of the United States in Key West. To be honest, Key West wasn’t on my bucket list of places to visit, but I’m glad I got there. It is everything Jimmy Buffet said it is: a sun + fun, laid-back, partying good old time.

We spent the morning on a bike tour, which gave us a good look at the island. We had lunch at one of the dockside restaurants, and we ate key lime pie.

Along the way, we saw Hemingway’s house. I had a shot of his favorite rum at the Hemingway Rum Distillery. The man had a lot of credentials, but my favorite two were journalist + novelist. It’s really incredible how many writers began their careers as journalists: Dickens, Mark Twain, Elizabeth Gilbert, and so many more. Like many of us who started in journalism and who are trying to hock our books, that’s encouraging.

Anyway, I’m glad I spent some time in Key West. The pie was worth the ride.

Anna in Tuscany – The Whole Audio Book

If you’d like to read—or hear me read—the entirety of my short novella ANNA IN TUSCANY, you can click the link below. It will take you to the page on my site where I have the links. You can also listen to it on Spotify by clicking here.

I hope you enjoy the story.

Perhaps there will be a follow-up story. One never knows…

xx,

Stephanie

LINK TO ANNA IN TUSCANY

About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Check out Stephanie’s books on Amazon here.

Anna in Tuscany, Chapters 6 & 7

Today, you will find Chapters 6 and 7. Enjoy.

Anna in Tuscany

Copyright 2021 | Stephanie Verni

Anna in Tuscany, Episode 6, Chapter 6

Chapter 6

On Tuesday, I spent the day getting my assignments organized. Danielle and I talked on the phone for an hour, lining up my travel within Italy. I was going to Rome, Venice, and Florence, and then to some of the smaller regions and towns. Her assistant booked my hotels for those jaunts.

Luckily, Rosa had packaged leftovers for me for two nights, so I relaxed with a new book I’d picked up and ate dinner. I even poured myself a small glass of wine. After dinner, I needed fresh air and slipped into my coat for a nighttime stroll.

Being alone wasn’t so bad, after all. I got to do whatever I wanted and was on my own timetable. I ate what I wanted when I wanted; I took walks when it suited my own schedule; I had plenty of time to read; and I even took time for meditation in the mornings and before bed. “Find yourself,” my mother had said to me. I wanted her to know I had listened. I was doing what I said I would do.

Wednesday morning was much the same: I got up, had breakfast, and began to do research for my first article. Tonight, I had a date to play cards with my neighbor, Matteo. I was looking forward to getting to know him better.

To that end, I bought desserts from my local pasticceria and a plant for Matteo. He seemed like a sweet man who had lost his wife, and I was looking forward to his company. It also was unlikely that I’d be any good at cards.

Not wanting to be late, I knocked on the door a couple of minutes early.

“Ah, princepessa, so good to see you,” Nicolo said, with a smile. He was wearing a crisp, maroon shirt and his glasses. He looked very smart and tidy, and he caught me off-guard as I was not expecting him to be joining us. Nicolo saw my surprise. “I always play cards with him on Wednesdays. He must have forgotten to mention that.”

He motioned dramatically for me to come inside, and I saw Matteo sitting at the card table, ready to play. Music featuring an accordion played in the background, and I could see Matteo shuffling the cards.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “Ah, Anna,” Matteo said when he saw me enter the room. “Ciao, bello. We are happy you come.”

“Grazie.”

I presented Matteo with the plant, and he took the desserts from me from the pasticerria.

“Eccelente!” He looked pleased by the sweet treats. “Sit, sit,” Matteo said. “We play da cards.”

“Which game?” I asked.

“We play Scopa. You know how?”

“Of course, she knows how! You do, don’t you, Anna?” Nicolo asked.

I smiled. “Yes—si—my grandmother taught me,” I said.

Matteo nodded and smiled once he understood. Nicolo watched me as I made myself at home at the table.

And there I was. Sitting in my neighbor’s apartment playing cards with an older gentleman and his grandson, his younger clone. It was uncanny how much they looked alike. There was something in the twinkle of their eyes that made it clear they were not only related by blood but connected in a much deeper way. My sixth sense was kicking in—and I could feel that. I think it’s one of the reasons I enjoyed writing and hearing people say they connected with my travel pieces. While it’s always about the places we visit, underlying all of that is the people—the people who make up the place. Additionally, people always told me I looked like my grandmother more than I looked like my own mother—perhaps it was the hazel green eyes and the shape of our faces—but everyone knew I looked like Nana. The same was true for Nicolo and Matteo; they both had strong Roman noses.

“So, how are you enjoying Siena?” Nicolo asked me.

“Good.” Then I asked, as I am always curious to know more, “Nicolo, how do you speak English so well?”

“At school. We learned Italian and English.”

It made me wish I were truly bilingual. The desire to work on my Italian was growing exponentially as I began to become reacquainted with the culture.

After about fifteen minutes, Matteo won the first round. He clearly was a little devil at playing Scopa. Nana had told me years ago that it was the favorite card game of the older gentlemen in Italy. If Matteo was any indication of their love of the game, I knew I was going to lose at cards all night.

“So, how long will you be with us, Anna?” Nicolo asked.

“I’ll be working here for a year.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a travel writer.”

“What a great job. Sounds delightful,” he said.

“It is pretty nice. I love to write and don’t mind the travel.”

I could see Matteo’s ears perk up when he heard Nicolo and me talk about what I do for a living.

“What is your first assignment?” Nicolo asked.

“It’s about La Festa Degli Innamorati,” I said. Matteo looked at me quizzically. “I have to get started on it, and I’ve been doing some research. But I could use some more inspiration. Do either of you have a good story about Valentine’s Day here in Siena?”

They thought for a moment, and Nicolo yielded to Matteo, who said, “A Siena l’ispirazione è tutt’intorno a te.” Matteo had been following along perfectly and replied back to me in English—In Siena, inspiration is all around you.

We played another hand, and Matteo won again. His eyes danced with enjoyment.

“He loves winning,” Nicolo said.

“I see that. How often do you spend time together?”

“I come by at least three times a week. I try to get him out, too. We go to dinner or to hear music. But always cards on Wednesday nights when I’m not working.”

 “And what do you do for a living?” I asked Nicolo.

“I’m a travel writer,” he said.

“Are you serious? Really?” I could hear Matteo snicker. He was enjoying this conversation.

“No, I’m only joking you,” Nicolo said. “I’m a doctor. Pediatra.”

“A pediatrician? Here in Siena?”

“Yes. Just around the corner.”

“Si prende cura di me,” Matteo said. He takes good care of me.

“Matteo, why are you speaking to me in Italian if you know English so well.”

 “Ti sto insegnando l’italiano,” he said. I’m teaching you Italian.

I should have known. Clever old dog. But I was even more impressed with Nicolo being a doctor and taking care of children.

We ate a bit of the sweets, played one more round, and then when I could see Matteo was beginning to tire, we began to clean up. Matteo put the plant I gave him on the windowsill and settled into his easy chair, turning on the television to watch his favorite news program.

“This was fun, even though I’ll never beat Matteo at cards,” I said to Nicolo in the kitchen as we put the food and drinks away. “I’m glad he invited me to come over.”

“I am glad you came, too,” Nicolo said. “He hasn’t been the same since Nonna died. He misses her big.” Big. Good choice of words. I missed my Nana big, too.

“How long were they married?” I asked.

“Fifty-five years.”

“That’s a long time,” I said, in awe.

“And in love with each other all those years—and still—as you can see. All of the paintings in the apartment are Nonna’s. She was quite an artist.”

“I’ll have to take a close look at them sometime,” I said.

“His heart, it is always broken,” Nicolo said. “It makes me sad to see him this way. I come around to help and to cheer him up as much as I can. But he’s lonely.”

“Well, I will keep a good eye on him, too. I can care for him, also.”

“I appreciate that, Anna. Could I possibly get your mobile number, just in case? He doesn’t always answer the phone, and my parents are no longer living in Siena. They moved to the coast, so they’ve left Nonno, who refused to go with them, in my care. Which I don’t mind at all. He’s my Nonno.”

“Of course,” I said, and Nicolo and I exchanged our contact information.

I walked back into the living area and leaned down to meet Matteo’s eyes. “Grazieper la bella serata, anche se mi hai battuto a carte.” Thank you for a lovely evening, even though you beat me in cards. I kissed Matteo on the cheek.

“Nessun problema,” Matteo said, laughing. No problem.

“I will see you tomorrow,” I said to them both.

Nicolo walked me to the door. “Ciao, bella,” he said.

Anna in Tuscany, Episode 7, Chapter 7

Chapter 7

A week later, as I was eating supper, and after another week of playing cards and losing to both Matteo and Nicolo, the light of the day coming to an end, I heard a knock on my door.

Matteo stood before me with an old, leather tattered box that looked worn. It was a pretty sizeable one, and it was tied shut with a big ribbon.

“That looks heavy,” I said, taking it from him and carrying it inside. “Come on in.” We moved into the living area, where he sat on one of the guest chairs, and I placed the box on the coffee table.

“What is this?”

“Stoooria d’amore.” A love story.

I looked at him a bit puzzled.

“My eyes are bad, and my hands no work the typewriter like they used to. It is storia d’amore I have-a worked on for years. My-a story. Our-a story. Lenora and I.”

“May I?” I asked him, pointing to the box.

“Sì.”

I opened the box and saw faded letters tied up in ribbons, black and white and color photographs, handwritten poetry, and a stack of typewritten pages tied up with string. In awe, I looked at the contents of the box. It was a reservoir of documentation, a scribe’s scrawling on paper here and there, bits and pieces of stories everywhere. Cards in red envelopes.

“When did you stop writing this?”

“Five-a years ago when Lenora pass.”

“Matteo—were you a writer?”

“Giornalista.” Journalist. 

“Really?” I asked. He nodded.

Looking at some of the photographs was like looking at Nicolo. Their similarities were striking, and Lenora reminded me of Nana when she was younger—voluptuous with sweet eyes and an angelic smile. In photo after photo, you could see how much in love Matteo and Lenora were.

 Danielle had wanted a unique piece about love and Valentine’s Day for the website—a more personal story, if I could find one.

As I perused the collection, aspects of their love story unfolded here in this box, but would I be able to tell this story? I could, I thought. Matteo is here to help fill in the blanks. Was I holding the key to an untold love story—one that I could sink my teeth into? Dissecting the contents of the box was like being handed the parts of a car before it’s put together, and I understood what he wanted me to do.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” I said.

“It’s-a yours,” he said.

“I can’t keep this—these are all your treasures.”

“You write the story on La Festa Degli Innamorati. On-a loan. Here is-a your ispirazione for your story.”

“Are you sure, Matteo? I would be reading these private letters and poetry—”

“It is all there to be a-read. It is good story, a nice story, and we need a little nice in this world. Spread the love.”

I couldn’t argue with him. Kindness is always important in life, to any story. And I was intent on doing just as he said—spreading Italy’s love.

My heart was filled with gratitude that this man would entrust his love story to me. I had come to Italy to find myself, to get away from it all, but in reality, I had found something that made my heart sing. And maybe his, too.

“And you will help me fill in the blanks?” “I will-a help you,” he said.

*******

About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Anna in Tuscany, Episode 5, Chapter 5

Welcome back! I hope you’re enjoying Anna’s time in Italy…we’re starting to make some headway, so here’s Chapter 5.

Anna in Tuscany, Episode 5, Chapter 5

Anna in Tuscany

Stephanie Verni | Copyright 2021

Chapter 5

The next day, I received a letter in the mail at Rosa’s apartment. I recognized the handwriting right away, but oddly, there was no return address.

Dear Anna,

I am writing this letter a few days before you get on the plane for your new adventure so that you get it soon after you arrive in Italy. I didn’t want you to feel too lonely, so I figured a piece of mail from your family each week wouldn’t hurt. I can’t wait to come visit you. I also thought it might make you look important if you started to receive mail. You know…sort of the “mysterious woman in Siena” receiving mail from a mysterious person in America kind of thing. I will write each week, so that the letters keep arriving and you feel more than loved by your family here.

It wasn’t easy to kiss my beloved daughter goodbye and send her off to my childhood stomping grounds, but I know you will enjoy your time in Italy again. Remember how much fun you had when you studied abroad? As you and I talked, you will have time to recharge your batteries.

 You’re in Siena now. Open your eyes. See the world. Write about it. Drink good wine. Savor the bread. Learn to cook. Hang out with your cousins. Meet new people. Open your heart to the right people.

And enjoy your sabbatical from here for a while.

 Just don’t get fat.

 I love you, vita mia.

 Mom.

I began to choke up reading that letter. I missed my mother already. She had always been my rock—always believing in me, and even when she didn’t love the people I dated, she trusted in me. After both of my relationships ended, she simply told me that God put those people in my life for a reason, and that good would come from it all. It was tough to believe when I poured my heart and soul into both relationships, and with Paul it had been over five years. After everything ended with Ben two years ago—and knowing that I wanted a family more than anything in the world—the depression started to get to me. Plus, I couldn’t bear to go on one more blind date and disappoint friends who thought they were doing me some good.

When your heart’s broken and you’re not ready for something new, everything is lackluster. And after two devastating breakups, you began to look in the mirror and wonder what was wrong with you. Neither man could see “forever” with me, and that notion called for some true introspection.

 To be honest, I began to see myself as not worthy of a solid, true, loving relationship. My mother told me it was baloney.

 “Everyone is loveable, Anna,” she had said. But was that true? As Paul had said to me, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you anymore.” Words like that can damage your soul. It was amazing I even had it in me to start something new with Ben many, many months after Paul ended our relationship.

Watching me sulk had bothered my mother after a while. I lived only a few miles from her and saw her regularly. We talked on the phone most days. “Pick yourself up by the bootstraps,” she had said, “and throw yourself into your work for a while.”

 I did that. I worked. I traveled. I did exactly as she said and became engrossed in my work so much so that I neglected to have any sort of social life. Hiding became a crutch to cope with the hurt.

 To be fair, there were millions of us who walked around with broken hearts. We’ve lost loved ones to illness; we’ve found ourselves alone because those we love have fallen out of love with us; and we’ve lost loved ones who simply no longer care and don’t want to be connected with us. I knew I was not the only one—that countless others suffer—and yet being a member of that particular club made it nonetheless lonely, and increasingly sadder by the day. I admired those who genuinely didn’t mind the solitude and were happy not to be attached to someone else. There was something so inspiring about that.

 I had almost given up believing that I was worthy of a longstanding love relationship. I beat myself up constantly, and my mother was tired of watching me do it.

 “Perhaps your time in Italy will help you find the answers you are looking for. Rosa wants you to come and stay in her place. You have extended family in Siena. And we will come and visit. Go clear your head. Nana would have insisted that you go.”

 “Would she have? Really?”

 “You know how much Nana loved Italy. And she would have loved watching your career blossom as a travel writer. I can hear her in my head, saying, ‘Arianna, you get your butt on that plane and heal. Learn to love yourself first, before you love anyone else,’” my mother said.

I scratched my head.

I hated when my mother was right sometimes, but it was absolutely true. Nana would have said that.

*

Alessandro arrived at five o’clock sharp. I was waiting for him on the street just outside the walled city so it would be easy for him to pick me up. I hadn’t seen my cousin in fifteen years. He pulled the car over, got out, and hugged me, kissing both sides of my cheeks.

 “Anna—so good to see you!” he said.

 “You, too, Alessandro. And thank you so much for helping me get set up in the apartment.” His dark skin and dark eyes twinkled, and he smelled of a musk cologne.

 I climbed inside his little car, and he began to make the drive outside Siena and through the hills. On the ride, Alessandro filled me in on his life: he married a woman from town, and they had a three-year-old daughter, Gianna. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

 “It has been too long, Anna,” he said, as I marveled at the scenery of Tuscany. I’d forgotten its beauty. The hills sloped and the cypress trees graced the hilltops. It was like reading beautiful poetry, and it nearly brought me to tears, the scenery enveloping me, the houses perched like visions of perfection on the landscape.

“It’s so gorgeous. I can see why you are so happy here with your family, and why you would never want to leave,” I said. He smiled at me and patted my hand.

When we rounded the corner and began the drive up the dirt pathway to their home, the vines still in full bloom and the arbors covered with crawling flowers, I was in awe of the place. Instantly, I was overtaken by the vibrant colors, the smells of the countryside, and the charm of Rosa’s house—it epitomized Tuscan splendor.

 Just then, Rosa came running out of her house, an apron covering her dress, and embraced me in a hug. “Here she is—welcome! Welcome!” she said, hugging me so tightly into her large bosom I could barely breathe.

 Little Gianna stood next to her mother, Alessandro’s wife Victoria, and I waved to her. She gave me a timid wave back, probably wondering who this foreign woman was joining them for dinner. I was glad I had worn a dress for the occasion. Rosa was entertaining us in the home’s large dining room, with windows all along the back the allowed the hills to be a backdrop. The long dining table was adored with twinkle lights, candles, and flowers. Italia splendor.

 “You’re too skinny,” Rosa said to me. “Are you ready for a feast?”

 I laughed. Never in my entire life had I been called skinny. I had hips and curves, and I’d always had to work very hard to maintain my weight. It wasn’t easy—because I loved food. My mother even cautioned me not to gain weight. I know she said it lovingly, but she knew I could look at food and put on five pounds. She and I were very similar that way.

 “I am ready. This all looks amazing!” I said.

 The wine began to pour. I was reunited with my cousins and their children. Rosa’s husband, my uncle Pietro, a sophisticated looking man, was warm and welcoming. We passed the numerous plates of food Rosa had prepared around the table. I felt comfortable right away, even though I hadn’t seen them all in many years. But Italian families were like that—it was as if no time had passed at all, and we just jumped in right where we left off.

 Except, perhaps for Pietro, who wanted to know the details of my love life as soon as I took a bite of the second course.

 “So, no marriage prospects then, Anna?”

 I almost choked on my food. Italians can be so blunt. They don’t hide behind formalities.

 “Not at the moment,” I said, obviously embarrassed.

 Sensing my humiliation, Alessandro saved me. “Papa, she wants to find the perfect person, not a perdente.”

 I looked at him sideways, not understanding the word. “Loser,” he whispered to me.

 Luckily, Pietro let it go at that, and the rest of the meal consisted of us sharing family stories, especially ones about my mother as a child, and I offered a glimpse into our life in the United States. Sitting where I was right now, in the candlelight of this old, Tuscan home, eating savory food, and enjoying my family’s company, I’d say I was in the right spot for now.

 When I said goodbye to everyone that evening and climbed back in Alessandro’s car for the ride back to the city of Siena, I thought about what Alessandro had said to everyone at the table on my behalf: not a perdente.

 He was so right. This time around, I would not entertain the idea of someone who did not love me the right way…the way I needed to be loved. I wanted someone who said they loved me—all of me—and that they were in love with me, not just that they loved me. There was a difference. I was thankful I had decided to take this respite here in Italy, to find a new focus, and regain my self-confidence as well.

*******

About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Anna in Tuscany, Chapters 3 & 4

Below you will find audio recordings of Anna in Tuscany, Chapter 3 & 4.

Text for these chapters is below. Enjoy!

Anna in Tuscany

Stephanie Verni | Copyright 2021

Chapter 3

“You made it,” my editor said as I picked up the phone on the second ring in the morning. She had woken me up, but I didn’t mind. I’d slept for almost twelve hours, having been up all night on the airplane.

“I made it,” I said.

“How’s the place?”

“It’s lovely, Danielle. Really beautiful. And thanks for the car and driver.”

“You’re welcome. Take a week to get settled and you can get started on the piece for the website. You know what I want, right?”

“I’ve got it. I’m on it,” I said.

“Okay, great. Well, keep in touch and let me know if you need anything on our end…research or otherwise.”

“I will. Thanks, Danielle. And thanks for entrusting Italy to me.”

“We all know you’re the perfect person to write these stories. Quite frankly, I’m a little jealous,” she said. “Don’t be surprised if I show up on your doorstep one day and beg to sleep in the second bedroom.”

“Anytime,” I said. “You’re helping me pay my bills.”

I knew I needed to get cracking on the first story. Danielle had shared the idea with me prior to my departure. As a staff writer, my articles appeared in both the printed version of the magazine and the online site, so I often wrote several stories a month.

I showered, stepped into jeans, sweater and my boots, and headed out to stroll the streets. Unpacking could wait. I was in Italy, and I wanted espresso from a coffee shop, just the way Elizabeth Gilbert grabbed one in Eat, Pray, Love. I felt a little bit like her at the moment and was excited to do this—ready to explore and write about Italy.

After I took a quick shot, I ordered a black coffee to go along with a sfogliatelle. Back in the States, you can’t get good sfogliatelles, except for one particular pasticerria in the city. After I received my order, I found a bench outside and took a seat, watching all the early birds pass by. I was always amazed by how many people woke up early and began their days just after the sun had risen. I bit into the sfogliatelle covered in powdered sugar. Bliss. There really wasn’t anything in the world like a flaky, sweet, Italian sfogliatelle. How would I describe the taste of it in a story? I would have to think about that.

Despite that it was January, the day was mild. I was here. A smile crept across my lips. When I traveled for my job, I’d grown accustomed to the days spent by myself exploring, but I always knew I had family and friends to return to when the assignment was over. In my present situation, I would live alone—and would be alone a lot of the time. But in reality, there was an advantage to being by yourself; you made your own schedule, and if you wished to make a fool out of yourself, you could do it without anyone finding out about it on Facebook. Added bonus.

“C’è qualcuno seduto qui?” a man said to me, gesturing to the side of the bench I was not occupying. I surmised he wanted to sit there.

“Sì,” I said.

He opened his newspaper and began to look it over. He glanced at me and smiled as I watched him fold the paper and begin reading the pages. I could parse together the headlines because of my limited vocabulary.

When I finished the coffee and pastry, I walked back to Piazza del Campo, which was just around the bend. It truly is one of the most beautiful piazzas in all of Italy. I remembered the stories my mother would share about the Palio horse races when I was little. My mother had been to the races several times. This morning, people were wearing their winter coats, strolling the large square, and businesses on the perimeter were beginning to open.

I walked around the piazza for about an hour until my lower back became cranky from the long plane ride. I really needed to stretch or do yoga.

As I walked back to my place and trudged up the forty-seven steps, I noticed my next-door neighbor picking up his own newspaper outside his door. He was an older man, and he saw me and gave me a wave.

“Ciao,” I said.

“Ciao,” he said back to me, trying to focus on who I was and if he knew me.

“Sei cugino di Rosa?” he asked. Are you Rosa’s cousin?

“Sì,” I said, “ma non parlo molto bene l’italiano.” Yes—I don’t speak good Italian. “Arrugginita.” Rusty.

“Ah, ah,” the older man said. And then in English, “I speak-a da English.”

“Well, yes, you do. Very well!” I said. He laughed.“It is nice to meet you.”

“Ah, sì,” he said, walking toward me to greet me. “Ah, you be-a happy in Siena?”

“Sì,” I said. “Very happy.”

“Benvenuta for you,” he said, motioning for me to come into his apartment. He walked inside his door, and I followed. Because his apartment is on the corner of the building, I noticed the sunlight streamed in through the windows a little differently from mine, the winter rays lighting the space.

“Vieni a vedere il panorama,” he said, testing my Italian language skills and motioning me to come inside and look out his windows, and he grabbed a small bag of Baci chocolates with a bow on them and gave them to me.

“Grazie,” I said, pleased at the thoughtful gift.

I walked over, looking around his very neatly kept apartment, colorful paintings on the walls, and marveled at its lack of clutter. The place smelled as if it had just been cleaned.

“Tale bellezza, no?”

“Yes. Bellisimo.” His apartment really was beautiful. Right then, I wished I had brushed up on my Italian or taken a Rosetta Stone course prior to coming.

He sat down in his chair that faced the window, and motioned me to sit, so I lowered myself into the chair across from him.

The man smiled at me, and I could see that he was probably quite handsome back in the day. His distinguished face was wrinkled with age, but his olive skin caught the light in the best of ways, giving his face a youthful glow. He had thick grey hair, and his cheeks were rosy. Average in stature, he wore trousers with a button-down shirt that looked a little rumpled.

“Is that your wife?” I asked the man.

He picked up the photo and handed it to me. “Sì,” he said, pointing up to the sky. “With-a God now.”

I nodded. I could tell it was difficult for him to say those words.

“My Nana, too,” I said, attempting to share a bond with the gentleman.

“Così triste…” he said. Sad.

“Sì,” I said.

He pointed to the deck of cards sitting on the table beside him. Then, he pointed to me and the cards. “You play?”

“Sì,” I said.

“We play-a da cards. You a-tell-a me stories about Americano, and I a-teach-a-you a better Italiano.”

His English was better than okay, and it made me wonder how he learned. If only I’d given the Italian language the same effort. We made plans to play cards on Wednesday night, and I promised to fill him in on American life. I excused myself and explained that I had to unpack and get settled.

As I put the key in my door and heard him close his, I realized I never even asked him his name.

Chapter 4

Rosa texted me at seven-thirty the next morning. You come for supper tomorrow night. Alessandro will pick you up.

After eating toast and having a quick coffee, I strode off in the direction of a market to get some items: fresh fruits, vegetables, and cooking spices.

I bundled up for the walk—the temperatures had dipped overnight—and grabbed my purse and headed out the door.

The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was flawless, one of those crisp winter days. The buildings twinkled in the sunlight, and the terra cotta colors complemented the aqua blue sky.

Winding through the back streets, I made my way to a store—Guiseppi’s. It looked like it was primed for a role in a film set here in Italy. The muted slate streets led to his specialty shop with a stone exterior and arched doors lined with vines, and fresh fruits and vegetables graced the sidewalk in barrels and bins. Inside, the shop oozed with charm, as breads and olive oils, pastas of all kinds, and cooking utensils, pots, and pans were displayed around the perimeter of the store.

It smelled delicious in there, too.

“Pronto,” the large man with dark hair said to me.

“Pronto,” I said back. He smiled.

I grabbed a basket and began to fill it with things I needed for the kitchen—and for my cooking. I had sworn I would learn how to make some of Siena’s finest meals, and to learn my way around a kitchen a little bit better. When I had been with Paul, we had cooked together a lot. He was a chef, and he tried to teach me what he learned. If only I’d paid closer attention. Prior to Paul, Ben and I rarely made meals together. We always ate out. In the two years we were together, I could count on my hand the number of times we ate dinner together in his condo, mostly because Ben worked fourteen-hour days in the financial industry, and I was often on the road. The two of them couldn’t have been more different, and yet I had loved them both.

And both relationships ended in disaster.

Putting the past out of my mind and reminding myself that I was, in fact alone, thousands of miles from them both, I couldn’t help but feel acutely aware of my singleness. Neither of my previous boyfriends loved me in the way that I had loved them. Neither of them, I realized much later, wanted what I wanted in life. So here I stood, holding a ream of garlic, because frankly, now I could eat as much of it as I liked, and no one would tell me that I wreaked of it.

There were certainly pluses to not being in a relationship.

As I brought my basket up to the counter to check out, the man looked at me sideways. I looked back at him, and he smiled. I knew he could tell I was American.

“You know Rosa Vinelli?”

“Sì,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, coming from around the counter to face me. He caught me off guard by taking my face in his large hands and kissing me on both cheeks. His stubble tickled my skin. “You-a look like her. She told me you were coming. Famiglia.”

I smiled at him and nodded. His English was strong behind the Italian accent.

“How long you are-a visiting?”

“Well, I’ll be living here for a year,” I said. “I’m writing travel articles about Italy for my magazine.”

“Bene!” he said. “What is your first story?”

“It’s about La Festa Degli Innamorati. What can you tell me about it?” I asked. He seemed interested and chatty, so I figured I’d ask.

“Well, it is a lover’s tradition, all about love. All about romance.”

“Only for lovers, correct?” I asked him.

 “Si, it is not Americanized here-a in Italy. Lovers only.”

I thanked him for the information, and when I went to shake his hand, he came from around the counter and kissed it instead. He also gave me everything in the basket at no charge.

*

“You told Guiseppi I was going to his shop,” I said to Rosa on the phone after I left.

“I did. I wanted him to know you were stopping by. You said you were.”

 “I was supposed to be incognito, you know, scoping the place out.”

 “In-cog what? You said you were going. I thought you should meet. He’s a nice man.”

 “He was. Very nice man.”

 “We look forward to having you for dinner with la familia.”

 “Si,” I said.

 “Alessandro will pick you up at five. We look forward to seeing your American face.”

 “Italian now,” I told her, and we hung up.

*

I found my way back to the apartment, the cumbersome bag positioned on my hip as I walked up the steps simulating how one would carry a small child and began to climb the forty-seven steps to my place. Feeling suddenly hungry after inhaling scents from the sidewalk restaurants, I reached inside my purse for the key. Propping the bag on one leg, my purse strewn across my shoulder while attempting to insert the key into the lock, I saw a man striding toward me. He looked vaguely familiar.

“You need help?” he asked me, his Italian accent coming through in his almost perfect English words.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said.

“American neighbor.”

“Sì — yes.”

 “You’re playing cards with Matteo on Wednesday,” he said, a big smile creeping across his face.

 I looked at him funny. How did he know so much?

 “I’m sorry, I’m Nicolo, Matteo’s grandson.”

Just then, my neighbor’s door opened, and he stepped outside into the hallway. “Nico—Hai dimenticato il portafoglio.” Nicolo walked back toward my neighbor and grabbed his wallet, shaking his head at himself.

 “Grazie. Arrivederci, Nonno,” Nicolo said, embracing my neighbor in a hug.

 I smiled at him as he headed for the floor’s exit behind me. “Ciao, Anna,” he said, as he strolled by me toward the steps.

The older man I now knew as Matteo waved to me, and I waved back, as I heard the fading sound of Nicolo’s shoes as he descended the steps, and it dawned on me that he had already learned my name without me telling him.

End Chapters 3 & 4 | Copyright Stephanie Verni, 2021

*******

About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Anna in Tuscany, Chapter 2, Episode 2

Thanks for popping back in for Chapter 2 of Anna in Tuscany. Can you see the hills of Tuscany? Do you feel like you’re there? Oh, I love Siena. I hope I did it justice.

Enjoy Chapter 2.

Chapter 2, Episode 2

Anna in Tuscany

Chapter 2

By the time the plane touched down in Italy, I felt exhausted and disheveled. Sleeping on a plane was never in the cards for me when flying, no matter how hard I tried. You would think I’d be used to flying by now.

 The magazine had treated me to a car and driver to take me from the airport in Rome to Siena. By some miracle, I found the driver. Luckily, he spoke a little English, so we were able to communicate better than I expected. His name was Jaco, a middle-aged man, tall and thin, with very tanned skin, and thick salt and pepper hair that he combed like Cary Grant. His voice sounded as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes over the years. I learned that he and his family live outside Rome. After exchanging a few pleasantries and pulling my sunglasses out of my carry-on bag and placing them on my face, the light of the morning sun blinding me, we began the drive north toward Tuscany.

Despite my eyelids feeling heavy, I couldn’t close them for fear of missing out on the gorgeous scenery outside the car windows. The reality sunk in—I was in Italy. As we climbed the hills of Tuscany, my heart leapt with excitement at the prospect of returning to Rome and Venice and other regions for my assignments. I was lucky I only had my purse and one carry-on suitcase to contend with presently; my mother and I had shipped all my necessary things to Italy weeks prior in care of Rosa.

Jaco wound up the curved roads, as rolling hills and villas on large parcels of land came into view. There was no mistaking the architecture of the Tuscan homes in muted terracotta colors that matched the earth’s natural tones. It was a beautiful winter day. Patches of small vineyards, farmland, and olive trees graced the land, and hilltop towns sat majestically on the peaks of rolling greenery. I asked Jaco if I could roll down the window for a moment and inhale the fresh air. He laughed.

“Do you not hav-a dis type o’ fresh air where you live, Miss Anna?” he asked.

“No, we do, but not this type of landscape. It’s gorgeous,” I said, practically hanging my head out of the window like a dog. I snapped a quick photo as he drove.

“And-a-you stay a-while?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ll be writing about Italy. I consider myself very lucky, Jaco.”

“Ah, and-a taste-a de wine. D’good-a life, right Miss Anna?”

“Right,” I said. I longed to taste the wine, eat the bread, and walk the streets of Siena.

The temperature reminded me of the weather we were having on the East Coast, hovering around fifty-three degrees. Despite it being winter, the sun warmed my face after being trapped on an airplane for so long. I had never grown accustomed to flying. I tried my hardest not to think about what the captain was up to in the cockpit, and I listened to the engines the entire time, making sure they sounded solid for the long flight. It was always the same with me—when the plane landed safely, I could go about my life without that worry.

I looked at my cell phone and saw a text from my mother.

It’s Mom. Make it okay? As if I didn’t know it was her.

I typed back, Yes. It’s marvelous.

Good. Text me when you get into the apartment. xx, Mom

My mother never realized that you didn’t have to sign off on a text, and I never told her. I found it charming that she always ended her texts like that.

*

When Jaco pulled up to the walled city, I was confident I knew which streets would take me to my new residence. My map reading skills were on point as I had grown into a seasoned travel writer over the last few years. I marked the streets that would take me to the apartment. Hence, this was why my carry-on suitcase had some wheels. It was going to be a little bit of a walk. Rosa had said she received my shipment of clothing and items, so I would have to go to her villa to pick them up. I had a couple of change of clothes in my suitcase that included my toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and shampoo, and contact lenses to make it through the day until I could fetch my clothing and various other essentials I had shipped to Italy from America. It was amazing how few material possessions one really needed to get by.

After I settled with Jaco and he profusely wished me well, I entered the city of Siena. The walled city had a medieval feel. At one time, Florence and Siena were true rivals, and I expect for some, they still were, but Siena has such a different feel from Florence, and I distinctly remembered this from my days visiting when I was a teenager.

Rosa’s apartment was just off of the Piazza Il Campo, the famous square that hosts the annual Palio horse race, with the tall tower that majestically dons the square. I stopped for a second and checked myself. I was actually here. Standing on Siena’s rich grounds, the streets were alive with people walking, laughing, talking, or drinking coffee, even on a January day. I passed restaurants where people were sitting at windows enjoying a glass of wine, and pasticerrias and coffee shops appeared warm and inviting. I was immediately engulfed by the smells of food wafting out onto the streets and mingling with the scent of cappuccino as I marveled at the romance of the city.

Italy…I have missed you.                                                                        

I continued to follow the walking map on my GPS, and it guided me perfectly to Via delle Campagne, where I found Rosa’s building anchored by a picturesque restaurant on the ground level, with a mint green awning and outside seating. Luckily, she had mailed me the key to the place, and I found my way into the lobby and counted the forty-seven steps up to the apartment. She told me the name outside the door read “Dimora del Sole,” which translated into “sunshine abode” in English. And then I saw the number next to the name. Number 7, Dimora Del Sole. Forty-seven steps to Apartment Number 7. Was this fate? For a moment, I imagined my grandmother smirking at me from heaven. I caught myself grinning at the thought of it.

As I put the key into the door, there seemed to be music coming from inside, and it made me nervous. Did I have the right place? What if I walked in on someone, or worse, on some people, doing, well, whatever it is that people might be doing on a late afternoon in romantic, sunny Italy. Tentatively, I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

I had been right, there was music coming from inside the place, so I walked over to the source. Rosa had left a radio on and placed fresh flowers on the kitchen table, along with a note that read “Benvenuta,” or “welcome” in Italian. I took off my coat and placed my bags down, as I drooled over the apartment. With high ceilings and crown molding, arched doorways, and terra cotta-colored floors, it had character, and the walls of the apartment were a calming off-white color. The furniture, antiques mixed with more modern fare, was incorporated perfectly, and the living area had a soft, white couch with lots of chairs positioned across from it. The kitchen area featured numerous large windows across the back that let in the light.

The apartment was warm, so I adjusted the heat and cracked the windows to let some fresh air in as the sounds from the streets drifted inside of my new little abode. I loved how Italians didn’t have screens on their windows; it made you feel as if you were part of the outdoors without that little barrier. Feeling thirsty, I opened up the refrigerator and found that my aunt had already stocked it with milk, eggs, pastries, fresh fruits. Fresh bread was wrapped in brown paper and sitting on the counter. Then, I spotted the homemade red gravy in jars. The cabinets had been stocked with an assortment of pasta, as well, and I was thankful for that. I was absolutely famished.

When I took a peek at the bedrooms, and chose the bigger one for myself, I noticed that everything I had shipped from America was already there in the room, stacked in the corner, waiting to be unpacked. Rosa must have had her sons help her transport them here.

I texted Rosa right away, feeling so appreciative. She spoke pretty solid English, so I wrote simply:

Thank you. The place is amazing, and I’m grateful that you brought my things here. It was so nice of you to do this for me. Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Truly exhausted from the day’s journey, I ate fresh cheese and bread, boiled up the homemade pasta and red gravy, and drank Pellegrino water that was in my fridge. After all those delicious carbs, I drifted off on the couch, the reverberations of Siena lulling me fast asleep.

End Chapter 2 | Copyright Stephanie Verni, 2021

*******

About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING & MANAGEMENT: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.

Anna in Tuscany, Chapter 1

Quick Overview – 11 Episode Podcast, Anna in Tuscany

For the next 11 days, I will be reading my short novella set around Valentine’s Day called Anna in Tuscany. The text is below the podcast. We’ll start today with Chapter 1.

Click to hear Chapter 1 (6 minutes, 56 seconds) on Spotify. Enjoy, and I’ll see you tomorrow.

Anna in Tuscany Podcast: Chapter 1

ANNA IN TUSCANY

Chapter 1

I remembered a story my late grandmother, Nana, told me years ago about how lucky the number seven was for her. She married my grandfather, Vittore, (seven letters in his name) during a light snowfall on the seventh of January (a month with seven letters) in Livorno, Tuscany, (a town and region each containing seven letters), where they raised seven children and lived for many years before moving to the United States. It was one of those stories she would tell frequently, laughing about how ironic it was that her life had seemed to be determined by all things related to the number seven.

Incidentally, Nana’s name was Arianna (seven letters), and I was named after her, although I am called Anna, a shortened version of the name we share.

Like a movie playing in my head, I pictured her sitting around our large dining table, her animated face telling that story the night I sat on a small suitcase begging it to close, the contents of it stuffed with clothing and reminders of my life here in America. In a matter of hours, I would board a flight at 7 p.m. on Friday, January 7, 2017, with the intention to live in Italy for a full year.

I wondered if Nana would think this meant my luck would change.

“Anna,” my father shouted up the stairs. “We’ve got to get going or you’ll be late, and check-in takes forever at this hour!”

“I’m coming,” I said.

As I looked around my apartment for the last time, most of my belongings already moved into a storage facility down the road—my father and my brother promising to move the remainder of my things out after I’d gone—I swallowed hard. And while it was a big leap for me to leave my immediate family for twelve months, Italy was a second home to my parents. They were the ones who had pushed me to study abroad in Rome during college.

Life throws us unexpected curve balls, and at the age of thirty-three, my editor approached me about the opportunity to plant myself in Italy and write about its various regions. I’d been writing travel pieces for the magazine and website for three years, when the idea came to my editor to plant me in Italy. When I mentioned having family there—and possibly a place to hang my hat for while—I’d been selected as the obvious choice to go. Plus, it didn’t hurt that I spoke a little Italian.

The family apartment in Siena had just been emptied, as the previous renters moved out at the end of December, and my mother’s sister Rosa was more than happy for me to take on the lease. Rosa, who lived in our family’s long-standing home in Tuscany and who was busy with her own children and grandchildren, in addition to caring for my great aunt—my grandmother’s sister—was pleased to know that a family member would be the renter. It lessened her burden to find a tenant.

“It will be such fun, let me tell you!” my mother had said to me when I had shared the news of the magazine’s offering. “Not only will it give you time to clear your head and to write, but you’ll also get to spend some time with your extended family who lives in Siena.”

Once the logistics had been settled, I was now Rosa’s favorite American relative. The added bonus for Rosa was that my mother—her sister—planned to come for a visit during the year. The idea of a large family reunion in the summer made everyone happy.

However, that was not the only reason I jumped at the chance to set myself up in Italy; it also had to do with the fact that my dating life was an absolute disaster and finding the right match for me had become nearly impossible. I longed to have children and a family of my own, but luck had not been on my side. As I attended wedding after wedding of my friends over the last several years, I had yet to find someone who suited me—intellectually, passionately, and spiritually. I also traveled way too much for my job, and it was difficult to meet someone who could tolerate my work schedule. I was looking forward to having Tuscany as my home base in Italy, and I would venture out from there for day trips or an overnight stay, my editor’s list of possible story ideas to cover for the magazine saved on my laptop.

“Got everything?” my father asked me as we closed the door behind us, knowing we had to get moving to get to the airport on time.

“I think so.”

“It will be an adventure, Anna. Enjoy it,” he said, patting me on the back.

I’d never taken less time to make a big life decision, and I prayed my time in Italy would be a good choice. And for seven seconds, as Dad tossed the luggage into his car, I second-guessed the decision to go.

END CHAPTER 1

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About the author:

STEPHANIE VERNI is the author of THE LETTERS IN THE BOOKS; FROM HUMBUG TO HUMBLE: THE TRANSFORMATION OF EBENEZER SCROOGE; BENEATH THE MIMOSA TREE; INN SIGNIFICANT; LITTLE MILESTONES; THE POSTCARD; and ANNA IN TUSCANY. She is also a co-author of the textbook, EVENT PLANNING: COMMUNICATING THEORY & PRACTICE. Currently an adjunct professor at Stevenson University Online, she instructs communication courses for undergraduate and graduate students. She and her husband reside in Severna Park, Maryland, and have two children. On the side, she enjoys writing travel articles for marylandroadtrips.com.

Connect with Stephanie on Instagram at stephanieverniwrites.