It Takes a Villa

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To my mother, who loved Italy most of all.

Author’s Note

This story is set on Italy’s Amalfi Coast, one of my favorite places to travel. The Campania region is vibrant—rich in culture, offering the best of land and sea. Though some of the details in this book are fictionalized (including the names of places—Zavona, Cocenza, and Nanca are fictional towns), I aimed to capture the magic of the region. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

Natalie Malone had arrived so late the night before, she hadn’t really seen the villa. In the dark, she’d strained and craned and blinked to take it in. The headlights of the taxi had flashed over it too quickly as it sped up the gravel driveway. Once she was alone, her phone light hadn’t been enough to illuminate all of the villa’s hulking form.

Still, she’d stood for minutes in the cool night air, taking in its vague silhouette, searching for recognizable lines based on the photos she’d studied so hard. Anticlimactic as it was, she had traveled all night and day for this, a glimpse of her future against the starry, moonless sky.

Not one to take chances, she’d arrived three hours early for her first flight, Chicago to JFK, then a red-eye to Rome via Amsterdam. The train from Rome to Salerno had taken four and a half hours. Then another two on the express bus from Salerno to Positano. Her final leg was a quick backtrack south in a taxi—Positano to Zavona, on the outskirts of which sat her house.

When she awoke, hours later, to the delighted recollection that she was finally here, her second thought was of the dawning light that would let her see the villa. Her third thought, which ought to have been about how quickly she could get her clothes on, was cut short by—

Is that a chicken?

She rubbed her eyes open and surveyed the rest of the garage, where she would live until the villa was habitable. Beyond an old desk and the lamp that sat on top of the mini fridge next to her cot in the corner, the space was crowded and smelled faintly of gasoline.

And chickens.

Natalie wasn’t sure what live chickens smelled like, but the garage didn’t smell fresh—not as if animals lived there, but musty from disuse. Worse than the presence of the small beast that strutted importantly near the garage doors was seeing the broken board in the door it had gotten in through, and not knowing how long it had been there watching her sleep.

This one had to be a hen. A rooster would have had the decency to announce himself—to give a courtesy cock-a-doodle-doo. But this hen seemed aimless, parading and clucking, regarding Natalie only halfway.

Shoo!

The hand that drew her covers to herself in fright emerged long enough to wave the hen away. Impervious, it kept on with its pecking and strutting. Natalie made a mental note of something to look up when she found an internet café. How to intimidate a chicken was at the top of her list.

Maybe I should spring for a hotel. Just until I relocate the hen.

But a lack of lodging in Zavona was the very circumstance that gave her plan a shot. This place—her place—had been it. The larger towns miles up the coast had honest-to-goodness hotels. But Zavona had only ever had this pensione, the Italian equivalent of a B&B.

In its former life, it had been known as Pensione Benone, which translated to very good inn. She had yet to decide what she would name it, but she liked the idea of quality. Natalie may have been frugal, but she didn’t want a mediocre pensione, or a mediocre anything. She wanted to restore it to its former glory.

The half of her brain not caught up in trying to stare down the unflappable bird busied itself imagining what it would take to build a chicken coop and recoup her investment in eggs. The hen waddled back through the open hole a minute into Natalie’s imaginings.

It was all she needed to get out of bed and begin her morning, to finally relish the moment she’d awaited. The moment she would lay eyes on her villa.

My villa.

Even as she stood on property that belonged to her, that fact was hard to believe. She had never owned much, apart from her art supplies and whatever clothes fit. She was good with money—though most of what she’d earned had gone to her car lease and to rent and student loans and the cheap meals she and Gram had eaten for two years straight. There had been no frills, only saving…for this.

The night before, she’d stripped off her travel clothes—yoga pants and a bulky sweatshirt to combat the cold of planes and trains. Now that she was here, she wouldn’t need anything heavy. It would be all balmy temperatures and briny air no matter the time of day. Such was August on the Amalfi Coast.

I’ll need a dresser, she mused when she went to unzip the largest of her three bags. She’d only brought the essentials—summer clothes, specialty art supplies, and six bottles of her favorite Kentucky bourbon. Two more cases of the bourbon and the rest of her worldly possessions were on a cargo ship that could take months to arrive.

The garage doors had to be opened manually and pushed out to each side. No remote controls or slider track overhead. It was old-fashioned, but wasn’t that part of its charm? Above a built-in worktable were tools that still hung on their pegs. Rusty hedge clippers sat inside a wheelbarrow, and a saw bench had gathered a thick coating of dust. An item draped in canvas had to be a motorbike. In the middle of all the chaos was an old lawn mower, frozen in time and neglected. But it was hers, and she was completely in love.

That’s not love. This is love.

She stopped pushing the door, halting to take it in. Not a single one of the twenty-seven preview pictures online had done the villa justice. Even as it looked now, with its walls overgrown, half covered in some leafy vine that crawled up the sides, at three stories high, it stood grand.

The eighteenth-century villa was a classic example of Renaissance style, a fact she knew because of Gram, Urbana’s most dedicated architecture geek before she got sick. If Gram were here now, she would go on about the villa’s detail—things like the columns in the recessed entryway, the lighter contrast stone on the quoins, and the entablature beneath shallow eaves. Natalie choked up for the third time since she’d left home. Gram should have lived to see this.

She stepped forward at the same time her fingers rose to her neck in search of the chain that held the key she only ever took off to shower. It had been sent by the Economic Development Council, along with her deed. Or rather, her provisional deed. To own it in full, she first had to restore the property.

The garage was on the north end of the house, at the end of a long driveway that ran behind the villa and to a main lot in the front. This private lane delineated the back side of the main building from the gardens and the pool. The easiest way to enter the main building from where she stood at the garage was to cross the side courtyard and enter through the kitchen. But Natalie wanted the full experience of seeing her house for the first time. She wanted to walk through her front door.

Practically skipping down the shaded lane, she ignored the overgrown garden and the loud crunching of driveway gravel beneath her feet. When it came time to round the corner of the building, she cut across the front lawn. She took deliberate steps with high knees to wade through the tall grasses and get to the steps. Breathless with anticipation, she finally reached the stone archway that encased the double-knobbed, blue-painted front door.

After turning her key in the tight, ancient lock, Natalie gave a firm shoulder push. The door creaked open, giving her the first glimpse of the entryway she had longed to see. The two-story ceiling was grander than it had seemed through a camera lens. A staircase in the middle was a curved beauty of rare white marble, with wrought-iron railings that flared artistically at the base. It had an elegance that commanded the rest of the space to rise to the occasion—or, at least it would after it underwent some repairs. A chandelier had fallen from the vaulted ceiling of the second story, ruining two of the steps and part of the entryway floor.

Natalie strolled left, toward rooms that were western-facing—a spacious sitting room, a cozy library, and a rustic dining room all in a row. Each had arched glass doors to the outside that stretched much higher than her head. When opened outward, these would flow elegantly to the loggia, which led to expansive patios that would be perfect for taking in the sun and the seascape—the Gulf of Salerno, the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the Mediterranean beyond.

These would be the preferred common areas—the spaces where guests would want to spend their time. No matter how beautiful her restoration of the interior promised to be, it was hard to beat the outdoor views. The villa had been built in a way that made all the second-floor guest rooms ocean-facing. Natalie stood on the western lawn, using her hand as a sun visor as she looked up at the wrought-iron guest-room balconies from outside, when a masculine voice cut through her thoughts.

Hello?

The owner of the voice sounded American. She turned in the direction from which it had come. The shorter of the two approaching men seemed to corroborate this suspicion. He was beefy, wearing jeans and a baseball cap and a faded T-shirt that read: You might be a farm boy if…

"Hello— Ciao." She remembered to use the standard Italian greeting at the last instant.

The farm boy’s thumbs were hooked in his pockets, and he walked with a sort of ease. He had light—nearly clear—blue eyes. It was harder to guess at the nationality of his companion. Smart blue glasses framed dark-brown eyes that went with coiffed hair of a similar hue. He wore a button-down shirt and leather sandals with white jeans. His arms held a wide wicker basket that was full of something she couldn’t quite see.

I am Jorge from Argentina, the one wearing glasses said.

And I’m Chris from Texas. The farm boy gave a little wave.

And we are your welcoming committee! Jorge practically trembled with glee as they came near.

Natalie startled at his exuberance. She hadn’t had her coffee yet, and Jorge seemed to be at least five cups in.

We brought you a basket, Chris said as Jorge held it out to her. We heard you were coming in last night. Thought you might like to settle in.

Thank you. I’m Natalie, nice to meet you both.

Chris jutted his chin toward the villa. Looks like a beauty of a beast.

No sooner did she accept the basket than Jorge stepped past her, his chin tipped upward in appraisal. This is much bigger than Ellie’s place…

What’s the square footage on this thing? Chris slid all of his fingers into his pockets.

Sixteen thousand square feet inside and just over three acres of land.

Jorge let out a whistle. And all of this is just for you?

No. She didn’t mention Gram. "The villa will be my business. I’ll open it as a pensione in six months’ time."

Chris and Jorge shared a knowing look, each raising their eyebrows at the same time. It was so in sync, Natalie wondered if they were a couple.

Six months isn’t enough, Chris said with a note of apology.

Natalie lifted her chin. It is if I work on it full-time.

Chris and Jorge shared another concerned look but said nothing.

Six months is all they give us, she said.

Chris and Jorge looked at each other again, then looked at her. We know.

That’s why we do our own welcome basket, Chris continued. To help people with their time.

Natalie had questions—lots of questions—but the basket was enormous and it was starting to feel heavy in her arms.

Do you mind if we… She motioned as best as she could to the garage. All I have right now is a mini fridge. I can’t imagine how I’ll keep all of this cold.

Jorge abandoned his villa-gazing to throw her a pointed look. Refrigeration is a lie.

Natalie was too baffled for intelligent speech.

This is propaganda from the United States, Jorge continued. Everything in this basket can be left out.

But the eggs… she stammered.

Jorge slung a casual arm around her and kept them going toward her garage. There were at least half a dozen eggs—a mix of brown and white—in a tiny wire basket. There were also two loaves of bread, an array of fruits, several small packages of cheese, and three small, uncut logs of cured meat.

These are not commercially produced eggs. Jorge looked disgusted by the notion. They do not come from a factory. They come from a local farm. You can leave these eggs out. Yes?

Natalie swung an alarmed gaze to Chris, who only offered a shrug. Welcome to Italy. We do things different here.

She blinked, fully resolved that she was going to refrigerate the eggs and the cheese and the meat and every last item that the US FDA recommended, even if it took up every inch of real estate in her tiny fridge.

I take it the EDC already gave you your list of recommended vendors? Chris’s gaze was on Natalie as he waited for her to lead them. Jorge’s gaze was already taking stock of the garage.

It was sitting on my bed when I got here.

Do you have a pen?

Somewhere, she murmured, trying to see past the basket in her arms. Finding something to write with would require digging deep into her backpack.

Jorge located the photocopied list that had been printed on green paper and left by the EDC. He took the pen that Chris had spontaneously produced from somewhere and began crossing off names.

Not all the vendors they recommend are good, Chris explained. There’s what they tell you, and then there’s the truth.

Trust me, Jorge insisted. I am saving you twenty thousand dollars and many tears.

Natalie craned her neck to see what he was crossing out. She didn’t like the idea of obscuring information but kept quiet. Natalie did not like confrontation. And besides, Jorge had brought her cheese.

There’s other things you ought to know about. Things they won’t tell you in that packet. Chris jutted his chin toward Jorge as he worked. Like that we get together and talk.

Who is we?

Some of the folks in the program. I know you’re still settling in, but it’d be good for you to meet some people. To find out the real deal.

As opposed to the fake deal?

This was a lot to take in. Chris and Jorge made program infrastructure sound grave.

When’s the next time you all are getting together?

Jorge put a cap on his pen and handed me the paper. We meet at Café Ludo on Wednesdays at eleven a.m.

Chapter Two

I cannot believe it. You’ve saved my life! Signora Sanguigna said after Pietro handed her the paper. The legal authorization she held was a grand affair. It was printed on the official letterhead of the republic. The national emblem was drawn in vivid color, the green of its branches bright, the rich reds forming the ribbon and the border of the star.

Let’s hope your life didn’t depend on the town’s recertification, Pietro said. Zavona had to be reconfirmed as an official municipality each year. Not having the certification letter on file by August first meant a potential freeze on the town’s bank accounts, which would mean a huge headache for Signora Sanguigna.

Pietro put down his leather satchel, then settled into a nearby chair. They had both arrived in the same conference room to attend an Economic Development Council meeting. Signora Sanguigna tore her eyes off the letter and finally looked his way.

You don’t know how desperate I was becoming. I had plans to go to Naples, to personally knock on the regional controller’s door. Seriously, Pietro. How did you do this? It’s signed by the finance minister himself.

Pietro didn’t mention the frank conversation he’d had with the man about certain people in his agency and the egregious dragging of feet depending on who was doing the asking. Getting things done quickly in Campania relied on favors and bribes. Signora Sanguigna may have been the best controller Zavona had ever seen, but the bureaucracy wasn’t easy on women, so Pietro didn’t mind cutting a little red tape.

I do what I can, he responded simply. It’ll be easier to deal with Naples from here on out.

Don’t be surprised if my husband calls to thank you. Signora Sanguigna laughed. The regional controller is all I complain about these days. Carlo has been cursing that asshole for weeks.

Who is cursing me this time?

The booming words were spoken by Alfonso Indelicato, who stepped through the door with a wide smile on his face, followed by his minions. Pietro’s back stiffened, his face dropped, and his casual chatter with Signora Sanguigna went quiet. She nodded in greeting to the man who was well-liked but tricky to deal with when it came to the business of the town—the mayor…and Pietro’s father.

Are you starting in on me already, son?

Signor Schivo and Signor Razzo smirked as they sat down at the table along with Alfonso. Everyone on the council knew how often Pietro and Alfonso were at odds. Pietro resented when his father treated their differences like a joke, patronizing him in front of the others. The things they disagreed on weren’t petty. People’s livelihoods were at stake.

This meeting of the Zavona Economic Development Council will now come to order, Signor Schivo called as he passed out copies of a spiral-bound report. The cover read Sognatori, the name of the council’s special program. Alfonso had led them into the business of selling dilapidated properties in town to foreigners for the reasonable price of a single euro. More than thirty properties had been included in the initial pool.

It had been eighteen months since the first group of sognatori had arrived and started renovations, and no one apart from Pietro wanted to admit that things weren’t going well. The schedules the sognatori had to adhere to were too stringent. The funding requirement was too low. And there were too many incentives to cut the wrong corners.

I see we have two new arrivals this month. Alfonso paged through the report.

One residential, one commercial, Signor Schivo confirmed. That brings our active projects to fifteen. We expect a short lull for the rest of the summer, with another five arriving at the end of fall. I don’t think we’ll see a problem getting to twenty. The program is very healthy at this point.

Sure, if healthy meant terminally ill.

Good. Alfonso gave a brief nod. Then we can move on to the financials. Signora Sanguigna?

Wait. Pietro held up a hand. There was something Signor Schivo hadn’t mentioned. Something big. I disagree with this report.

Alfonso’s eyes—the same green as his—narrowed in suspicion. Disagree with what part?

Pietro’s gaze remained on Alfonso. "The report says that our numbers are up by two sognatori. But three sognatori left the program in July, which means that we’re actually down by one."

Alfonso’s eyes narrowed further. Signor Schivo threw Pietro an equally hostile look.

But he couldn’t just let this go.

I’ve done my own calculations, Pietro continued. Our attrition rate is thirty-five percent. More than one third of people who came here are leaving Italy, penniless and shattered.

Say what you mean to say, Pitruzzu.

Pietro didn’t like it when his father called him that—the diminutive version of his name. It reminded everyone in the room that Alfonso was the elder in a place where seniority mattered. And Pietro was merely the idealistic boy of yesteryear, who all the others had known as a child and still viewed as one.

What I mean to say is that we can’t solve problems if we refuse to admit they exist. We can say what we must to the regional council, to the national preservation society, and anybody else outside of here. But, at least to ourselves, to the ones who care most about Zavona, can we not openly admit that the program is failing?

The room fell silent, without so much as the tap of a pen or the shuffle of a foot.

Why are we so afraid to say it? Pietro said.

No surprise, the first person to defend the opposite position was his father.

We knew when we started that not every buyer would be a fit, Alfonso retorted. We knew we would not see a perfect success rate from our pool of opportunities.

Pietro squeezed his pencil with a death grip. Stop calling it an opportunity. Call it what it is—a revolving door.

A look from Signora Sanguigna told Pietro she half agreed. Signor Schivo and Signor Razzo, as usual, seemed to side with Alfonso.

And what is our alternative? his father asked in the same manner he did every time they had this argument.

Private financing to restore the homes. We need an investor so the renovations can be done right.

Alfonso smiled with something that looked like pity.

Pietro. My preservationist son…it is not only about the buildings. Your wealthy friends cannot engineer the restoration of the town.

Signor Razzo, who had been quiet until then, turned toward Pietro with gentle defiance. "Your father is right about this. It is not only a matter of restoring Zavona’s beauty. It is a matter of rehabilitating the economy of the town. Even if every home were restored, it would not solve the problem of our commerce. With the program, the sognatori are required to start a business."

Yes, we must think of commerce, Signor Schivo chimed in. The buildings have been here for hundreds of years. They can wait a few hundred more.

Pietro clenched his jaw at the faulty logic he’d heard too many times. His father and his cronies believed too much in their own rhetoric. Among the 65 percent of sognatori who had succeeded, some of those projects were barely scraping by.

I remember the advertising brochure, Pietro said to the room. I helped write it, back when I believed in what we were doing. But now, who are you trying to convince?

It is you who needs to do the convincing, Pietro. You are an architect, not a business person like all of us. If you want to convince us, then bring an investor. Until you have one, you will not speak of this again.

…

Unenthused by the idea of sharing a small metal box with people who had started to feel like rivals, Pietro opted out of taking the elevator in favor of the stairs. He had personally supervised the municipio’s restoration and maintenance. As he descended the marble staircase, Pietro thought of the bustle this city hall building had seen once upon a time.

A very long time ago, Pietro thought, pondering how many years it had been since the town had really thrived—since businesses were healthy because they were passed down through generations. Zavona’s dilemma was a consequence of flight, the result of children who had left to seek their fortunes elsewhere in Italy or abroad. Parents were left with businesses and nobody to leave them to. In order to live closer to sons and daughters and grandchildren, some of the parents and grandparents had fled as well.

Zavona was still the best place that Pietro had ever known—uniquely beautiful, even if it had become a bit sleepy. Nowhere else in Italy could you find black-sand beaches, perfectly preserved piazetta, and hidden coves between the cliffs. Nowhere else could you find ancient villas and palazzos—some in poor repair, yes, but with such great potential. Nowhere else could you find seafood that was so flavorful, produce that was so fresh, and cheeses that weren’t produced anywhere else in the world. Pietro wanted to see it vibrant again.

If only he could get the others to accept that this was not the path—that their plan needed adjustments if they expected it to work. That building businesses and attracting new residents would be easier if the town were restored. That historic-landmark status for more of their buildings—a virtual guarantee of renewed tourism—was within reach if they played their cards right with the restorations. If only his father weren’t so stubborn, weren’t so dismissive of Pietro’s expertise. Arguing with his father made him feel like a child.

Pietro was twenty seconds from freedom when he stalked by the freestanding sign that read Administrative Office. The sign was double-sided with a heavy iron base. What he wanted to do was to keep walking—to hop on the back of his Vespa and clear his head with a long drive up the coast. But if he left without turning in the final piece of paperwork he needed to take possession of his latest restoration, he would only have to come back before the