Breathing Room

She was gazing out over Bethlehem. This was the Holy Land of the Renaissance artists. They’d painted the landscape they knew as the background for their Madonnas, angels, mangers, and shepherds. The Holy Land… right outside her window.

She took in the distant view, then studied the land closer to the house. A terraced vineyard extended off to the left, while a grove of gnarled olive trees grew beyond the garden. She wanted to see more, and she turned away from the window, then stopped as she saw how the light had changed the character of the room. Now the whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams were beautiful in their sparseness, and the simple furniture spoke more eloquently of the past than a volume of history books. This wasn’t a ruin at all.

She moved into the hallway and down the stone steps to the ground floor. The living room, which she’d barely glanced at the night before, had the rough walls and vaulted brick ceiling of an old European stable, something it had probably once been, since she seemed to recall reading that the tenants of Tuscan farmhouses had lived above their animals. The space had been beautifully converted into a small, comfortable living area without losing its rustic authenticity.

Stone arches wide enough for farm animals to pass through now served as windows and doors. The rustic sepia wash on the walls was the real version of the faux treatment New York’s finest interior painters charged thousands to reproduce in uptown co-ops. The old terra-cotta floor had been waxed, polished, and smoothed by a century or more of wear. Simple dark-wooden tables and a chest sat along the wall. A chair with a muted floral print rested across from a couch covered in earth-toned fabric.

The shutters that had been closed last night when she’d arrived were now thrown open. Curious to see who had done it, she passed through a stone arch into a large, sunny kitchen.

The room held a long, rectangular farm table nicked and scarred by a few centuries of use. Red, blue, and yellow ceramic tiles formed a narrow backsplash over a rustic stone sink. Below, a blue-and-white-checked skirt hid the plumbing. Open shelves displayed an assortment of colorful pottery, baskets, and copper utensils. There was an old-fashioned propane stove and a set of wooden cupboards. The rough French doors that opened to the garden had been painted bottle green. This was everything she’d imagined an Italian country kitchen to be.

The door opened, and a woman in her sixties walked in. She had a dumpling figure, doughy cheeks, dyed black hair, and small dark eyes. Isabel quickly demonstrated her crackerjack mastery of the Italian language.

“Buon giorno.”

Although the Tuscan people were known for their friendliness, the woman didn’t look friendly. A gardening glove hung from the pocket of the faded black dress she wore with heavy nylon stockings and black plastic mules. Without a word, she removed a ball of string from the cupboard and went back outside.

Isabel followed her into the garden, then stopped to absorb the view of the farmhouse from the back. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Rest. Solitude. Contemplation. Action. There could be no better place for it.

The old stones of the house glowed a creamy beige in the sharp morning light. Vines clung to the mortar and curled near the tall green shutters at the windows. Ivy climbed a drain spout. A small dovecote perched on the roof, and silver lichen softened the rounded terra-cotta tiles.

The main part of the structure was built in a simple, unadorned rectangle, the typical style of the fattoria, or Italian farmhouse, that she’d read about. A one-story room bumped haphazardly off the end, probably a later addition.

Even the dour presence of the woman digging with her trowel didn’t detract from the shady enchantment of the garden, and the knots inside Isabel began to loosen. A low wall built of the same golden stones as the house marked the far perimeter, with the olive grove sloping away beyond it, and the vista Isabel had seen from her bedroom window behind that. A wooden table with an old marble top sat in the shade of a magnolia tree, a perfect place for a lazy meal or for simply contemplating the view. But that wasn’t the only refuge the garden offered. Nearer the house, a wisteria-covered pergola sheltered a pair of benches where Isabel could envision herself curled up with pen and paper.

Gravel paths meandered through the garden’s flowers, vegetables, and herbs. Glossy basil plants, snowy white impatiens, tomato vines, and cheery roses grew near clay pots overflowing with red and pink geraniums. Bright orange nasturtiums formed a perfect partnership with the delicate blue flowers of a rosemary shrub, and silvery sage leaves made a cool backdrop to a cluster of red pepper plants. In Tuscan fashion, lemon trees grew in two large terra-cotta urns sitting on each side of the kitchen door, while another set of urns held hydrangea bushes heavy with fat pink blooms.

Isabel gazed from the flowers to the bench beneath the pergola, to the table under the magnolia where a pair of cats lounged. As she breathed in the warm scent of earth and plants, the sound of Michael’s voice in her head grew silent, and a simple prayer began to take shape in her heart.

The woman’s dark mutter broke the peaceful mood, and the prayer drifted away. Still, Isabel felt a glimmer of hope. God had offered her the Holy Land. Only a fool would turn her back on a gift like that.

She drove into town with a much lighter heart. Finally something had happened to ease her despair. She stocked up on food at a small negozio di alimentari. When she returned, she found the woman in the black dress working in the kitchen, washing up some dishes Isabel hadn’t left there. The woman shot her an unfriendly look and went out the back door-a serpent in the Garden of Eden. Isabel sighed and unpacked her groceries, arranging everything neatly in the cupboard and tiny refrigerator.

“Signora? Permesso?”

She turned to see a pretty young woman in her late twenties with sunglasses perched on top of her head standing in the arch between the kitchen and the dining area. She was petite, and her clear olive skin made an unusual contrast with her fair hair. She wore a peach blouse, a slim, biscuit-colored skirt, and the killer shoes favored by Italian women. The beautifully curved heels tapped on the old tiles as she approached. “Buon giorno, Signora Favor, I am Giulia Chiara.”

As Isabel nodded in response, she wondered if everyone in Tuscany walked into strangers’ homes unannounced.

“I am the agente immobiliare.” She hesitated, searching for the English words. “The real-estate agent for this house.”

“I’m glad to meet you. I like the house very much.”

“Oh, but no… is not a good house.” Her hands flew. “I tried to telephone you many times last week, but I could not find you.”

That was because Isabel had disconnected her phone. “Is there a problem?”

“Si. A problem.” The young woman licked her lips and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a small pearl stud in her lobe. “I’m very sorry to tell you, but you cannot stay here.” Her hands moved in the graceful gestures Italians employed for even the simplest of conversations. “Is not possible. This is why I try to call you. To explain this problem and tell you I have another place for you to stay. If you’ll come with me, I will show you.”

Yesterday Isabel wouldn’t have cared about leaving, but now she cared very much. This simple stone house with its peaceful garden held the possibility of meditation and restoration. She wasn’t giving that up. “Tell me what the problem is.”

“There is…” A small arc with her hand. “Work needs to be done. Is not possible for anyone to be here.”

“What kind of work?”

“Much work. We must dig. There is problems with the sewer.”

“I’m sure we can work around it.”

“No, no. Impossibile.”

“Signora Chiara, I’ve paid two months’ rent, and I intend to stay.”

“But you would not like it. And Signora Vesto would be most upset to have you unhappy.”

“Signora Vesto?”

“Anna Vesto. She would be very displeased if you were uncomfortable. I have found you a nice house in town, yes? You will enjoy it very much.”

“I don’t want a house in town. I want this one.”

“I’m so sorry. Is not possible.”

“Is that Signora Vesto?” Isabel pointed toward the garden.

“No, that is Marta. Signora Vesto is at the villa.” She made a small gesture toward the top of the hill.