Summer in Sorrento Page 7

  “Well, that’s great. So do you think then that you will head to your father’s house and stay with them?”

  Jacob smiled. “Actually, I was hoping I could extend my reservation around here—for a bit. If that’s okay of course, I don’t want to intrude. But I am also happy to help out. I mean, I know you have been doing things on your own, trying to get this place in order. And you have done a hell of a job, but I don’t mind helping, if you could use another set of hands. I was thinking too that if I did that, then I could take Camilla out, maybe get to know her.”

  Maia laughed. “I think that’s an excellent idea. You are most welcome Jacob. I would love it if you stayed on for a bit.”

  Jacob looked relieved, as if he had been unsure what Maia’s response would be to his query. “And just for the record—I would be happy to give you any other advice you need—about this property. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but let’s just say that I know a thing or two about how to make money off of an investment. You want to make this a big business? I can help.”

  Sitting down to dinner under the burgeoning stars, Hal and Lori shared their plans about where they were going to go next. They had decided to extend their stay in Italy too because they were having so much fun. But better yet, and much to Lori’s delight, it was Hal who suggested they head to Venice for a few days later in the week, just to “check it out.”

  “I’m impressed,” Maia laughed. “How very spontaneous of you.”

  Hal grinned and wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her closer to him. “I suppose , living in the moment is a bit like riding a bike, you might not do it for a while, but the moment that you decide to, you realise that you haven’t forgotten how.”

  “And of course Maia, please know that we are going to write you an absolutely wonderful review on Trip Advisor. You have a gem of a place here, and I think everyone needs to know about it,” Lori said, raising her glass. “Cheers to Maia. Come on everyone,” she encouraged. “I cannot thank you enough for opening up your home to us. You are a wonderful hostess. And I hope that you will also allow me to call you my friend.”

  Maia felt her eyes become misty as the rest of the group raised their wine glasses and toasted to her honour.

  Embarrassed though grateful for Lori’s kind words—Maia looked to try to take the spotlight off of her. She turned to Amelia.

  “And you sweetheart? What’s next for you?”

  The young blonde smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll see. Head back to England. I think I have been just existing for too long, and not living. I need to reconnect with some friends, go dancing, drink champagne, laugh, travel, be young. I realised that last night, with Jacob’s help,” she looked at her new friend and winked, “that I’m going to be great—single or otherwise. No one is going to be in charge of my happiness except me—I’m going to do what you told me Maia. I’m going to be happy. Life’s too short.”

  The next day, after Lori and Hal had departed for Venice, and Jacob left with Amelia to drive her to the airport, Camilla and Maia sat in the kitchen of the farmhouse—falling back into their old routine.

  “So are you excited that Jacob is going to stay on a while?” Maia smiled, as she opened her laptop in front of her, realising that she hadn’t checked her email or even paid any heed to the “company” website in days.

  Camilla looked over her shoulder from where she stood at the counter, slicing lemons. “What do you think?” she replied a sparkle in her eyes.

  “I think Jacob has no idea what he’s getting into,” Maia laughed at the same moment her email pinged with a new message. “Oh a notification from Trip Advisor. We got our first review!” she said gleefully, knowing it must be from Lori and Hal.

  Clicking on the link in the email she accessed the Trip Advisor website and within seconds, was reading Lori’s carefully worded, and incredibly complimentary review.

  “My husband and I stayed at beautiful Villa Azalea and I cannot rave enough about this wonderful spot. Set in an idyllic location, right above the Bay of Naples, you will not find a more beautiful private residence in Italy. You wake every morning to the smell of lemons and azaleas, you go to bed at night under the bright stars of the Neapolitan sky and the place provides you the opportunity to explore and delight in the countryside—something you would never get staying at a big hotel. However, what makes this spot even more wonderful, is Maia, the ‘hostess with the mostest’ who does all in her power to not only make her guests feel welcome, but like they are a member of the family. In the few days that we spent there, Maia became our friend, and I wouldn’t hesitate to go back, just to see her. If you are a considering a stay in Sorrento, this is the place to be.”

  Maia felt a tear escape her left eye as she finished reading Lori’s words. She wiped it away quickly, but Camilla had seen.

  “What does it say?” she said. Maia turned the laptop around and pushed it toward her friend. Camilla bent down and read the words on the computer screen. When she was done, she gave Maia a huge smile. “So, that’s a great review. And it’s just our first one. I think this should be good for business. What do you think?”

  Maia guessed what she was thinking and her thoughts turned to Jim as she pulled the computer close to her and began typing a web address in her browser.

  This is what I’m supposed to do, honey. And I think I’m going to be doing it for a long time.

  A few seconds later, after typing a few commands into her computer, Maia turned the computer screen back to face Camilla again. “So what do you think?” she asked.

  On the screen was the new improved Villa Azalea website, updated according to advice from Jacob. Maia had disabled the reservation option when the others were here and they were fully-booked. But she had just reinstated it and now the homepage read: “Make your reservation today and begin enjoying Summer in Sorrento.” A ‘check availability’ button flashed invitingly onscreen.

  Camilla grinned at Maia and reached down to pull her into a hug.

  “Congratulations, my friend. Now you are well and truly in business.”

  THE END

  Enjoyed this story? Read on for an excerpt of Melissa Hill’s latest book, A GIFT TO REMEMBER.

  Chapter 1

  ‘She is too fond of books and it has turned her brain’ Louisa May Alcott

  Anyone who says that money can’t buy happiness has clearly never been inside a bookstore. And certainly not one like Chaucer’s, Darcy Archer thought, glancing fondly around the gorgeous place she was lucky enough to work in.

  The space was snug and inviting with a vaguely Dickensian feel to it, by way of its floor to ceiling hardwood shelves and filigreed gold signwriting above each section. The Victorian panelled bay window and festive-themed window display evoked old-fashioned storefronts of times gone by, as did the wrought iron scroll-effect purple-on-gold store sign hanging just outside the entrance.

  Catering to its well-heeled Upper West Side neighbourhood, the little shop carried an eclectic mix of carefully hand-picked modern literature in a variety of genres, early edition classics as well as popular bestsellers for adults and children. A quiet and contemplative space, book lovers and gift-seekers alike adored Chaucer’s cheerful, experienced staff and pleasurable browsing experience. Its homey comfortable atmosphere made it the perfect place to spend an afternoon wandering amongst the shelves or hunting down an elusive title.

  At this time of year, with just over a week to go before Christmas, the store was decked out in its holiday finest; fairy lights strung along the shelves, homemade glitter snowflakes hanging from the exposed rafters above, and the evocative aroma of cinnamon cocoa wafting from the tiny café on the first floor mezzanine.

  ‘Excuse me; I’m looking for a book…’

  Darcy looked up from the shelving cart to see an older woman hovering uncertainly nearby. She looked to be in her late fifties, well-maintained and manicured, dressed in an expensive coat and scarf and clutching one of the las
t decade’s most luxurious handbags, which Darcy knew, thanks to her fashion maven aunt Katherine, was easily worth at least three of her monthly pay checks.

  Looking for a book in a bookstore … if Darcy only had a dollar for every time she’d heard that one …

  But she gave the woman a warm smile. ‘Let’s see if I can help. What’s the title?’

  The customer bit her lip. ‘That’s it; I can’t remember it, but do I know it’s by a female author with three names…and there are four daughters in it, although one has a boy’s name I think? And it’s Christmas time, and as far as I know they want to buy themselves presents, but then think better of it and buy one for their mother …’

  The woman’s voice trailed off, and she stared at the shelves helplessly.

  Momentarily puzzled, Darcy slipped a stray lock of raven black hair behind one ear. No matter what she did with it – which was admittedly little – it would never stay put. ‘Is this a new release?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, my dear, it’s a classic.’ The woman’s eyes refocused and her voice grew almost haughty. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know it, actually. Have you been working here long?’

  Darcy had to smile. Actually she was manager of Chaucer’s and had been working in the store for almost six years. And as if with minimum description she could magically hone in on the book in question amongst the millions published.

  Still she did love a challenge …

  ‘Now you say there are four sisters, and an author with three names?’ she said, gently guiding the woman towards the classic literature aisle. The customer nodded. Overhead, a smooth jazz rendition of ‘It Must Have Been the Mistletoe’ played softly out over the speakers. ‘Well, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you may well looking for Little Women by Louisa May Alcott?’

  The woman grimaced, idly scanning the books on the shelves. ‘I’m not sure ...’

  ‘There are four sisters in the book and one of them – Jo – has a vaguely masculine name.’ Darcy pulled a thin red book from the shelf, the pages edged with gold; and presented it to the woman.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, taking it gently. ‘That is beautiful.’ She examined the book from bottom to top and inside and out, marvelling at its rich leather binding and reprints of original classic illustrations scattered throughout.

  ‘Is it intended as a gift?’ Darcy asked.

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes. A Christmas gift for my twelve year old granddaughter, actually.’

  Darcy guessed that the girl’s grandmother was acting on a recommendation and had never herself had the pleasure of reading Little Women.

  Which was a shame.

  It was one of Darcy’s favourites and Alcott’s famous quote about books addling the brain described her pretty well. Darcy was indeed too fond of books – a condition known as bibliolatry. She always had at least one book to read on the go close by, and felt almost naked without a novel on her person, much like someone might feel about a treasured piece of jewellery. Darcy had been enveloped in a story every single day of her life for as long as she could remember, and tended to use every opportunity she could – waiting in line, eating, occasionally even while brushing her teeth - to indulge in her greatest pleasure.

  But they hadn’t turned her brain. Not yet anyway.

  It was one of the reasons she loved working in a place like Chaucer’s.

  Darcy had first made the move as a teenager to Manhattan from Brooklyn where she lived with her aunt, to attend Columbia University and get a Master of Fine Arts in Writing (the closest form of study relating to her passion available). Only to quickly discover that the reality of trying to create stories was a world apart from the pleasures of reading them. Easy reading definitely didn’t equate to easy writing, and the weight of her own expectations combined with insecurity regarding the extent of her talent (or lack thereof) soon resulted in writer’s block, after which Darcy had to admit defeat. Following graduation she then spent some time working on Celebrate, a glossy New York women’s magazine. Her aunt Katherine – via her hugely successful and popular corporate events business - was good friends with the editor-in-chief, and had pulled in the favour for Darcy.

  After two miserable years of cutting down bland three thousand word descriptions of shoes and handbags into even blander three hundred word descriptions, as well as struggling to fit in amongst her uber-cool and effortlessly chic workmates, Darcy had just about given up on turning her passion into a way of life until one day stumbling into Chaucer’s with the aim of finding some kind of guide that could help with her hopeless lack of fashion nous. In any case, not being able to pass by a bookstore without venturing inside had always been one of her major weaknesses, but this time it had turned into a stroke of blessed luck.

  There had been a ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the door and, on impulse, Darcy had applied there and then. She was interviewed on the spot upstairs in the cafe, over a cup of caramel mocha. The following morning when she got the call from the owner telling her the job was hers, she felt as though all her Christmases had come at once. Imagine spending her days constantly surrounded by books, being able to pick one off the shelf whenever she wanted, caress the spine, smell the paper … heaven!

  Though Darcy quickly discovered that working in a bookstore was in reality more about unpacking boxes and rearranging shelves rather than sitting curled up in the corner sampling the merchandise. Even so she felt that she’d finally found her calling. She quickly forgot the long hours, the lousy pay, the paper cuts and the doom-laden prophecies that books were finished.

  Much to the horror of her aunt Katherine, who considered it a huge step down in both pay and career prospects. And while there may have been some truth in the former, Darcy wasn’t the least bit interested in climbing the media ladder in any case. Unlike the formidable, high-achieving Katherine Armstrong, Darcy just wasn’t made that way, and when growing up had always been happiest with her nose a book. One of her earliest and fondest memories was of her mother reading to her before bedtime all tucked up and cosy together on Darcy’s bed. A love of reading was something her bookworm parents had instilled right from the start, and the family had spent many happy times curled up together escaping into wonderful fictional worlds.

  Like her mother Lauren use to say, books were solid proof that ordinary people were capable of creating magic.

  Sadly Darcy’s beloved parents had both died in a car accident when she was twelve years old, and as such she and her aunt had been thrown together by circumstance and familial duty. As per her parents’ wishes, her mother’s sister Katherine had taken her in and overseen her upbringing until Darcy finished school and then at seventeen moved to Manhattan to attend Columbia. In the ensuing years the two of them had somehow muddled along together – at least as well as a shell-shocked teenager and a single thirty-something career girl could.

  Hence her aunt’s interest in her career and while Darcy had known from the outset that nobody got into books for the money, for the sake of passion she was prepared to forgo a healthy pay check for one that just about kept a roof over her head. Her response to her aunt about quitting the magazine six years before had been a quote from Albert Camus: When work is soulless, life stifles and dies.

  ‘Oh for heavens’ sake, Darcy! Albert Camus won’t pay the bills, whereas a nice two-page advertorial on the latest Dior collection will.’ Katherine had said. ‘If you must, then at least aim to work in one of the conglomerate bookstores or publishers even. Yes, I’m sure being surrounding by books sounds great in theory, but really what kind of prospects can you expect from working in a tiny independent?’

  ‘The prospect of spending my days doing something I love and being happy,’ Darcy had retorted sunnily. ‘That’s really all anyone can ask for, isn’t it?’

  But Darcy knew her commercially-minded aunt didn’t lend herself to impractical notions such as finding joy in work simply for the sake of it, and certainly not without some kind of tangible accompanying reward. She knew that Katherine
had worked (and continued to work) ferociously hard over the years to build Ignite into the successful corporate event management company that it was today, but she often wondered if any of it actually brought her aunt contentment or satisfaction, because she eternally seemed to have her eye on the next hurdle or challenge.

  Darcy knew in her heart and soul that finding joy and satisfaction in her work was undoubtedly what she wanted. And she had yet to regret her decision. Besides she had in the meantime worked her way up to manager, a dubious promotion that in reality meant more responsibility and not a whole lot more money, but that had never been a driving force for her in any case. What it did mean was that she had greater creative freedom over window displays, shelve arrangements and most importantly, free reign to choose and order any titles she felt would suit Chaucer’s customers.

  Now Darcy watched the woman walk away with a copy of Little Women housed in one of the store’s trademark purple and gold striped paper carrier bags and sighed contentedly. Another satisfied customer.

  Just then, the front door swung open and Darcy turned to find Joshua, her work mate and relief for late opening hours, standing there with a green elf hat on. An attractive guy in his late twenties, his hair was close cropped against his mocha skin and his grey sweater tight against his thin frame, while his maroon-coloured cords threatened to slide down his narrow hips at a moment’s notice. He looked like a walking Gap advert.

  ‘Merry week before Christmas!’ he intoned in a voice full of rich humour and warmth. No matter what mood Darcy might be in, Joshua always cheered her up. He’d been wishing everyone a merry ‘something’ before Christmas since pretty much Thanksgiving weekend: ‘Merry month before Christmas or ‘Merry three weeks before Christmas.’