Taking Tuscany: A Novel

What people are saying about …

taking tuscany

"Taking Tuscany is a lively ride through the Italian countryside. Life with A.J. and her Italian-American family in their inherited castle is all that an adventurous story should be. How can you go wrong with horseback-riding nuns, a mock Olympics, and a hint of amoré? Renée Riva’s Taking Tuscany took me!"

Susanna Aughtmon, author of All I Need Is Jesus and a Good Pair of Jeans

"I’ve longed to spend more time with A.J. and the Degulio family since turning the last page of Saving Sailor. Taking Tuscany, the heartwarming and humorous sequel, was just what I needed. Bravo, Renée! Faith and family are everything."

Leslie Gould, award-winning author of four novels, including Scrap Everything

"Renée Riva creates moving multidimensional images of everyday people who are at their worst uproariously funny, and at their best, transcendent. In a beautifully textured setting, Riva weaves them into a jubilant coming-of-age tale about the true meaning of family. Taking Tuscany is a celebration of the ordinary that will leave you breathless with laughter and tears."

Sylvia Dorham, author, essayist, and voice-over artist whose credits include Riva’s Saving Sailor

A.J.’s fresh voice reminds us of what really matters in life as she negotiates a foreign culture, the pitfalls of friendship, and family life with humor and insight. A laugh-aloud good read!

Maureen McQuerry, author of Wolfproof, Travelers’ Market, and the forthcoming Destiny Stone

"An inspired story about a young girl coming to terms with her faith, quirky family, profound life changes, and growing up. The story is peppered with A.J.’s unique charm and sense of humor. A wonderful follow-up to Saving Sailor."

Michele Kophs, principal, Provato Events

"Fans of Saving Sailor will relish the further adventures of fourteen-year-old A.J. as she adjusts to life in a small, charming, but rather rundown castle in Tuscany. A warm family story with an engaging heroine accompanied by vibrant, endearing characters."

Deborah Hopkinson, author of Into the Firestorm: A Novel of San Francisco, 1906

Bravo, Renée Riva, for writing a witty, thoughtful, and inspiring novel. Through a delicious blend of humor and penetrating honesty, spunky A.J. and her eccentric family made me laugh out loud and also brought tears to my eyes, as they grapple with prickly friends and unlovable relatives, endure life-and-death drama, and learn about God’s mercy.

Kate Lloyd, author of A Portrait of Marguerite

TAKING TUSCANY

Published by David C Cook

4050 Lee Vance View

Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

David C Cook Distribution Canada

55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

without written permission from the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

LCCN 2009922187

ISBN 978-1-4347-6777-6

eISBN 978-0-7814-0318-4

© 2009 Renée Riva

Published in association with the literary agency of

Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com

The Team: Don Pape, Jamie Chavez, Amy Kiechlin, Sarah Schultz, Jaci Schneider, Karen Athen

Cover Design: The DesignWorks Group, Jason Gabbert

Cover Photo: Shutterstock and iStockphoto

First Edition 2009

Contents

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

From the shores of Indian Island …

… to the Tuscan hills of Italy

1. All Greek to Me

2. Il Mio Bel Castello (My Beautiful Castle)

3. Buon Compleanno (Happy Birthday)

4. Mamma Mia

5. Villa Rosa

6. Vascanaza al Mare (Seaside Holiday)

7. Postcards from Paradise

8. A Grand Old Hallelujah

9. Chutes and Ladders

10. The Life of a Yankee

11. Gone to the Dogs

12. La Principessa Dorotea (Princess Dorothy)

13. An Early Frost

14. Nascondino (Hide and Seek)

15. Punto di Prospettiva (A Bit of Perspective)

16. Fun on the French Express

17. La Bambina Santa Fede (Little Saint Faith)

18. The Wonder of It All

19. Un Giorno Ventoso (One Blustery Day)

20. The Home Fires

21. Il Giorno del Ringraziamento (Thanksgiving)

Epilogue

AfterWords

Excerpt from Heading Home

References

The Stories Behind the Story:

Author’s Note

Several years ago my Italian grandmother passed away and left our family an invaluable gift. Her last request was that my mom and dad and all five of us kids go visit the Old Country, her homeland. She also left us the means to do so. Being the obedient family that we were, we promptly granted her final wish: spring in Tuscany, a hilltop villa with a pool, and our family under one roof. There is something about visiting the origin of one’s roots that is good for the soul. As man is made of dust, I got to see what kind of dust I was made of. Some of that dust is now sprinkled among these pages, setting the scene and breathing life into this story.

Somewhere between writing my first novel, Saving Sailor, and its sequel, Taking Tuscany, we lost our dad, Santo Benjamin. One day he was here, the next day, gone. I’m pretty sure God found him up there in heaven somewhere, but the rest of us down here are a little lost without him. You see, Santo was to my mom what Sonny was to Sophia in Saving Sailor—the love of her life. And my dad was to me and my four siblings what Daddy was to A. J. and her four siblings—our everything. To be perfectly honest, we are more than a little miffed that someone so full of life and love and laughter should be taken from us before what we considered his time. As far as we knew, he was planning to go snow skiing the next day, not to heaven. But who are we to question God in such matters? He did, after all, come up with the idea of people, and families, and we must give credit that He knows what He’s doing with us—and sometimes we don’t.

My father had a motto in life that was passed down from his father. La famiglia è tutto. Family is everything. And so it is. My grandmother’s last words to my mom were, Keep the family together. And she and my father did.

From the time I was just a wee thing, toddling around the bocce ball court, the greatest blessing in my life has been belonging to our Italian family. Over the years it has been just one festive holiday after another … Grandma’s homemade ravioli and polenta, bocce ball tournaments, Grandpa’s Wrigley’s Spearmint gum.

Sadly that first generation who came over on the boat has all passed on. But their legacy lives. Taking Tuscany is a tribute to those who knew what mattered in life and showed us the way. I am anticipating a great reunion up yonder (as A. J. would say) one day. For now, we have been left behind to carry the torch. May God help us. Until we meet again …

Acknowledgments

Apart from divine intervention there are two big reasons I was given the privilege of writing this book: Beth Jusino and Don Pape. You are my heroes and, in A. J.’s book, deserve to be sainted.

My literary angel and friend, Sandi Winn, you are worth your weight in gnocchi (Italian potato dumplings). Thank you for your help and friendship.

Molto grazie to my Italian wordsmiths: Immacolata Errico from Bella Italia; Conor Hogan, the Italian-speaking Irishman; and the world’s best Italian chef, Nicola Calamari.

Mom, you already knew I couldn’t spell, and now you know I can’t type any better. Thank you for being my official proofreader, painful as it is.

My husband, Bear, um . . . I’d be a mess without you, as would be this book. Sono innamorato pazza mente dite. I’m crazy in love with you.

A grandioso thanks to my editors, Jamie Chavez and Jaci Schneider, for knowing what I meant to say … and more. And to everyone at David C. Cook who helped to bring Taking Tuscany to the people. Y’all are like family to me … or will be by the time we’re done.

An enormi thanks to my faithful readers, especially my huge fan club: Alec Chunn and Logan Winn. Grazie … once again.

Starbucks. What can I say? You kept me awake.

Forever and foremost, Jesus, my Lord and Savior, thank You for letting me write stories. It is an honor and a privilege, and I am grateful. Sia gloria a Dio. To God be the glory.

From the shores of Indian Island …

(Excerpt from Saving Sailor)

Indian Lake, Idaho, July 1968

I’m sittin’ in a rowboat in the middle of Indian Lake with my dog, Sailor. He’s a collie-shepherd mix with one brown eye, and one that looks like a marble. He’s wearin’ a bright orange life jacket, as any seaworthy dog should when playing shipmate. Sometimes we pretend we’re on the high seas awaitin’ capture from handsome rogue pirates. But today we’re just driftin’.

The oars lie on the floorboard of the wood dinghy; a slight breeze sweeps over us, rufflin’ up Sailor’s long fur. We’re just soakin’ up the sun, and floatin’ by the island where our family spends our summers.

My mama is reclinin’ on the dock in her new Hollywood sunglasses. She’s got a paperback novel in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. My big sister, Adriana, is slathering on baby oil, singin’ along to her transistor radio. My big brother, J. R., short for Sonny Jr., is gutting a fish over on the big rocks, while the younger twins, Benji and Dino, are still tryin’ to catch their first fish of the day.

All of this is goin’ on, while at the same time I’m in the middle of a conversation with God:

… And so, Lord, if we get to pick what age we’ll be in heaven, I choose nine years old, because I am havin’ the best year of my life. I know I say that every year, but this time I mean it. And next year, if I change my mind, don’t believe me. I promise it will always be nine.

I have this feelin’ deep down inside that I will never change my mind. I just don’t see how it can get any better than driftin’ with my dog on a sunny afternoon, goin’ wherever the wind takes us …

… to the Tuscan hills of Italy

Letters from Tuscany

May 10, 1972

Dear Dorie,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. In response to your letter: Yes, I know I’ve only sent you picture postcards for the past three years. I was waiting until I had something good to say! What can I tell you? We are definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

You asked how I like school … I can hardly wait for summer. Changing schools two weeks before the school year ends ranks right up there with bashing my head against the rocks on Indian Lake. For starters, Annalisa Tartini, the queen bee of Macchiavelli, has already declared war on me for asking her friend Bianca where the art room is. She broke away from the group to show me, and has been snubbed by them ever since. Annalisa even came up with a special nickname for me. I’m so tired of being called a Yankee I could scream! As if I didn’t stand out enough already. In cookie terms it’s like being a vanilla wafer in a box of chocolate biscotti.

To add to the fun, I have to use my formal name at school, so when I’m not being called a Yankee, I’m Angelina—oh, joy. No one knows me as A. J. except for my family. In Italian that’s Aya Jaya. I don’t know what’s worse—Aya Jaya or Angelina. Just to clarify, this entire move has been a disaster.

I tried to warn everyone (before Mama talked Daddy into uprooting our happy American family and transplanting us onto foreign soil eighty million miles from home) that, according to the experts, these would be the most traumatic years of my entire life. In light of cultural differences alone, it was clearly not the best time to move a child like me halfway around the world—especially without my dog. Did anyone listen to me? All I got out of my sympathetic mother was, A. J., cut the drama and get on the plane.

No one else in my family seems to have noticed we’ve moved. At least they look Italian—especially Adriana. She is the reason I had to go to a girls’ school. She always drew so much attention from the male species, Daddy decided to send us both to Saint Dominique’s. A lot of good that did. The boy’s school was right across the campus from us, and the boys were forever sneaking over to spy on her. She was the campus goddess—an Italian-American beauty queen. They all went mad over her. And all the Italian girls hated her for it and wanted to run her out of town.

To help us both out of our misery, I secretly sent a box of her photographs off to a modeling agency, and the next thing we knew, an agent from Models of Milan showed up on our doorstep. Adriana moved to Milan as soon as she graduated. At least this way, she’ll get paid to get gawked at.

As for me, they’re not hiring blonde, freckle-faced midgets right now, so it looks like I’ll just be hanging out all summer at our crumbling castle on the hill with the cracked swimming pool.

Wish you were here,

A. J.

May 15, 1972

Dear Danny,

How’s Sailor? Here’s what’s new since my last letter—well, nothing’s really new in this medieval town, but as of last week, I am no longer attending the Catholic girls’ school. It has something to do with being accused of nearly burning down Saint Dominique’s Academy of Perpetual Holiness. I now attend Scuola Media Superiore Macchiavelli—the Italian version of high school. I was already a year ahead of the Italian school system for starting kindergarten a year earlier than they start in Italy. On top of that Daddy had me take the upper education exam when he pulled me out of Saint Dominique’s. He was convinced I’d learned enough in private schooling to start the public high school early. I miraculously passed, hallelujah! For once in my life I’m ahead of my time! I plan to be out of here and back on the island the day I turn eighteen. Can’t wait to see Sailor!

The sudden switch in schools was due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was in the girls’ loo last week when Daniela and Francesca were in the next stall over smoking a cigar. When the smoke hit Sister Giovanni’s nostrils, I was the only one left in the restroom. By the time I convinced them it wasn’t me, it was too late.

Daniela made up a big lie about Daddy sending me to school with a box of cigars to sell to kids so we could afford to attend private school. She said they only bought the cigar from me because they felt sorry for our family. Of course, they also said they lit it but didn’t really smoke it—which is why it was still burning when it caught the trash can on fire.

Daddy decided it was a good time to pull us out when the head schoolmaster called and asked if the cigar story was true. He said if the faculty was really that dense, he had to question their teaching ability.

Little do parents realize the impact their actions have on the life of a child. Mine, in particular. Picture my life as a snow globe; inside you’ll find a girl, a school, a few friends, enemies, teachers, and lunch tables—all moveable pieces.

After the shake-up of 1968, it took nearly two years to learn the Italian language, make a few friends, and establish my place in the lunchroom. Just when it seemed the blizzard was beginning to settle, that giant hand reached down again and shook that globe to kingdom come. Now picture the girl swirling around, upside down; new school, new friends, new enemies, new lunchroom status … round and round and round she goes, where she’ll land, nobody knows. Just when I was getting used to being the new weird kid at St. Dominique’s, now I’m the new weird kid all over again. I thought Daniela was stuck up … you should meet Annalisa.

So how’s life on the island?

Wish I was there,

A. J.

P.S. I’ve completely lost my Southern accent since moving here, but my Italian ain’t half bad.

1

All Greek to Me

A. J., come over here and tell me something.

What, Mama? I make my way over to the big picture window in Mama’s new guest villa.

What is the first thing you notice when you look out this window?

A blue villa.

Mama grabs my arm and escorts me into the bedroom. And this window?

A blue villa.

She grabs my arm again and pulls me into the bathroom. And this window?

A blue villa.

Exactly! This time, instead of my arm, she grabs the peach guest towels off the rack and hurls them at the window. Then she runs into the bedroom and throws the new guest pillows at the bedroom window. Out on the horizon Uncle Nick’s blue villa is basking in the sunset over Tuscany.

How am I supposed to act gracious at Aunt Genevieve’s birthday party, knowing the opening of my guest villa will be undermined by that blue monstrosity on the hill?

Oh, Mama, I wouldn’t take it personally. Uncle Nick just likes the color blue.

Mama looks at me like I have lost my marbles. "Just likes the color blue? A. J., nobody in his right mind paints his villa blue. That is the charm of Italy—rustic, natural stone structures on hilltops. You don’t take a beautiful historic monastery and paint it putrid blue."

Maybe your guests won’t notice it.

"Won’t notice it? How could anyone not notice?"

I turn my gaze back out the window and cock my head in every angle possible. Maybe they’ll notice the poppies instead.

Mama gives me the exaggerated eye roll. Poppies, schmoppies. Sorry, little Miss Pollyanna, but from my perspective, the only thing out there is one big ugly blue villa …

Daddy walks into the room, looks at Mama, then glances at the pillows and towels lying on the floor. He looks back at Mama with a hopeful smile. Does this mean we get to stay home?

I’m sure Daddy would like nothing better than to skip the whole encounter with the relatives. Sometimes Uncle Nick is just too much for him. Unfortunately Uncle Nick is married to Mama’s sister, Genevieve, who is turning forty-five tonight.

No, it does not mean we get to skip the birthday party, Mama says. "I haven’t had the chance to play Sofia Loren for the Greek relatives yet. The Italians sure fell for it at Adriana’s photo shoot in Rome last month. Miss Loren was born in Rome, you know."

Daddy and I look at each other. We know, we say in unison. She’s only told us that five hundred times since we moved here.

Mama marches out of her guest villa back to Bel Castello, our rustic, run-down natural stone castle, to get ready for the party. It’s not a good sign that Mama is on her way to a party in her present frame of mind. The good news is Grandma Juliana—who insists we call her Nonna now that we’re in Italy—won’t be joining us tonight. She is still under the illusion that Uncle Nick is Italian, and would not be happy to discover the truth. She has something against marrying outside of our rich Italian heritage. She also has a problem with Greeks. At the moment, she’s not the only one. Mama thought Uncle Nick was joking when he mentioned his plans to paint his villa blue. But … apparently not.

After slipping into my mandated outfit and looking in the mirror, I head straight to Mama’s room to try to talk her into letting me wear my denim overalls instead. As expected, the answer is no.

Mama is making her Miss Loren debut in