Below is the first chapter of Nanette Littlestone’s romance novel, Bella Toscana. Littlestone never knew she wanted to be a writer until after she had turned 40. But once she began, the ideas didn’t stop. Her fascination with relationships, history, and the spiritual path has opened her writing to women’s fiction, historical fiction, and inspirational nonfiction. 

A native Californian, Nanette lives in Atlanta, GA, far from the beach (which she loves) but a place that’s warm with spectacular scenery. On the professional side, she helps entrepreneurial women write and get published, and she continues to grow her vision for F.A.I.T.H. On the fun side, she takes walks with her husband, cooks, plays with graphic design, and makes origami butterflies. She loves to travel, but she’s waiting for the teleportation machine to whisk her off to Greece or Asia. In the meantime, she’s happy with dark chocolate and romantic movies that make her cry.

Follow her blogs at www.WordsofPassion.com or www.FindingAnswersintheHeart.com or on Facebook. She loves to hear from readers.

You can also read my author interview with Littlefield on HubPages!

Prologue

I loved him before I knew him. Some people talk of synchronicity. The rhythm of life. I know of rhythm in the lyricism of words, in music, in the ebb and flow of the ocean, in the monthly cycles of plants and trees. A beautiful orchestration exists in the simplest of nature. But my world operates on logic, practicality, reason. I do not believe in a grand plan. I do not believe in God.

And then he came.

Before him, I had a well-ordered life. Habit and routine carried me through the day, warmth and comfort eased me through the night. There were disappointments. Longings. Not all was perfect.

But such is life. If there was no great passion, so be it. Peace is preferable to something wild that soars then fizzles and leaves you with an aching heart. I had a different kind of love—security, respect, admiration, friendship.

I was fine. Just fine.

He showed me my lies in a slow creep of warmth that grew and teased and eventually began to burn. The thought of him burrowed deep inside me until I could think of nothing but him. We were soul mates.

Soul mates. I scoffed at that. But we were linked inextricably, inevitably by some deeper force, some older reckoning that began many years ago. To this day I don’t think he knew what would happen. How do you know what fate has in store for you? They say man has free will to act, to choose, to create whatever he desires. But what of other people’s actions, choices, desires? What if those choices conflict with your own? We tried to resist the seemingly magnetic pull. We did our best to act rationally, to behave with honor and dignity. To be selfless. But love is not selfless.

Love is selfish. Love craves attention. Love needs to be heard, to be felt. Love is a natural disaster.

You may think this is nothing new. We all know stories of love. But this story is different. This story spans over two thousand years. This story began in ancient Rome.

So I beg you, for as long as it takes to read this story, to put aside your beliefs. Something took hold of me, pulled me along.

Was it fate? Destiny? Divine intervention?

Look to your own heart for the answers.

Chapter 1

Atlanta, Thursday, November 4

There is no indication that today will be the day my past and present collide. This evening I celebrate my fiftieth birthday with my husband Jackson at my favorite Italian restaurant. The staff extends their blessings for a happy day and the owner takes our order.

I splurge tonight on osso buco. The succulent veal melts in my mouth and the risotto Milanese is creamy and tender. The perfect accompaniment.  I think of my last trip to Italy, too long ago, to the beautiful Tuscan hills and the family dinners with my grandparents and aunt and uncle I rarely see. Love joined their hearts and hands and the food I ate there whispers sweetly in my memory. Despite the lined faces and shoulders sagging with age, they looked so happy. A tavola non s’invecchia, my grandmother pronounced.

“At the table with good friends and family you do not become old.”

I think of her words as the number fifty bobs in my head like a heavy weight. Both my grandparents have died and my aunt and uncle have taken over the villa. Life has marched on all these years, with nothing to show for it. But tonight I feel no older. And I will be visiting Italy at last for the Chocolate Festival in Rome, just a few hours from my mother’s home.

The waiter delivers a flourless chocolate cake with vanilla gelato and a candle burning brightly.

As Jackson sings “Happy Birthday” my eyes fill with joy—he may not be the world’s greatest lover but he’s the sweetest man alive—and I blow out the candle. I don’t need to wish. I have everything I want. I take a bite of rich, warm chocolate and creamy vanilla and sigh satisfaction.

Who needs great sex? Give me chocolate any day.

While I revel in that thought, Jackson hands me a black box tied with a shimmery cobalt ribbon. Already my heart is swelling. My favorite color on the outside of the box can only mean something wonderful inside. Wrapped in layers of tissue is a gorgeous purse of the softest leather in many shades of blue. It is extravagant and lovely. I can’t stop petting it.

“I hope you like it,” he says.

“It’s beautiful.” And perfect.

“Just like you.” His puppy eyes shine and I sense his imaginary tail wagging.

He’s as pleased for me as if it were his birthday. “It comes from a shop near Livorno. I was thinking we could go there on our trip. It’s not that far from Rome.”

“We won’t have time. The festival is three days and I want to visit my aunt and uncle.”

The light in his eyes dims. I hate taking away his enthusiasm.

“We’ll see,” I say, knowing that will lift his spirits.

In bed that night I thank him once again for a wonderful evening. Then I turn out the light and snuggle under the covers. His hand seeks out mine and our fingers clasp, warm and steady.

Turning fifty isn’t so bad after all.

He kisses my shoulder in the early morning hours. The cluster of candles by the bed illuminates the smooth muscles of his back that bunch and relax as I stroke his warm skin. Warm breath tickles my ear.

“I have waited for this,” he says in a husky voice that heats my skin and makes my heart pound.

Our bodies move in slow motion. His mouth takes mine in a heady kiss, rich with wine and the passion of his love. Our tongues twine in a duet whose rhythm I recognize, yet have never felt before. He trails kisses down my neck and sups at the line of my collarbone. Who is this man who makes me feel so wanted?

Hands caress my limbs, invoking a trail of fire that spreads through me. Every graze of his fingertips makes my body clamor for more. “Love me,” he says, “for I love you more than life.”

“I love you,” I respond.

My heart feels the exquisite agony of a passion so deep that nothing else matters. I press myself closer to him, skin on skin, hearts beating together.

“I will always love you.”

I thread my fingers through his tawny hair, straining to see his eyes as he moves over me. When we come together I feel myself weep. And when I scream my climax for the first time in my life, he covers my mouth with his to muffle my cries.

He holds me close then, cradling my back against his strong chest.

One hand palms my breast, the other rests across my hips. I lie in his arms, too weak to think, before sleep claims me once again.

When I wake at my normal time, Jackson is already dressed and sitting on the bed to say goodbye. My husband with his medium brown hair and slightly receding hairline. I struggle not to blush and casually turn my head, almost expecting to see a stranger lying next to me. But the other side of the bed is empty. There are no candles. Nothing to hint at an unknown lover.

Jackson gazes at me with those brown eyes that make my heart melt. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

I’m lonely just thinking about the empty house. “I’ll miss you.”

I grab at his coat lapel and pull myself up to kiss him goodbye. A sweet, comforting kiss followed by a long hug. I love our hugs.

“Don’t go,” I say and hold him tighter.

I always tease him this way with every trip, but this time I mean it. Something has changed.

“I’m missing you already,” he whispers as he gently pulls himself from my grip.

“Have a good trip. And don’t forget about Rome.”

I watch him leave the room, hear the wheels of his suitcase click on the hardwood floors, the lumbering raising of the garage door, then silence. I am alone. With a sigh, I climb out of bed. We leave for Rome the day after he returns. Anticipation thrums along my skin. The show is six days away.

While the shower gets hot, I close my eyes and remember the blond-haired man with his hands on my body, his mouth, his breath in my ear.

A dream, I tell myself, but it seemed so real.

I had felt him, heard his voice, tasted him. When had I ever tasted something in a dream? I could recall every moment of the pleasure he gave me. I usually tell Jackson my bizarre dreams. It lets us laugh, allows us to share something intimate and quirky. But there was no time this morning. Thank God. Some things even married couples shouldn’t share.

I think back to the first time I had sex—old enough to know better yet naïve enough to make the wrong choice. I fell in lust with an egocentric musician I met at a college concert. I have a soft spot for a sweet guitar, and his nimble fingers sealed my doom. Before I knew it we were lying naked on his bed and I was confessing my virginity. My chest tightened from nerves. Not at losing the decorated piece of flesh that most women give up at a much younger age. No, I was worried about the mechanics.

I didn’t understand the supposed wonder of the act. It all seemed rather crude and disgusting. The musician, who lost much of his appeal without his guitar, gave me these words of wisdom. If you’ve never tasted lobster, you don’t know what you’re missing. I held the vision of succulent white flesh dripping with melted butter in my mind and went ahead.

Sadly, there was nothing amazing about it.

The mirror begins to fog as I stare at my reflection, the still black hair, the slight curve of breast and hip. Once again I wish I were more alluring. Then I turn to the shower. Enough, Toscana.

This morning is like every other workday. My wonderful store awaits. A long checklist materializes in my head and imaginary pages roll by, one after the other. The tension starts to build and I try to shrug it off under the water. But as silky soapsuds coat my body, I wonder if the man of my dreams will come to me again.

Butter and chocolate melt on the stove as I beat sugar and eggs into pale yellow ribbons and add vanilla and a touch of coffee for depth. I’m experimenting with a new brownie flavor—apricot with almonds and Amaretto. Sunlight brightens the green granite countertops of my kitchen. My place of inspiration. Where I first began Dolcielo, my business. Baking fills my heart with joy. With food I can give the world my love and the world will love me back.

I remember mixing dough in my mother’s sunny yellow bowls, my little hands beating with a wooden spoon until I thought my arms would fall off. My mother would say little words of praise, “Bene, molto bene,” as she rolled out the dough on the table and patted it into shape for biscotti.

Tears prick my eyes. I miss my mother. She believed in me.

“You will be a great cook someday, figlia mia,” she said.

And I am.

People love sweets and I have something for everyone. Starting my own business felt good, right, a way to get myself out of the house. Jackson was happy to let me spread my wings and we financed the company from my savings, with the understanding that joint funds were available if I needed them. After the initial investment I envisioned great success. If only imagination sold products. Dolcielo, Italian for sweet heaven, is barely getting by.

I’ve dipped into our joint funds more often than I’ve liked, and after five years of little to no profits, it’s time for a hard decision. The drone of the mixer and swirl of the batter let my mind wander to Italy and the Chocolate Festival, which I hope will open new doors for me. It’s a gamble but I have to try. A long breath escapes in a wonder-filled sigh. What extraordinary tastes and textures will I find? What will I choose to bring back? Then the dream fills my mind again. 

I have waited for this, he said, the stranger who loved me.

Waited? For how long? Was that our first time together? I shake my head even as I recall the ease and rightness of the union. Whoever I am, I am not a virgin. But who am I?

A scorched smell halts my fantasy. I turn off the mixer and look into the pan. The bottom is coated with thick black streaks of char. Burned chocolate.

“Damn it.”

Ruined food is a sacrilege. I might as well just throw my money out the window.

No more daydreaming.

I set more butter and chocolate to melt. The smell of melted butter warms my heart and the chocolate . . . there is nothing I love more than good dark chocolate. As a child, relatives plied me with platefuls of Italian confections, but despite all those rich Italian desserts, I love brownies. When I proclaimed my fascination with this American delight, my mother blurted, “Maledizione!”

I was shocked by her swearing for days but it didn’t change my taste buds. Good brownies are deep dark miracles of chocolate divinity. And Dolcielo brownies are the best. One of my reviewers said, “If Italians made brownies, they would make these.” I take the saucepan off the stove and stir the chocolate mixture.

The new batch of brownies goes into the oven and I set the timer, my foot tapping impatiently as I cross my fingers. I want to take some with me to Italy to give to prospective buyers. I hope they’re good. They better be good. This time I sit down and face the timer, watching the seconds tick by. No more mind wandering.

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