Breathing Room by Susan Elizabeth Phillips Read Free Book Online Page B

through now served as windows and doors. The rustic sepia wash on the walls was the real version of the faux treatmentNew 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 thefattoria , 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