The House by the Cypress Trees

By Elena Mikalsen

Julia Ramos, in Italy to find her birth mother, rescues a dog, is nearly run over by a handsome Brit, and gets evicted from her rental apartment. Not a perfect trip.

Daniel Stafford wants to visit his family in Tuscany—after his girlfriend dumps him for their Italian driver, he botches a work presentation in Rome, and an assertive American falls in front of his car.

When their two disastrous lives collide, they end up sleeping on the side of the road. Falling in love with Italy—and each other—is the least of their concerns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Sep 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509227402

Elena Mikalsen

Elena Mikalsen is a women's fiction author who was born in Ukraine and resides in San Antonio with her family and two adopted dogs. She is somewhat obsessive about travel, but, when at home, she can be found browsing through bookstores or antique shops. She writes novels about love. WRAPPED IN THE STARS is about love that lasts forever. Two lovers, Mark and Rebecca, got separated in the early 20th century, but their love remained behind, it didn’t die. Part of their love stayed in the ring that Mark gave to Rebecca. So, when this ring is found years later, another couple picks up the energy from their Mark and Rebecca’s love and falls in love themselves. THE HOUSE BY THE CYPRESS TREES is a novel about romantic love. That wild feeling of new love when you first fall for someone and you want to spend every moment with them and you will do anything for them. ALL THE SILENT VOICES, her upcoming novel, will explore the depth of love between a husband and wife and what challenges a good marriage can withstand. How far will a wife go for her husband and how far will a husband go for his wife? When not writing stories, she is a Pediatric Psychologist helping children with chronic medical illness. She blogs on issues of mental health for teens and adults. She enjoys working with the media due to her expertise in managing anxiety, stress, and parenting issues. You can visit Elena Mikalsen at www.elenamikalsen.com

Book preview

love.

Chapter 1

It would’ve been a great day if it weren’t for the dog. A white puppy with a few brown spots. A mutt. A tiny head with floppy ears and sad eyes, begging for a rescue from the rickety tram car.

Julia Ramos should’ve stopped herself from looking at it. And she certainly shouldn’t have smiled at it. Another mistake in a series of many since Dad handed her a ticket to Rome a month ago, mumbling something or other about Julia needing to spread her wings.

She could’ve avoided the entire puppy disaster if she’d only taken a taxi. She did consider it as she walked out of the building into the ever-crowded streets of Rome, but the embarrassment of trying to speak Italian with taxi drivers yesterday was fresh in her mind. Public transportation seemed a much more appealing option. In fact, she imagined she’d feel rather like a local riding in the tram next to grandmothers going to the market and mothers in designer wear disciplining children in hushed voices.

In reality, Rome’s Tram No. 8 in July was an oven, baking hundreds of sweaty bodies, the resulting aroma instantly making its way into Julia’s nostrils. No lovely grandmothers. Not a single designer suit in sight. Only tourists, loud teens, and a few people late to work. Julia fit herself into a tiny corner by the window, until she was forced out by the sharp pain of a high heel on her exposed toes.

Ouch! She glared at the tall Italian woman who continued squeezing past her while speaking on her cell. Julia balanced on her uninjured foot, rubbing the hurt spot. The tram lurched, and the motion threw her toward a group of laughing teens.

I hate Italy, she whispered and leaned against the doors, hoping they’d open soon, allowing her to escape.

That’s when she saw the man, standing a few feet away, dressed in rags remaining from a suit, covered in stains of every color. She was about to ignore him when she noticed from the corner of her eye he was holding a bundle in the shape of a dog.

Julia took another look. It certainly was a dog. A puppy. She smiled—honestly, who wouldn’t smile at a puppy? Then regretted it. As the tram swayed, the man’s body jerked toward her. He stepped closer, and the surrounding people parted. Odors of alcohol, urine, and something else, rotten, emitted from him in turns. She gagged and covered her mouth with the back of her arm.

As he approached, Julia shook her head and tried to wave him away. No, Signor.

He said something in Italian in a gruff voice and stretched his palm in her direction. Her brain searched through her limited repertoire of new Italian words. Pimsleur language course did not prepare her for this situation. Hours of I do not understand Italian, and I’m American, but not Move away, please. I have no money to give. I’m a teacher.

Waves of nausea washed over her, and she hoped a tram stop was near. Julia calculated she’d be out of the doors in less than a second from where she stood if she bolted straight out.

Suddenly, the man picked up the puppy and thrust it into her face.

What are you doing? I can’t help you with your dog, Julia said, flattening herself against the wall, her heart beating with the rhythm of the rocking tram.

The puppy licked her face, then whimpered as its owner squeezed it tighter. Julia trembled. She needed to get out, but they were stopped at an intersection now, the doors still sealed shut. She struggled to breathe. The puppy squirmed violently, ready to fall out of the man’s grasp. Julia made an involuntary movement toward the dog. The man yelled at the poor animal and shoved it under his armpit, the little pup yelping. Several passengers shook their heads at the situation, but, to Julia’s shock, no one said anything.

You are hurting your dog, Julia said, her voice barely containing the anger now spreading through her chest. It didn’t matter her words were English. She was certain her blazing eyes conveyed the point.

He gestured at her and replied something back with a rather unfriendly expression on his face. Then he walked away. She looked around her, aghast. No one else paid attention or interfered, going on about their day, playing with their phones. This man obviously used the puppy for panhandling. What if he abused the dog and would discard it as soon as he no longer needed it? Likely he never fed it, either, it occurred to her. She panted.

Don’t do anything you’ll regret later, Julia. The warning voice sounded in her head.

The tram doors opened. Finally, she’d get out of this frustrating situation. She had so many plans today. The Colosseum was waiting, and the fountains.

This isn’t America, Julia. Respect this culture.

But this puppy deserves love.

Her hand touched the open door. She looked back at the dog one more time. To hell with culture.

She walked over to the man, and, before he realized what was going on, before she reasoned with herself any further, she pulled the puppy out of his armpit, hugged it, and ran out through the closing doors.

And kept on running. Past the tram tracks, the waiting passengers, the cursing taxi drivers, and the wild scooter riders zipping through the intersection with a death wish. With her heart in her throat, she ran to save the dog. She was terrified the man somehow followed her. Or if not him, someone else who had decided it was ridiculous for a strange American girl to steal a puppy from someone destitute.

Within seconds, Julia entered the labyrinth of Trastevere. It was a perfect place to hide. A turn to the left, then a few to the right. No one would find them. Just run across a square and, hopefully, they would be safe.

The sudden screech of brakes in her ear was deafening. She held the puppy tight to her chest, as she turned away from the sound, her entire body wrapped around the tiny bundle. She braced for the impact.

It never came. Seconds later, she heard yelling.

So she wasn’t dead, after all.

The dog squirmed at her chest. Her legs collapsed under her, hitting the cobblestones painfully. She needed a moment to regain her breathing. In, out, slowly. In, out.

She lifted her head. A bumper of a car two inches to her right. A few tourists on her left. And a very tall man in front of her, pointing at her and yelling, his face red with anger.

Julia got up, tucked the puppy back against her chest securely, and raised her hand. "Okay, first of all, I don’t speak any Italian. Io non parlo l’Italiano. Io sono Americana. American. Capisci? And second, you could’ve killed me and my dog. So back off, buddy, all right? What is wrong with this damn country?" Her knees shook, and she stood up straighter. She hoped she wouldn’t collapse again and embarrass herself.

American. Of course. The man’s voice was less angry now, although his facial expression conveyed annoyance if not outright rage.

Yes, American. Do you only run over Americans? She picked up her purse from the ground, hung it back on her shoulder, and took a deep breath. Better.

I apologize, he said. It’s only that you frightened me. You popped out in front of my car. He came closer. Are you quite all right?

I’m fine, Julia said, inspecting him. A Brit, then, from the sound of him. Tall, shaved, wearing an expensive suit. She doubted he wanted any trouble from her. Well, better than an Italian. At least she understood him. She scanned her body for any injury. Bloody scrapes on her knees, but she was fine otherwise. Yes, I’m fine. I have to go.

She searched for the puppy’s previous owner, still worried of pursuit, but saw no sign of him. Still—it wasn’t safe to stand in the middle of a square, drawing attention to herself and the dog. There was a distant sound of a Polizia car approaching. Time to keep running.

I do apologize, and I feel simply awful. The man ran his fingers through his hair. May I give you a lift? It’s the least I can do.

Julia considered this. It was a good idea at this moment. She could hide better in a car. It was faster than her aching feet and her bruised knees. But this was a total stranger, who had just nearly killed her.

No, thanks, I’ll be fine, she said resolutely.

She didn’t wait for the Brit to leave before she ran to a narrow alley that appeared perfect for hiding and as far as she could possibly get away from this new embarrassing situation. A few minutes later, she collapsed on the cracked travertine steps of a small orange-colored building on Via dei Genovesi, hiding in the alcove, searching for any sign of pursuit. There seemed to be none.

Julia took a full breath, enjoying the ability to fill her lungs to capacity. Her knees were covered in nasty scrapes, with specks of thousand-year-old dirt wedged in the cracked skin. They hurt now, but she was certain they would hurt even worse when she cleaned them later.

A hot, wet tongue licked her chin.

Are you all right, little guy? Julia set the puppy down on the step next to her. The little thing wobbled but then straightened up and steadied itself, sniffing the stone with interest. She petted it on the head.

What am I going to do with you?

Indeed. What was she going to do with it? She was sure she could keep the dog in her rental apartment for a few days, but she wasn’t in Italy to rescue dogs. The puppy didn’t fit into any part of her plans, no matter how adorable. If she wanted a dog, she supposed she could adopt one back in Texas. Not that she knew how to take care of one, though.

As Julia pondered the situation, her new friend tried to take a step down and tumbled awkwardly into the cobblestone street. She picked it up with one hand and kissed its head as it licked her again.

You are so tiny, Julia observed. I guess I’ll have to take care of you until I find a solution. I wonder what I should call you? How does the name Thomas sound? I knew a dog called Thomas once, at my grandparents’ farm. She lifted it in the air, examining its face, and then her gaze drifted sideways. Wait a minute, you are not a boy at all, are you? How about Lizzy?

A tiny stream of urine dribbled onto Julia’s toes. She set the puppy down and closed her eyes. What had she gotten herself into? Mom, can you believe I did this? she asked, looking up to the cloudless sky. You’d do the same thing, wouldn’t you? You were always so kind.

She lifted Lizzy and set her on a patch of grass a few cobblestones away. If you are going to pee, can you please keep it on the grass?

The dog stared at her with her adorable puppy eyes, wagging her tiny tail.

Of course not. You prefer leather sandals. So do I. She shrugged.

An hour later, after being chased by a short but loud grandma after Lizzy pooped in what apparently was her tomato garden (no way—it was a dirt patch), Julia finally made it back to her apartment, her other mistake in Rome—the rental on Viale di Trastevere, one of the busiest avenues in Rome, a result of the ridiculous idea to try living as a local. A small one-bedroom in a yellow building with a heavy wooden door that took forever to open, complete with an elevator from the 1930s with metal doors she was certain she’d be trapped in one day. What does a woman who has never traveled farther than Houston from her small Texas town know about traveling in Europe? This entire trip to Rome had been a spur-of-the-moment giant mistake, she realized now. She should’ve thought it through instead of listening to Dad. Grief makes people do the strangest things. Julia believed she was so clever, so prepared, right until the life force of the Eternal City hit her full blast.

Julia closed the door now with a bang and turned on the air conditioner, and Lizzy immediately went to sleep on top of Julia’s old sweatshirt on the floor. The temptation to call Dad was strong, but she knew she had to learn to deal with things on her own. He’d started his own life without her, and she had agreed to let him.

Julia opened her suitcase and took out the plastic bag holding a small tissue-paper-wrapped package. She unwrapped the layers gently and placed the painting on her nightstand. Here was the entire reason she’d told her school district she wasn’t available to teach summer school this year, for the first time. The reason she bought all these wild new clothes at the fancy boutique in town. New life, Dad said. They both had to move on.

Her index finger traced the outline of the house, the cypress trees around it, and finally, Lake Garda in front. Dad had handed the painting to her the day after Mom’s funeral, along with her ticket and the suggestion she spend the summer looking for her biological mother. No one asked if she wanted another mother.

The doctors had forced the truth about the adoption out of her parents when the diagnosis of Huntington’s came in for Mom. It took about an hour of the meeting that included the genetic counselor discussing testing Julia for the disease before Dad finally broke down and told Julia that the good news was she wouldn’t need the testing. The bad news was that her real mother was an sixteen-year-old Italian exchange student who came to stay with her parents in San Antonio pregnant and begged them to adopt her child. Manuel and Barbara Ramos, who’d had a stillborn a few years prior and knew they couldn’t have any more children, adopted the baby and pretended Julia was their own.

Knowing that her real parents were likely alive and a world away—that hurt. Learning she wasn’t who she thought she was—that hurt even more. How was it possible her heritage was Italian? It was supposed to be Mexican and German. That’s what she had proudly proclaimed in her elementary school on MultiCultural Fair days. And how could she not believe it? She had her cousins’ Mexican curves. She’d had a Quinceañera with twelve attendants and a dress that cost so much her father said something about feeding a small country. The many trips she took to visit Dad’s family in the Rio Grande Valley, the C in Spanish II her sophomore year that put Abuelita in bed with a migraine for three days, and the years she’d spent learning German cooking from Oma on their peach farm all confirmed her culture.

As it turned out, none of it mattered. She felt duped, betrayed, guilty of trying to be someone she wasn’t. She was a fraud. She was someone else entirely. But she had no idea who.

I’m not going all the way to Italy, she said to her dad when he gave her the painting. I don’t need another family. My family was always perfect for me. If this woman wanted to see me so much, why didn’t she send this painting earlier? She could’ve sent a note. Picked up a phone. Facebooked.

Her dad looked down. She sent it earlier. This painting came about a year ago, for your birthday. I didn’t show it to you right away because we had everything going on at the time. Barbara was in and out of the hospital. I wasn’t sure if it was all too much for you to cope with. Or maybe for me. I was a coward.

You weren’t. You didn’t want me to leave you here alone with Mom, Julia said, hugging him.

I was afraid. I couldn’t face it without you. He wiped his eyes.

Well, don’t worry. I’m still not going. I’m staying here with you.

Dad took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes, pleading for her to understand. "But I’m not staying here, mijita. I’m selling the house and moving to the Valley. Your abuela is getting older, and I need to be closer to her and the rest of my family."

Julia’s heart tugged over and over with grief as she remembered his face when she took the ticket and walked out. She had lost everything—her mother, her father, her childhood home. It would never be the same.

She examined the signature of the artist on the painting for the hundredth time. Curvy, illegible handwriting. Maybe there was a G in there, for Giulia Rigazio, her mother? She turned it to see the inscription on the back again.

Solo Noi. She googled it. Only us. Whatever that meant. She googled the address from the box the painting came in. Malcesine, Lake Garda. A pretty enough town to visit. After she gave it some thought, the summer in Italy sounded like absolute bliss to a geography teacher who had spent the last five years taking care of a sick woman. No kids, no lesson plans, no grief. Just her in a tiny car, traveling all around Italy, drinking wine and eating bruschetta. She would stay a few days in Rome, then rent a car and drive north to Florence and, finally, Malcesine.

Yet now she was stuck with the dog she had to find a shelter for. An ASPCA or whatever they called it in Rome.

Julia watched the sleeping dog for a while and wondered when Lizzy had eaten last. The shelter would surely feed her. But what if they had to process her for a while or something? She remembered the tiny grocery downstairs and decided she’d better grab food for the puppy. Maybe she could get a quick lunch for herself, get Lizzy to a shelter, and still squeeze in seeing the Colosseum this afternoon.

But who was she kidding—this day’s plans were ruined.

Chapter 2

It would’ve been a great day if it weren’t for the woman. An ordinary American tourist, one of the millions that besieged Rome every summer. What possessed her to run out in front of his car like that? He could’ve killed her if he hadn’t been paying attention.

Driving through the streets of Rome constituted a nightmare as it was, with all the cursed mopeds everywhere. Especially for Daniel Stafford, who was not fond of driving. Which is why he’d had his assistant arrange for a driver before he left London.

But as fate would have it, on this massive failure of a trip, his girlfriend Jessica, who had begged to come to Rome, had decided she preferred their Italian driver to Daniel. Which is why Daniel was currently lost in traffic in a tiny rented Fiat with a bloody clutch. While nursing a hangover from the previous night’s wanderings through Trastevere after he found Jessica being buggered by the driver on his company flat’s dining table.

Now he was on his way to his ten o’clock pitch for the museum building, and he hoped to go through it as fast as possible. The board moved slowly, and he’d nearly lost patience yesterday during his first pitch. Only one day left for the museum design plans to be approved. Roger would be furious if it took any longer than that. Daniel planned to be on the road to Tuscany by tomorrow. He couldn’t stand being in that flat a minute longer.

As he pushed on the gas and struggled with the clutch, crossing the small piazza, a woman materialized in his line of sight, running across without care, looking like a wild spirit, clutching something to her chest. He slammed on the brake, cursing every tourist he had ever come across. His heart pounding, he closed his eyes for a moment, terrified to look, as he felt the Fiat jerk to a stop.

Daniel opened his eyes. The woman had fallen to her knees. He was sure he didn’t hit her. Why was she on the ground?

Her knees would be all bloody from the stones, blast it! He was furious. At the woman. At the tiny Trastevere streets. At everything happening in his life at the moment.

He jumped out of the car, slamming the door. The adrenaline pulsed through his body, and he squeezed his fingernails into his palms. What the hell was she doing?

"Che cazzo fai?" he yelled.

He waved for another car and mopeds to keep going around them, although Daniel wasn’t sure they cared. There were tourists encircling the car and the woman, to gawk. Several curious grandmothers were watching the scene from the balconies of the nearby houses. Just what he needed—a motor accident with all the locals in attendance.

The woman’s dark brown hair covered her face. She moved it aside, then slowly rose, and he noticed something squirming at her shirt.

A dog? He took a step toward her to inspect.

What are you doing running in front of my car with a dog? he asked in Italian, less angry now.

She raised her hand at him. "Okay, first of all, I don’t speak any Italian. Io non parlo l’Italiano. Io sono Americana. American. Capisci? And, second, you nearly killed me and my dog. So back off, buddy, all right? What is wrong with this damn country?"

He was right. A bloody tourist. American? Of course. Crappy accent, probably knows five sentences in Italian. His anger had dissipated, but his annoyance grew in spades.

Yes, American, she said, her eyes blazing at him. Do you only run over Americans?

I apologize. Daniel considered what would be the proper thing to do. He had no time for this nonsense. It’s only that you frightened me. You popped out in front of my car. He supposed he needed to show courtesy. He’d predicted correctly—the skin on her knees was scraped now. Are you quite all right?

I’m fine, she said. Yes, I’m fine. I have to go, though.

She looked around, searching for something. He wondered what it was she was running from. Or who. She looked teary-eyed. Rather pathetic with her bloody knees and rumpled shirt. He tried once more, against his best judgment. The dog’s head kept peeking out. What in God’s name was she doing with that dog?

I do apologize, and I feel simply awful. May I give you a lift? It’s the least I can do, he offered. He was certain he’d regret it later. Maybe if he placed something under her legs, for the blood. The rental company would charge a fortune if she got blood on the seat.

No, thanks, I’ll be fine, she said.

He watched in disbelief as she picked up her purse and ran farther into the depths of Trastevere’s labyrinth of narrow, crooked streets. She disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared. She was sure to get lost. Is that what she wanted? He looked around, wondering who she was trying to get lost from.

A moment later, as a large delivery van beeped a horn behind him, trying to pass, he shrugged and got back in his car. He was quite glad she’d declined his offer. He still hoped to make it on time to his meeting. Although none of the Italians would be on time. Well, maybe he’d have an extra coffee.

Four hours later, Daniel found himself no closer to finalizing the plans’ approval than the day before. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wouldn’t be able to obtain the approvals before he traveled to his family’s estate in Tuscany tomorrow. He could have handled the meeting if he were not so rattled by his encounter with the American. He ran through the presentation for the second and the third time just fine. Faster than he should have—but it was the third bloody time. Then they asked questions about the projected costs and the alternative materials. They followed with their concerns about the entire design. The one they approved months ago.

I assure you this will not resemble the mausoleum, he insisted, losing hope.

Your choice of words… Roberto Nicoli, the chairman of the museum’s board of trustees, looked at his notebook and pronounced slowly,  ‘Strong silhouette, robust, ruthless in maximizing zoning envelope.’ I’m not sure you understand our vision.

"Signor Nicoli, you have been clear with us about your vision from the beginning. My team has taken great care to understand it. You want the new Museo to create a sculptural identity, to have simple and clean lines, to be a spectacular space, and to fit into its outdoor garden area. We absolutely understand, and I think the structure we’re proposing—the three