The House by the Cypress Trees Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Elena Mikalsen and…

  The House by the Cypress Trees

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Julia’s entire body melted into Daniel’s as they danced. Her heart beat with the rhythm of every note of the gorgeous song. Only the stars watched them as they moved slowly in the garden of this ancient land, on top of this magnificent hill, inhaling the aromatic fragrances of roses and herbs. Perhaps it was all magic and, at midnight, the spell would break and she’d find herself sitting in an old rag of a dress, in front of a pumpkin, holding a glass slipper.

  But then—did it matter? All that mattered was the way Daniel looked at her right now, how it felt when his fingers rubbed her back in small circles, sending electrical pulses all over her body.

  Andrea Bocelli stopped singing, Daniel’s hands moved away, and the spell broke.

  “Thank you,” she said, suddenly shy. “I haven’t danced in years.”

  “Someone should dance with you often, Julia Ramos,” he said, taking hold of her hand and leading her to the house.

  Praise for Elena Mikalsen and…

  WRAPPED IN THE STARS:

  “An intelligent and beautifully crafted story that proves the power of love while illuminating the historical struggles of women in medicine.”

  ~Kelli Estes, author

  “A unique and charming work. Endearing characters and the plot is bewitching.”

  ~Fleeta Cunningham, author

  “Mikalsen masterfully weaves together at least a half-dozen threads to create a rich, living tapestry. …parallel love stories, and a fascinating mystery/adventure.”

  ~Minerva Spencer, award-winning author

  “A richly detailed journey. A tale of aspirations and familial pressures, of serendipity and the choices we make, WRAPPED IN THE STARS thoughtfully explores how we can take control of our lives.”

  ~Amanda Stauffer, author

  THE HOUSE BY THE CYPRESS TREES:

  “A charming love story between a British architect and an American schoolteacher. …A whirlwind tour of Italy from Rome to Tuscany. A fun read with authentic details of gorgeous Tuscany.”

  ~Suanne Schafer, author

  “Set in a sun-soaked Italy, The House by the Cypress Trees is a treat for the senses. Beautiful food, wine, and romance, along with a gorgeous setting make this novel hard to put down!”

  ~Sarahlyn Bruck, bestselling author

  The House by the Cypress Trees

  by

  Elena Mikalsen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The House by the Cypress Trees

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Elena Mikalsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2739-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2740-2

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my mother

  Acknowledgments

  I owe my entire writing career to the writers of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. More specifically, a big thanks to Martha Sessums and Jennifer Labadie Fromke, my fantastic critique partners, and to the writers of Ink Tank who provided feedback through all the stages of this book. Thank you to The Wild Rose Press for the fantastic support at every step. My editor, Nan Swanson, has been kind and generous with her time, wisdom, and words.

  Special thanks to author and architect Amanda Stauffer for her expert advice on writing about architecture, and to the dear ladies of the Nook who generously donated the names of their Italian family members to this story.

  Thank you to my family for taking this Texas girl to Rome, putting up with me immediately coming up with a story, and then following me on a wild journey through Umbria, Tuscany, and the Amalfi Coast, as I had to see all the places Julia and Daniel would visit. Thank you to the Hookberry honeys for hugs, love, and laughs.

  Thank you to my dear readers, bloggers, and book reviewer friends through my journey of becoming an author. Susan Peterson, Tonni Callan, Kate Rock, Kristy Bee, Carla Suto, Kayleigh Wilkes, Rebecca Schmidt Wasniak, Suzanne Weinstein Leopold, Jenny Collins Belk, Linda Levack Zagon, Barbara Khan, Book Gypsy, and so many others—a million thanks!

  And to you, dear reader, who purchased this book—welcome to my reader family. All my 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 l
icked 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.