I'm sorry to say that I won't be posting a Thursday Thirteen this week. I've been preparing for new courses at my school and haven't been able to focus on getting a post ready for this week.

That said, yesterday's interview with Heikki Hietala had thirteen questions, so it could be a substitute post if you like. All it lacks is the eyecandy (although there is a charming photo of Mr. Heitala himself, if you wish).

So, I offer you my heartfelt and sincere apologies for the lack of my regular post. I hope to get back on track for next week.

And in the meantime, I offer you this, as well:

Ciao for now!

First, the obvious question: You're a Finn, writing in English. Does this provide any particular challenges for you? Give us an idea of what those challenges are.

To me the challenge must be sounding real in dialogue. You can work on the descriptive stuff and the storyline quite easily even if you’re not native, but dialogue demands a lot of effort and much listening to natives in movies and on TV.

I also seem to have had a credibility issue – no one took me seriously when I first published Tulagi Hotel, but that looks like it’s been fixed when people read my short stories too. These days I rarely get comments on the language issue.

Prior to this short story collection, you wrote a novel, Tulagi Hotel. Which form do you find more challenging to write – short stories or novels?

That’s hard to say. I started Tulagi as a shot in the dark, not really trying to write a book, but rather to see if I could do it at all. I didn’t pay any attention to form, only function was necessary for me at that stage. I also cheerfully ignored any rules that novel-writing may have, for which I did get some feedback later.

With short stories it is different. Especially in Flash fiction where you only have 500 words to do the situation, persons, plot, and all that; you really need to pay attention to keeping everything down to the absolute minimum. I enjoy that very much, because it adds a level of challenge to the storytelling.

Your narrative style is rather concise – do you think this affects your choice to write more short stories than novels?

I tend to be concise in any case, and I like short stories just as much as I do novels. But the selection between short and long form is unique to writing – if you start building a wardrobe of oak, you usually wind up with a wardrobe, not a desk; but in writing, a story may start off as a novel and get whittled down to a novella or even a long short story.

Do you think writing in Finnish would lead you to writing more expansively?

Not really. I have always admired people who can use few words to say much. In Finnish literature there are many such people, of which little is known globally, but my very favorite author in Finnish is Veikko Huovinen, whose short stories are all-encompassing, compassionate, economical in words, and still very funny. Were I to write in Finnish, I’d pay much attention to this, as it is very easy to ramble on in Finnish and that’s what I totally dislike.

Who (or what) is your favorite character you've written, so far?

That’d have to be Don Wheeler of Tulagi Hotel. He has features of ex-colleagues and some of my friends and I believe I got his character built quite solidly. Don was vital to the book, because Jack is a very timid character and he needed a counterpart who had a certain joie de vivre and a recklessness that Jack could envy.

Some of your readers have suggested that your style of writing is quite nostalgic in tone. Do you agree with that assessment?

Absolutely. I am a member of Year Zero Writers, which is a band of avant-garde authors, and I’ve said my writing is like playing rhythm in their band – I want to be the solid background on which their new-style writing really shines, and I hope to provide a balance that is old-fashioned. I’ve also read a lot of books that are.

Have you found yourself trying to create the same sort of atmosphere in your short stories as you did in Tulagi Hotel? Do you give any thought to that as you write?

Atmosphere depends on the idea of the story, but yes, I do aim for something that is tangible and believable. I think my best efforts in that sense are “The Campsite vol. 1” and “Filtered Light”. Creating an atmosphere is sometimes so easy, and in other stories it takes more effort than the storyline. I work very hard on this, as I myself like to read stories with well-crafted worlds.

Where/When do you do your best writing?

I would like to think the best is yet to come; however, some stories appeared out of nowhere and went from conception to final stage in a day, some (like a Scifi story I am working on now) may take months of see-sawing between “this is how it’ll go” and “no one will believe that for a nanosecond”. The ones that came out clean were usually written just at home, it’s more a question of how complete the story is when I start writing, as I can write in sentence-length snippets if more time is not available at any one time.

Do you plan on writing another novel, or do you think you'll stick to shorter pieces?

I am working on two books, one a mainstream fiction and the other a YA horror story involving 3D design and a haunted hospital. But I also have more than 20K words in shorties that I am working on, so my meager writing time is by default divided between full length and short work. That’s one of the plus sides of writing in my mind, the ability to switch projects merely by switching Word files.

You've created some interesting characters in all of your stories – almost heroic archetypes in some, sensitive everymen in others. How do you go about developing your characters, and how much of yourself do you put into them?

I tend to observe behavior wherever I go, and try to figure out why people act the way they do. They’re the best source of material even if I can’t really know what they are thinking. But when you write almost 200,000 words of what happens to people, you have to use whatever sources are at hand. I’ve also used some of my own features (no, I won’t tell where) and those of my friends, but never to a degree of actually modeling some character on any single person.

Who do you consider your influences in your writing life?

They are many, but let me list Nevil Shute for novel writing, and Roald Dahl, HP Lovecraft, Robert Heinlein, Stanislaw Lem and Arthur C. Clarke for scifi. For my real life and humour attempts, I’d say Veikko Huovinen, the sadly untranslated Finnish master of the form.

What inspired you to write in the first place?

I can’t really say. I just happened to start writing one day and have not looked back - I have got so much out of this rollercoaster ride that I will just keep on working with writing. I am not one of the people who say, “I’ll become an author and I will write a book now” – in fact I do not think you become an author by deciding to become one. You become an author through gradual development and acceptance of your work.

What one lesson have you learned from your experiences in publication that you would like to share with aspiring writers?

That must be the fact that you can only write to please yourself, and any other people that are pleased with your work are a bonus. When you stay true to your own voice, it becomes louder and easier to pick up by readers, and if it doesn’t happen that you land on the bestseller list, at least you did your best and gave yourself a chance to be heard.

No matter what, I can count on him. His newest song - which already has me eager for more of his work.

This week, in light of the fact I'm doing a live interview on Blog Talk Radio, I thought I'd do a little bragging and share some positive news about the book I'll be discussing there tonight.

So please allow me to present to you:

1) Author Cameron Chapman had this to say on Goodreads:

"This is an absolutely beautiful book, a seamless blending of romance and literary fiction. The characters are well-portrayed and easy to relate to. The settings come alive and this is where the author's first-hand experience really shines. My only caveat would be to keep your Italian dictionary close at hand! (Though the inclusion of some Italian words and phrases does lend a wonderful sense of realism to the overall story.) Highly recommended!"

2) "Moira" had this to say on Amazon.co.uk:

"I thoroughly enjoyed reading this. Some really likeable characters and a not so likeable mother. Heartily recommend this one except that I now want to go back to Italy!!"

3) "Gini" said this on Amazon.com:

"Having lived in Italy and been to some of the places mentioned in the book helps a lot to feel like you are there. But if the author doesn't manage to bring over the story in a way it feels so realistic, true... it doesn't matter if you would even live there.

Kimberly Menozzi did a superb job with this and combined it with an absolutely beautiful story. The describtion of the main characters, the places they visited, the things they said .... I loved it and would just reread it again. I so miss not reading it at this moment and catch myself thinking about the story many times."

4) On Amazon.com, author/editor Christopher Allen said:

"Ask me if I liked it 
I did.

Emily Miller hasn't had much luck in the area of trust. We first meet her as she's trying to leave Italy after a difficult divorce, but when fate brings Davide into her life, she must re-evaluate her future and her concept of home.

Ask Me if I'm Happy is a delicately observed romance with a 14-page "climax," and I don't think any reader out there would have a doubt in her mind whether Emily is happy at this point.

But the plot takes a turn . . . . I read the last 75 pages holding my breath.

I thoroughly enjoyed this novel for its attention to emotional detail, for its believable characters, and for the Italian. Fantastico!"

5) Robert Stermscheg had this to say on Amazon.com:

"Love recaptured
If the program allowed, I would give this review 4.5 out of 5(as opposed to 4). This is simply a love story and not a melodramatic drama. It's well-written, engaging, but not predictable. Ms. Menozzi's introduction to 'small town' Italy was cleverly thought out and subtly brings the reader into a comfortable familiarity with town life as well as the characters. What was refreshing for me(as a man) was that the protagonist, Davide, was depicted in a favorable light; a man, an educated man, who has passion but is able to control his inner urges. Likewise, Emilia, though dealing with a difficult breakup, comes across as a vulnerable, yet classy lady. A good story. Bravo! Ms. Menozzi."

6) Book Shelf Reviews on Facebook said:

"An absolutely fantastic book full of restrained passion, think Brief encounter or Strangers on a train. The anticipation builds until the reader is nearly bursting. A must for romantics everywhere and should be made compulsory reading for males."

7) Storm Goddess Reviews said:

"My thoughts - Ask Me If I'm Happy will make a believer out of you. Whether or not you believe in love at first sight, this story will hold your heart in the palm of its hands and you'll feel the gentle tugs on your heart strings.  Set in Italy, the main characters of this book have had their fair share of heartache and pain. For them to take a chance at love again makes for a poignant, moving story. Both parts romance and literary fiction, there's a little bit for everyone. The emotional portion is like a sucker punch to the gut. The author has done an amazing job creating such a flowing pace, outstanding characters, and a setting that's not overly described but gives plenty for the reader's imagination."

8) "LBJ" said this on Amazon.com:

"This book has so much to offer I'm not sure where to begin. With Emily, Ms. Menozzi gives us a woman who is has found her own quiet strength. I love the way this strength is portrayed, not with and overwhelming show of force, but with a gentle nudge and a firm backbone. The balance is portrayed with great skill.

I have to mention the wonderful way Ms. Menozzi captures Italy, its sights, people, and the little quirks of the culture.

This book is highly recommended. I loved it and look forward to more titles by this author."

9) "Lindy Lou Mac" said this on her various review sites, as well as Amazon:

Ask Me If I'm Happy is a strong romantic novel strengthened by the setting and the use of the Italian language, which make this novel a perfect read, not only for fans of romantic novels but those who love all things Italian. The Italian presence is very evident and the author shares her flaws not just her beauty.

The two protagonists are Emily Miller and Davide Magnani they fall in love at first sight! I am not sure I believe in this actually being love when there is an instant chemistry between two people. I think love and true friendship is something that grows from those first attractions. It is not a simple relationship though as these feelings strike on the day Emily is leaving Italy to return to her native America, she thinks for ever after having had her heart broken by another Italian male. We all know that the path of true love is never simple and these two certainly have a rollercoaster of a relationship with coincidences, lies and hidden truths all getting in the way before Davide is able to convince Emily that Italy is where she should be.

Kimberly's writing is very realistic and her characters all feel very believable while her descriptions will make you feel you are in Italy. As I am not a great fan of too good to be true romance I was at times a little frustrated with their behaviour but I got caught up in the dream. I was a little surprised that I enjoyed this as much as I did. I think it was because of the talent of this young lady in her portrayal of a modern love affair.

10) Book Stack Reviews said this:

"Ask Me if I’m Happy is a contemporary love story, with a strong romantic core. The setting of Italy and use of the Italian language strengthen, not only the passion in the book, but, the passion in the characters. The characters of Emily and Davide are believable and heart warming and you will find yourself rooting for their love, even after their first 24 hours in Bologna. A few twists and turns keep the story fresh and interesting. Vivid imagery and description keep you engaged with the characters.

★★★★☆

Why you will like it

A modern love affair set against an old romantic backdrop. Likeable characters. Romantic core, yet a strong story."

11) Silvia Mazzobel of the Book After Book review blog said:

"While organising the “Italy in Books” reading challenge, someone on Twitter suggested that I read Ask Me If I’m Happy, debut novel of American-born Kimberly Menozzi. Curious, I started reading her blog and I was instantly hooked on her fresh and witty writing style. So much, in fact, that I just had to invite her to be a guest blogger on Book After Book!

It was with trepidation that this month I picked up my copy of Ask Me If I’m Happy and started reading. Having developed great expectations, I was concerned that I might end up being disappointed. I’m glad to report that I needn’t have worried!

...I don’t want to give away too much. I want you to read this book and experience first-hand the joy of getting to know Kimberly’s tri-dimensional characters. You will cheer their bravery and be frustrated when they can’t see what is in front of their eyes. At times, their romance will seem too good to be true, but Emily and Davide are such credible characters that you will be happy to suspend your disbelief and dream along.

And what can I say about the way Italy is portrayed? Simply. Brilliant. Italy is very much the third main character of this novel. Sometimes it sits quietly in the background and sometimes it comes forward in all its splendour. The exaltation of food flavours and textures, the colourful descriptions of people and places… they all help create a genuine picture of Italy, which is not idyllic in any way.

Kimberly’s Italy is a place with flaws as well as merits. It is a country that can annoy you as well as make you fall in love with it. To accomplish this, you need talent. And Mrs Menozzi has plenty of it!"

12) "Debbie" said this on Amazon.com:

"Loved this book. Emily and Davide were so "real". The setting was awesome! I have been to Italy and it felt like I was there again. Thanks for the great book. Will be looking for more from you!"

13) And finally, author Greta van der Rol had this to say:

"When I first encountered this story, its name was `Connections' and having now finished reading it, I can both understand the reason for that original name and the reason why the title was changed. At its heart, this is a love story made complicated by the two main players' pasts. This isn't a story about a beautiful woman and a billionaire and there's not a bare-chested highlander in sight. Emily is past her first youth and she has ample curves which would render her ineligible for the catwalk; Davide is an academic. They stumble across each other and then realise as time goes by that there are connections between them stemming from their past.

This isn't an action-packed, fast-paced novel. It's a gentle exploration of character as we learn more and more about what makes Emily and Davide tick, what fuels their uncertainties, what holds them back, what ghosts from the past look over their shoulders. The difference in nationality (Emily is an American who has lived in Italy for ten years, while Davide is a native of Bolgna) are nicely portrayed. I especially enjoyed the intimate glimpses of the medieval city of Bolgna and the culture of its natives. You can smell the food, feel your way down the winding alleys, enjoy the glimpse of the canal, see the square with its statue of Neptune. I think, also, that the author has understood the difference between men and women when it comes to sex and how reactions can be misinterpreted.

Yes, it is a romance but I think the novel will appeal to readers who like character-driven, real-life stories. I enjoyed the read."

I know I sure do.

Ciao for now!

Or, rather, I will - on Blog Talk Radio! This Thursday, February 16th, at 5:00 PM EST (that's 23:00 in Italy, 22:00 in the UK), I'll be interviewed on the Blog Talk Radio network by David Cleinman, for Book Junkies. I invite you to tune in and if you can, why not give us a call so you can ask a question? The number will be (949) 943-1627.

My newest interview is up on Why Did You Write That? Come over and leave a little comment love, won't you?

Whoops! Time has gotten away from me, today - so I'm just going to have to throw together a quick Thursday Thirteen for y'all.

The reason I'm coming up short is that I've been writing and I've been watching the end of the Tour of Qatar stages every day. As a result, my scheduling has been a little wonky.

And so, this week, I shall present to you a few of my favorites, which I'm sure I've shared before, but I doubt you'll mind:

And a bonus one for contrast.

Ciao for now!

Teaser One:
Let the Right One In
by John Ajvide Lindqvist

BLURB:
Oskar and Eli.  In very different ways, they were both victims.  Which is why, against the odds, they became friends. 

And how they came to depend on one another, for life itself.

Oskar is a 12 year old boy living with his mother on a dreary housing estate at the city’s edge.  He dreams about his absentee father, gets bullied at school, and wets himself when he’s frightened.

Eli is the young girl who moves in next door.  She doesn’t go to school and never leaves the flat by day.  She is a 200 year old vampire, forever frozen in childhood, and condemned to live on a diet of fresh blood.

Excerpt/Opening Paragraph:

Blackeberg.

It makes you think of coconut-frosted cookies, maybe drugs. "A respectable life." You think subway station, suburb. Probably nothing else comes to mind. People must live there, just like they do in other places. That was why it was built, after all, so that people would have a place to live.

Teaser Two:
Ask Me if I'm Happy
by Kimberly Menozzi

BLURB:
Sometimes the simplest questions are the hardest ones to ask.

Emily Miller is forced to spend a day in Bologna when she'd rather be catching her flight to the US. Determined to put ten years in Italy and her marriage behind her, she wants to have nothing to do with anything - or anyone - Italian ever again.

For Davide Magnani, chivalry isn't yet dead. He accompanies Emily to Milan, if only to reassure himself of her safe arrival. The following morning, he's stunned to realize he's fallen in love with someone he's only known for twenty-four hours - and it seems that she feels the same way.

One year later, Emily and Davide reunite. As their relationship strengthens, unforeseen events reveal deeper, troubling connections all around, which drive Emily away from the first man she's ever really trusted. Can she forgive the lies she's been told, or the truths which have been hidden from her? And how can Davide prove to her, once and for all, that Italy is precisely where she needs to be?

Excerpt:

When he turned, he saw her watching and his smile lit up his face again. His eyes met hers fully and she looked away, her cheeks tingling as she turned to the window and the countryside emerging in the growing daylight beyond it.

In spite of herself, her eyes shifted to follow him yet again when he stepped away from the row with the broken window.

His hair had been tousled by the wind, and upon settling back in his seat he ran one hand cautiously over it, taming any wild, out-of-place waves. His dark eyes behind the oval frames of his glasses flicked in her direction before he turned toward his own window. She thought it was clear that he was trying not to be obvious about watching her.

When I was trying to come up with a post for today, I found myself thinking about the fact that it's now February, which, as it happens is one of my favorite months. It's usually cold, and we have some snow (in fact, this year it has actually been snowing virtually non-stop here in Reggio for two days), and my wedding anniversary comes up at the end. So what's not to love?

As a result of my affection for this particular month, my novel Ask Me if I'm Happy takes place primarily during two consecutive Februaries. So, I thought I'd share some small excerpts showing how the cold is represented in the story.

So now, please allow me to present to you:

1) Shivering, she looked around at the other pre-dawn travelers. A few hopeful faces turned to look down the length of track visible from the platform in the faint light. However, the approach of the rhythmic clacking and chuffing didn’t slow. A freight train rattled past and disappeared into the mists, taking Emily’s fleeting optimism with it.

Earlier, after exchanging most of her euros for American dollars, she’d used the rest to buy a train ticket from the machine inside the station, and then a magazine at the Valentine-infested newsstand outside. Now she was obliged to forgo any additional purchases. Though as time dragged on, the station’s offerings became more tempting. A shift in the wind nudged the steam of her nearest neighbor’s tiny cup of espresso her way, bringing with it the warm, rich scent.

Maybe just a hot chocolate? Or a caffè macchiato?

Another passenger’s watch beeped but Emily kept her focus out on the tracks, refusing to read the station clock.

Stamping her feet, she carefully rubbed her numbed, raw hands to warm them. Fingers aching down deep, she pictured her sheepskin-lined gloves, cozy, warm and forgotten on the kitchen table back at the apartment.

Yet another scatterbrained moment and here I am, paying for it.

Finally she stood up and scuffed to and fro, never straying far from the bench and her suitcase.

“Sei disattenta,” Jacopo’s voice chided inside her head. “You’re careless to do something like that, but that’s just exactly what you always do, isn’t it?”

With a small mental jerk she drew her thoughts back to the present.

Stop worrying about Jacopo. Right now.

The cold air seeped through her coat and she rubbed her arms uselessly. The coat itself seemed to have stiffened in the frosty air, the sleeves bunching and folding between her fingers.

Closing her eyes, she blew into her hands and reconsidered buying a hot drink from the vending machine nearby. All at once, her fellow travelers began shuffling toward the yellow line. Emily opened her eyes to find them leaning forward as one to peer toward the approaching lights.

2) When he drew out an eyeglass case from the inside pocket of his coat, she turned to the reflection in the window once more. He perused a copy of La Repubblica—not Libero, not La Padania—so she was reasonably sure he wasn’t from Veneto. Despite her fugue, this thought made her smile again. A glimpse of his dark eyes straying in her direction, followed by his own secretive smile, sent a pleasant shimmy down her spine.

Her heart leapt skittishly even as she pushed the expression off her face and felt the blush creep up from her collar to tint her cheeks.

The broken window fell open with a soft thump and the banging and rattling of the train’s progress drowned out the soft hum of conversation around her. A steady, chilling wind blew inside the carriage. Several passengers grumbled their disapproval and tugged their scarves and coats more tightly around themselves, but none made an effort to close the window.

After a moment or two, the man stood and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an air of determination. Emily observed even more openly this time as he returned to the broken window, shoved it upward and stuffed the wedge of paper between the Plexiglas and the frame once more.

When he turned, he saw her watching and his smile lit up his face again. His eyes met hers fully and she looked away, her cheeks tingling as she turned to the window and the countryside emerging in the growing daylight beyond it.

In spite of herself, her eyes shifted to follow him yet again when he stepped away from the row with the broken window.

His hair had been tousled by the wind, and upon settling back in his seat he ran one hand cautiously over it, taming any wild, out-of-place waves. His dark eyes behind the oval frames of his glasses flicked in her direction before he turned toward his own window. She thought it was clear that he was trying not to be obvious about watching her.

_

3) She shut her eyes and put her hands up to the edge of the window when a quick wave of vertigo crested and fell to make the sidewalk undulate beneath her feet. Davide’s touch on her shoulder seemed distant and unreal, as though a dozen layers of clothing separated her from him instead of her sweater and woolen overcoat.

Icy cold filled her stomach while her skin flushed hot, the perspiration along her neck chilling in the winter air. She wanted to undo her ponytail and flail her hair around to cool and warm herself at the same time, but her hands remained still.

He held her arms in a light but firm grasp as he lowered his head to meet her eyes with his own.

“Emilia, stai bene?” he asked, a hint of startled urgency in his voice. “Are you okay?”

A nod was all she could manage at first, her head still reeling. “Sì, sì... I’m okay.” She raised one shaking hand to her forehead to wipe away the sheen of perspiration there. “I suppose it’s just been a very long day already.” Meeting his eyes, she added, “I didn’t sleep well last night. I never do before a big trip.”

Davide raised one hand to press his fingers to her cheek, as though checking her temperature. Her heart clenched at such a tender gesture from a virtual stranger, but she didn’t move away.

“But do you need to rest? Something more to eat, perhaps, or to drink?”

The cold air prickled at her cheeks, a good sign that her blush at his gentle attention was warming her skin from within.

4) “Well, I’m certainly fit to burst.” As they stepped out of the restaurant, Emily had expected more daylight. “How long were we in there?”

“A little more than two hours.” Also scanning the sky, Davide fussed with his scarf. “It’s getting colder.”

“It smells like snow.”

“You noticed that, too?” Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, held his breath and then exhaled. “Did you notice the other smells?”

“What other smells?” she asked, sniffing the cold air and feeling it chill the back of her throat. It should have been invigorating but the large meal was already making her groggy.

“Shut your eyes and try.”

“Why?”

“Just try it.”

Closing her eyes, Emily took in the air. The brittle, icy scent of snow was still there but other scents were, too: charcoal from a pizza oven, bread baking, the dusty aroma of concrete and stone and a savory smell she couldn’t pinpoint, something more elusive than the rest.

Suddenly, the sound of something rasping near her cheek made her jump, even as she identified the scent. Opening her eyes, she found Davide rubbing a twig of rosemary between his fingers, grinning mischievously.

_ 5) The coffee bars and the pubs were open; the heady, dark scents of coffee and hot chocolate wafted out of doors on waves of warmth from inside. Windows fogged at the edges, as lights switched on over displays of elaborate pastries and sandwiches, attempting to lure inside prankish students and retirees alike.

Emily saw it all as if through a haze. Davide spoke louder and faster but she was only half-listening.

It’s too hard to believe that there are men who reject women like that. I mean, isn’t that the standard here? It’s certainly what Jacopo wanted – repeatedly, from the look of things.

How was it possible that the mere thought of Jacopo could stir her emotions so easily? She was trembling now, most certainly not from the cold. Her face warmed with her own anger and she wondered how Davide hadn’t noticed. Was he really so oblivious?

Disappointed, she found herself resigned to boarding the train for Milan and resuming her trip. A sour hint of dread remained while she feigned interest in Davide’s monologue.

6) Quickening his pace, her hand clutched in his own, he pushed her suitcase ahead of them through clusters of luggage-laden passengers, muttering hasty apologies. Once through the archway to the main hall, he took her down the stairs which led to the bus queues.

He looked at his watch and sighed, his breath misting in the frosty air. A glance was enough to tell that the hotel shuttle bus had already come and gone—just a few moments ago, in all likelihood—and they’d have to wait for the next one.

“It looks like we’ve missed it.” He paused to consult the schedule that hung on the wall. “The next one won’t be here for at least forty-five minutes.”

“Oh, well. That’s okay.” Emily peered around him to read the board for herself. “Why don’t we wait inside? It’s awfully cold out here.”

“Good idea. I think the bar is still open. Perhaps we could have a coffee while we wait?”

Her smile seemed more tired than before but nonetheless sincere. “All right. That sounds good.”

Though the initial rush of travelers had thinned out, Davide still kept her hand in his as they walked back up the stairs to the main floor and the coffee shop there. He liked how her hand felt, warm and small, fitting neatly in his own.

7) He snatched his keys from the telephone table and tried to smooth his mussed hair with one hand, then rushed down the stairs to the front door, nearly losing his slippers a time or two in the process.

The corridor was freezing cold, untouched by the heat of the radiators in the flats. The front door was propped open by a rather large man, himself bundled up against the February cold in a puffy coat and a skullcap which made his head seem absurdly small.

“Signor Magnani?” the man asked, his voice surprisingly soft in the quiet of the main lobby.

“Sì, sì, sono io.” Davide crossed to him and took the pen the man offered, signed the slip on the clipboard and handed them back. The man slid the suitcase toward Davide, spared a brief glimpse at his slippered feet and gave him half a smile.

“Buongiorno, Signore,” he said, already turning to go and pulling the door closed behind him.

Davide waved distractedly in his direction and bent to grasp the suitcase handle. The shuffle of feet behind him got his attention and he turned to find Mr. Montanari eyeing him suspiciously.

“Going somewhere?” the old man asked.

“No,” Davide said, working to keep his sudden annoyance out of his voice.

He sidestepped around his neighbor, dragging the suitcase along, the wheels leaving wet, gray tracks as he went.

“Watch that, Magnani! They don’t come to clean the floors again until Tuesday.”

Davide arched one eyebrow and then shook his head, deliberately stepping closer to the old man and continuing to drag the suitcase behind him. “Mi dispiace, Signore, but it’s too heavy to lift.”

“Va bene, ma –” Montanari cut short his blossoming tirade, nostrils flaring. He regarded Davide’s slippered feet with a scowl of profound distaste which contorted his wrinkled features, then huffed again. Without another word, he stumped away toward the door, his cane making rubbery thuds on the tiles as he went.

Stifling laughter, Davide crossed to the stairs and started up, the suitcase much lighter than he’d expected.

8) Tugging at her gloves, Emily snuggled her hands inside them as she came out of the station, remembering the night Davide had given them to her. The bite of the wind soon diverted her attention from this pleasant memory. She pulled her bag more securely onto her shoulder and made her way toward the taxi stand. With every step in that direction, she cursed Jacopo and his notaio for having arranged a lunch meeting.

No doubt about it: he did it so it would take forever. I know how Jacopo takes his time eating.

A fresh gust of wind swept around her, lifting her hair and toying with her scarf while she waited for a taxi to arrive. She had plenty of time to get the notaio’s offices, but her impatience built with every second.

I just want to get this over with. Is it too much to ask?

A white station wagon with a “Taxi” sign on the roof pulled up alongside her. She checked the station to reassure herself she wasn’t poaching someone’s ride.

“Vai in centro?” she asked when he rolled the window down.

“Sì, certo…” he said, waving her inside, and she slipped into the backseat, grateful for the warm interior as she gave him the address in the city center.

9) She snapped her phone closed, returning to Jacopo. “So. What do you have to say to me?”

“I have an appointment in an hour,” he said and raised one hand to stay her protest. “As I said, I’ve reserved you a room, so if you would wait for me –”

“I have other ways to spend my time, thanks. I’m not going to sit around while you’re doing business anymore.” She spun the word as hard as possible, filling it with every lurid inference she could manage.

Amazingly, he looked chagrined.

“Emily, I’m supposed to appraise some properties for the bank, here in the center. It’ll take a couple of hours at most, but I can’t—I won’t let you leave without talking to me.”

“You don’t have a choice.” She turned and began walking toward the station, ignoring the wind which numbed her face as she went. The winter sunset cast deep red shades along the street, darkening fast.

The sound of Jacopo’s footfalls caught up to her in no time. “Don’t do this, Emily, please.” He grasped her arm and pulled her to a halt. “It’s not safe to walk to the station at night. At least let me take you, or something.”

“What happened to not letting me leave?”

Jacopo shook his head, his complexion ruddy in the late afternoon light. “I have no right to ask this of you.”

“No, you don’t.”

10) In spite of the cold, Davide was already sweating. When Emily’s call didn’t come by ten a.m., he gave up and went for a run. Though he hadn’t given up completely; his mobile phone jounced in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, fastened to a cord to keep it from falling out. His chosen route would only take him about halfway around the circonvallazione, not into the hills outside the city.

If Emily called, he could be home in roughly half an hour. Less, perhaps, depending on where he was. Enough time had passed, however, for him to think this was unlikely.

To be fair, he had received a call the night before. She’d rung from a hotel in Rovigo, telling him she would be in Bologna in the morning. With considerable reluctance, he thought, she’d told him about Jacopo’s last-minute kiss, and her refusal.

He wished this information did more for his spirits.

Emily had also said there was more to tell him, but it would be best to talk in person, in the morning.

Now the morning was nearly over and no calls had come. He’d only brought his phone because he hoped to hear from her—normally, he ran without it, hating the distraction. The bouncing in his pocket made him wonder whether he’d felt the vibration of an incoming call. After checking five times in fifteen minutes, he resolved to hold off until he’d covered a quarter of the ring road.

After an hour he completed the circuit, slowing his pace as he entered his street. As he cooled down his clothes clung to him, the brisk winter air prickling at the perspiration on his face and in his hair. By the time he arrived at his building, he felt as though he’d stepped out from a sauna and into the snow.

His breath misted around his face while he fumbled out his keys and unlocked the portone, then went inside to collect his mail. For what seemed like the first time in ages, Mr. Montanari wasn’t there to complain about Davide’s mail being in the wrong box. He was tempted—albeit briefly—to leave some of his junk mail in the old man’s cubby.

11) “I’d like that,” she said. “Let me get ready first.” Emily got out from under the covers and the carpet felt pleasingly soft beneath her feet when she stood beside the bed. Feeling foolish, she found herself trying to face away from Davide in a senseless show of modesty. What was there to be embarrassed about now? He’d known her as intimately as possible, hadn’t he?

The marble-tiled floor was absolutely freezing. With a quick, almost silent hiss of surprise, Emily stepped back onto the carpet that surrounded the bed. Davide chuckled again, sitting up to grab his slippers off the floor and offer them to her.

“Take these.”

“No, I can’t. You’ll need them.”

“Okay.” He got out of bed, apparently free of any modest impulses of his own, and crossed to the bureau along the wall. It was hard not to watch him, not to observe the way the light caressed him and settled into soft shadows which accented the muscles of his legs and the lines of his back. A soft shimmer centered itself in her and negated the chill she’d gotten from the floor.

12) He didn’t give her the chance to say anything more. He lost himself in the warm, eager yielding of her lips and tongue to his. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck while his hands sought out her curves through the heavy material of her winter coat.

They stood at a distance from the sidewalk in a recessed doorway beneath the porticos, yet the feeling of exposure persisted, as though they were in the middle of a piazza. The sound of passing footsteps echoed, twanging off the concrete-and-plaster of the archway over their heads and the wooden door at their shoulders. The frosty air he tasted between kisses was slightly metallic, sharp and mixed with a hint of snow. There were no distinct thoughts in his head, only the recollection of their kisses from before in his office and a silent plea for more of her than he could legally ask in public like this.

As though of its own volition, his hand sought a gap in her coat, seeking the warmth of her skin against his own, if only for a moment.

“Prof?”

Davide quickly withdrew his hand and straightened up as best he could with Emily’s arms still wound around his neck. Together, they turned toward the speaker and found a number of students looking on, several with expressions of surprise on their faces, some self-conscious grins scattered throughout the group. One in particular stood out and Davide was compelled to address him directly since he’d been the one to speak.

13) “You’re doing it again.” Her voice was weighted with disappointment.

“Doing what?”

She said nothing. He moved away from the door and put his back to it. She stepped quietly past him to open it and step out into the corridor. Cold air crept into his flat, icy fingers slipping around him before the door closed, the soft click of the latch cutting them off.

He became aware of the photo in its frame, still in his hand. With a disgusted sound, he threw it back into the living room, the gesture followed by a tinkle of broken glass.

The echo of Emily’s footsteps on the stairs had scarcely faded before he snatched his keys out of the basket. The door slammed shut behind him as he raced down the stairs, intent on catching her before she could leave the relative warmth of the lobby.

No such luck. He reached the last step and rushed around the corner to the empty lobby. A sharp, frigid wind blew along the street as he saw her walking away huddled against the cold. No matter what she’d said to him, no matter how much it might have hurt, his heart went out to the small, lonely woman making her way along the street.

He jogged after her, doing his best to ignore the chill, his footfalls clapping noisily first along the rough paving of the street and then the marble floors of the portico.

And there you are, thirteen examples of frosty scenes in Ask Me if I'm Happy.






I hope you've enjoyed this glimpse into the world my characters inhabit in that particular tale.












I hope I didn't give too much away, but I also hope I've enticed you into reading more of their story.













I also hope I didn't get you too chilled.










In case I did, with a little luck...













This might warm you up! (Or, at least, give you a giggle.)

First, the blurb and a teaser from the first page of the book
I'm currently reading, which is
Stephen King's 11.22.63
(available at Amazon, of course, or just about anywhere else you can think of.)

_Blurb:

On November 22, 1963, three shots rang out in Dallas, President Kennedy died, and the world changed. What if you could change it back? Stephen King’s heart-stoppingly dramatic new novel is about a man who travels back in time to prevent the JFK assassination—a thousand page tour de force.

Following his massively successful novel Under the Dome, King sweeps readers back in time to another moment—a real life moment—when everything went wrong: the JFK assassination. And he introduces readers to a character who has the power to change the course of history.


Jake Epping is a thirty-five-year-old high school English teacher in Lisbon Falls, Maine, who makes extra money teaching adults in the GED program. He receives an essay from one of the students—a gruesome, harrowing first person story about the night 50 years ago when Harry Dunning’s father came home and killed his mother, his sister, and his brother with a hammer. Harry escaped with a smashed leg, as evidenced by his crooked walk.

Not much later, Jake’s friend Al, who runs the local diner, divulges a secret: his storeroom is a portal to 1958. He enlists Jake on an insane—and insanely possible—mission to try to prevent the Kennedy assassination. So begins Jake’s new life as George Amberson and his new world of Elvis and JFK, of big American cars and sock hops, of a troubled loner named Lee Harvey Oswald and a beautiful high school librarian named Sadie Dunhill, who becomes the love of Jake’s life—a life that transgresses all the normal rules of time.

A tribute to a simpler era and a devastating exercise in escalating suspense, 11/22/63 is Stephen King at his epic best.

_Teaser from Chapter One:

I have never been what you'd call a crying man.

My ex-wife said that my 'nonexistent emotional gradient' was the main reason she was leaving me (as if the guy she met in her AA meetings was beside the point). Christy said she supposed she could forgive me not crying at her father's funeral; I had only known him for six years and couldn't understand what a wonderful, giving man he had been (a Mustang convertible as a high school graduation present, for instance). But then, when I didn't cry at my own parents' funerals -- they died just two years apart, Dad of stomach cancer and Mom of a thunderclap heart attack while walking on a Florida beach -- she began to understand the nonexistent gradient thing. I 'was unable to feel my feelings,' in AA-speak.

'I have never seen you shed tears,' she said, speaking in the flat tones people use when they are expressing the absolute final deal-breaker in a relationship. 'Even when you told me I had to go to rehab or you were leaving.' This conversation happened about six weeks before she packed her things, drove them across town, and moved in with Mel Thompson. 'Boy meets girl on the AA campus' -- that's another saying they have in those meetings.

And here are the blurb and a teaser from Chapter Fourteen of
my own novel, Ask Me if I'm Happy,
which is also available on Amazon worldwide as well as
many other online retailers,
in ebook and paperback.

_Blurb:

Sometimes the simplest questions are the hardest ones to ask.

Emily Miller is forced to spend a day in Bologna when she'd rather be catching her flight to the US. Determined to put ten years in Italy and her marriage behind her, she wants to have nothing to do with anything - or anyone - Italian ever again.

For Davide Magnani, chivalry isn't yet dead. He accompanies Emily to Milan, if only to reassure himself of her safe arrival. The following morning, he's stunned to realize he's fallen in love with someone he's only known for twenty-four hours - and it seems that she feels the same way.

One year later, Emily and Davide reunite. As their relationship strengthens, unforeseen events reveal deeper, troubling connections all around, which drive Emily away from the first man she's ever really trusted. Can she forgive the lies she's been told, or the truths which have been hidden from her? And how can Davide prove to her, once and for all, that Italy is precisely where she needs to be?

_ 

_Teaser from Chapter Fourteen:

Neither of them spoke while they rose to the fourth floor. The only sound was the quiet hum of the elevator itself. When the doors slid open at her floor, Davide’s heart sank.

This is it. This is where we say goodnight—and goodbye.

He followed her to her room, the suitcase in his hand seeming to grow heavier with every step, until he considered setting it on the hallway carpet to take a rest. Before he knew it, however, she was moving to slide her keycard and open her door.

With wonder, he watched her miss the slot. Her hands were shaking hard enough for him to see and she took a deep breath before trying again. This time the keycard slid home and the small green light blinked, a soft click signaling that the door was unlocked.