Well, I hate to say it, but I've been busy, busy, busy - and who hasn't, right? - but last night, the hubby and I took a few hours for ourselves. We had a lovely dinner at a Japanese restaurant, and then we went for a walk in the city center. We hadn't done this at night for a long time, and we brought along the camera and tripod to capture some of the scenes for posterity.

So, please, allow me to present to you

And there you go. I hope you enjoyed these.

















It's so rare to see the streets so empty and so quiet. It almost felt like the whole city was made just for the two of us.













It was a frosty night, but it was a delight to go out and walk with my hubby in it.










After we got home, there was a chance to cuddle and warm up together. Naturally, I'll keep my hubby to myself.


















You get to warm up with this lovely gent, okay?

I know we're just now creeping up on Christmas, but I've already got my brain pan boiling with thoughts, hopes and plans for 2012. So, bearing that in mind, I'd like to share with you:

_ "Why Bologna?"

"Al centro esatto di Piazza Maggiore
con leggerezza da pattinatore
Bologna adesso voltati
mi fai commuovere
lo sai che esagero con le parole..."

"At the exact center of Piazza Maggiore
With the lightness of a skater
Bologna you now turn -
You move me
You know that I exaggerate with words…"
-        "A Bologna" ("In Bologna") by Samuele Bersani  (translation mine)

I frequently have to explain "Why Bologna?" I mean, I live in Italy – I'm surrounded by historic locations which could have hosted Emily and Davide's story in Ask Me if I'm Happy, right? So why limit myself to a frequently cold and foggy setting in northern Italy that readers might not be very familiar with in the first place?

Well, why not?

The truth is there was no other place as well-suited to the story as Bologna was. I cited some of the reasons elsewhere once, in an interview I did prior to Ask Me if I'm Happy's initial release in 2010: "It's the major train travel hub for northern Italy; it's simply a place I love; it is, as my husband might say, characteristic of the region where I live; and finally, it's a beautiful and historic city.

"Most of all, I feel it's one of the unsung locations in this country. Nearly everyone knows about Tuscany, Rome, Naples and Venice, but very few folks, it seems, are even aware of Bologna. I wanted my area of northern Italy to be represented, for better and for worse, and I think I've done that in Ask Me if I'm Happy."

I've done my best to give a real sense of the city and to show how it affects Emily and Davide throughout their relationship. I tried to not make the story feel like a travelogue, preferring to let the city peek through from time to time, by citing real places and inventing amalgamations of others. From what I've been told, I've done a decent job of it.

In spite of Ask Me… being a love story, I really hoped to write a story which could serve as an antidote of sorts to many other Italy-set stories. I wanted to show the Italy where I – and my ex-pat co-workers and friends – live and work every day. All of us had grown tired of the oh-so-perfect life described by so many novelists and travel writers, the false la dolce vita-isation of these places we know too well. As a result, I aimed to write about this place I've come to love with all my heart, but to write about it warts and all.

Yes, Italy is a beautiful country, there's no doubt about it. I don't deny that, and I do think this aspect shows through in Ask Me if I'm Happy. But there are other aspects of living here which fall quite short of the idealized imagery in those "Ex-pats in Tuscany/Rome/Venice" tales we're all familiar with. This discrepancy is what Emily struggles with, and it's something Davide deals with, too, although in slightly different ways.

From the beginning of the novel right through to the end, I've tried to show the Italy I know in the season I love best: the cold air, the grey skies, and the style of urban living which is the reality for the majority of Italians I know. I wanted to show the romance in a foggy afternoon and in warming one's hands over a hot cappuccino or in the grasp of an attractive companion. I wanted the reader to imagine strolling along the porticos of La Grassa, the city of Bologna, and see her rather weathered charms in all their flawed splendor.

Emily rediscovers these aspects of Italy every time she leaves and returns, just as I – and many of my friends who came here from abroad – do. And every time they open Emily and Davide's story and journey into an Italy they might not previously have been familiar with, I sincerely hope that readers of Ask Me if I'm Happy will do the same.

Well, here we go: 'Tis the season and all that stuff. Everyone's running around looking for Christmas gifts, so I thought I'd share what I requested from Santa this year. I mean, hey, you never know, right?

So, with that in mind, please allow me to present:

The Bag of Holding. $39.99 (on sale!)

I don't care much for purses and/or shoes, but I'm crazy about backpacks and messenger bags. They're "my thing" as it were. And I LOOOOOVE this!!!!

There's a backpack version too! AUGH!!!!

A replica of the Tenth Doctor's coat!
Only $329.99!
How awesome is that???

Stormtrooper hoodie. $59.99.
I'd get this in a heartbeat, if only I wouldn't ruin it instantaneously. (White is murder to keep clean!)

Twitch Programmable Cat Toy. Just $19.99!
Seriously, I could *totally* use this - if I could distract the Doodle during the day I'd get a lot more work done, and she'd be content to play on her own.

Then I'd just need something to hold her tail while she eats... Nah, I'll keep doing that myself.

USB plug-in Toast Handwarmers. $24.99. They fit over your hands so you can type and keep your hands warm at the same time. Don't you want these? I sure do.

A Star Wars Galaxy Poster. $5.99 - Every character in the Star Wars galaxy is here. I really want to double-check, but I'll have to brush up on my Star Wars geekery.

And there you go: 13 Items on My Christmas Wish List.










This post practically wrote itself!










And so, I thought it best to keep with the overall theme of the gifts in my post.
















You did pick up on it, right?














The only thing I left out was "Firefly". Which I adore.














And what do I adore most about "Firefly"?













I think you'll figure it out.

_ Davide

One of the most surprising aspects of writing Ask Me if I'm Happy had to be the way Davide was received by the first folks to read the story. From its earliest days, men and women alike singled Davide out:

"Davide is a knight in shining armor that we all pray for to come save us."

"This Davide fella gets more attractive by the word."

The story was reworked considerably before it appeared on Authonomy, but I was confident it would – for the most part, anyway – pass muster. Again, to my surprise, people still seemed to notice Davide more than I expected:

"This man could seduce an iceberg! I'm half in love with him myself."

"Davide sounds so dreamy - good looking, sophisticated, cultured, kind, and a professor of literature - what girl wouldn't fall for him?"

"… Davide is lovely and one wants to spend time in his company."

I became concerned. Had I written someone too perfect? Had I written someone who couldn't possibly exist in the real world?

This proved rather troubling, as my intention had been to write a story which was, ultimately, very realistic. I wanted both Emily and Davide to strike home for the reader, to be people with whom the reader could identify – not in a fantastic manner, but in recognizing something of themselves as they read along.

I forged forward and the story grew and grew, giving me deeper insight into Davide's mind, his motivations and even his past. Based on "Connections" alone, it's clear he's not the "typical" Italian male. He's studious, perhaps slightly nerdy, honest and conscientious almost to a fault – not the self-involved, vainglorious and self-assured sort of man we're accustomed to imagining as the classic "Italian love interest".

No, Davide is no Casanova, no Valentino, no love-'em-and-leave-'em sort of guy. However, when the moment presents itself, he knows when to step in, when to seize the opportunity to declare himself and his intentions. When he does, he does so with all the fear and trepidation most of us would surely feel for taking such a chance.

In short, Davide is simply himself. A man who doesn't bow to the caprices of fashion and who quietly despairs for a world around him which seems to do just that; who struggles to maintain a standard of civility and propriety which he sees slipping to the wayside; who worships the woman he loves because he isn't able to see her flaws – however many there may be – and can only see her perfection magnified by his love.

Tragically, this may well be his most self-destructive aspect. Davide believes himself to be honest in all things yet his mistrust of anyone's ability to love him, or to be as honest with him as he is with them, keeps the world safely at arm's length. This, combined with his need to protect Emily, is his blessing and his curse. The very things which bring them together are what might well break them apart.

Not long ago, a friend read through Ask Me if I'm Happy and cited Davide's self-imposed isolation, his rejection of societal trends, his need for a deep emotional connection with someone – anyone – as proof that he is a man "out of his time". His initial perfection – as seen through Emily's eyes – gives way to his own view of his imperfection. His self-critical nature stifles his ability to be honest with himself – and thus, with Emily – in the way he knows he needs to be. Of course, this leads to trouble. Just like in real life.

Now, when I hear people telling me how much they admire Davide, how attractive and romantic he is to them, I have a better understanding of why that is. It is my belief that these readers, male and female alike, really do identify with him and with his struggles throughout the novel. They see themselves or their loved ones – or both – in him, and that spurs their desire to see him succeed, to work out his problems and emerge victorious on the other side of the struggle.

Whether or not he does this, I won't say here. You'll just have to read the book to find out.

Well, I promised some eyecandy for the ladies yesterday, since I didn't feel it appropriate with my Thursday Thirteen post on John Lennon.

In fact, I'll go one better and give you a whopping SEVEN pieces of candy, one for each day until the next Thursday Thirteen. How's that for customer service, eh?

So here you go, ladies! Enjoy!

This morning I decided I would pick a "topical" Thirteen for today's list. Sadly, it's a topic which marks a loss, but I think it's one worth remembering.

So, this week, I'd like to share with you

John was born John Winston Lennon on October 9th, 1940.

His father abandoned John and his mother, Julia, in 1944. A short while later, John's aunt, Mimi, would take over raising him.

John learned to play guitar at an early age, starting with banjo lessons from his mother.

John married Cynthia Powell in 1962, after learning she was pregnant. Their marriage was kept secret (or at least, kept quiet) for fear of fans being unable to accept it.

In 1963, John went on holiday to Spain with the Beatles' manager, Brian Epstein. The trip would provide fodder for gossip for years, since Epstein was gay. The 1991 film, The Hours and Times, was a dramatization of their visit.

His writing abilities were not limited to songwriting. John also wrote short stories and poems, and a collection "In His Own Write" was released in 1964, and was followed up with "A Spaniard in the Works" in 1965. (He can be heard reciting part of one of his poems "I Sat Belonely" in the film Help.)

John was also an artist, fond of sketching and doodling. His drawings were also featured in his books.

John also acted - in the 1967 film How I Won the War. He played a soldier, Private Gripweed, and his famous "Beatle cut" was a casualty. He also started wearing what would become his trademark round specs during filming.

When John married Yoko Ono in 1969, he intended to take her name as his own and be known as John Ono Lennon. Unable to alter his name officially, he had it legally amended to John Winston Ono Lennon.

He moved to New York in 1971, but because of his outspoken opposition to the war in Vietnam, he was denied permanent residency in the US for five years.

John's two sons, Julian and Sean (Cynthia's and Yoko's sons, respectively) are both musicians.

The now-infamous portrait of Lennon and Ono was taken by Annie Lebovitz just five hours before his death.

Lennon was killed outside his New York home by a mentally unstable fan thirty-one years ago today.

In light of the tone of this post, I'm not including any eyecandy. I'm sure you understand.

I promise, however, to post a special Friday blog with something for you to savor.



Ciao for now.

_ Emily

Being one of those writers from the "my characters tell me what happens" school, I'm endlessly surprised by the things I learn about my characters while I write the story. In this regard, they really do feel like friends I'm spending time with, getting to know them over time. Sometimes, the surprises are astounding.

Emily had a lot of those surprises in store for me from the start. When I first wrote the short story which became Ask Me if I'm Happy, I confess she wasn't terribly well-formed in my own mind. Over time, she shaped up on the page, but initially all I knew about her was that she was leaving Italy after a fair amount of time there, and she spoke Italian better than I did. I didn't know whether she was married, divorced or widowed. I didn't know precisely how old she was. I didn't really know for sure what she looked like, either.

Soon enough I understood she was nervous, and scared. She was frustrated at the obstacles keeping her in Italy. She prized honesty because she'd been lied to in previous relationships. Her attraction to Davide was natural and unhurried, and it was part of her becoming honest with herself once more.

The story expanded and went deeper into her head. I found she was prone to self-doubt – well, who isn't? – and that she struggled to move forward from her own past mistakes. I learned that she'd been alone for a long time, and she'd practically been abandoned to her despair to see her worst fears come true. I also found she was stubborn and bullheaded, usually at the worst possible times.

When she described herself in the story, it wasn't Emily who provided the words. Instead, it was the voice of Jacopo, her ex, who spoke – and he didn't speak kindly. He described Emily as mousy and dumpy – words which, ironically, weren't in his English lexicon until he met her. He even used the phrase thirty-four-year-old-woman as though this were some sort of insult.

My heart ached for her. I tried to determine what exactly had happened to Emily which sent her on this downward trajectory. Why was she so vulnerable? How was she so easily manipulated? Why did Jacopo choose Emily if he would be so unhappy with a woman like her?

It came to me in a rush, while discussing the plot's possibilities with a friend of mine while we walked through the city center. In the middle of a piazza not unlike the ones she would walk with Davide, I understood the source of Emily's pain: it was all I could do not to start crying on the spot. For a moment, it was as though Emily stood there with me, her head bowed so I couldn't see her face, waiting for me to give voice to her pain.

The linchpin to the story was given to me just like that. When I got home, I sat at my writing desk and cried while I made my notes and typed them out. It really was like having a friend tell me a devastating secret she'd held back from telling, out of fear of being judged.

For all her quiet, mousy tendencies, Emily was no blushing innocent nor was she brazen and careless with her affections. She'd been devastated by her father's death when she was a teenager, and she'd acted out, as teenagers do. Her mother, who was always distant, became more so in spite of the fact that she was all Emily had, and her daughter was all she had. So, Emily sought affection wherever she could find it, and it cost her dearly.

Writing all of this was difficult for me, but with every revelation, Emily became more real, and more realistic. She wasn't at all perfect. She had her flaws, and with each choice she made, with each tough path she chose, I found myself rooting for her.

Of course I hope that anyone who reads Ask Me if I'm Happy will feel the same way. I will always hope that my efforts to put Emily's (and Davide's) story on the page will be as moving an experience to read as it was for me to write. My constant refrain, as always, is "Time will tell" – because it always does.

And what we hear in the meantime is often quite surprising.

I've been trying to write as much as possible this week, so I didn't have much time to plan a Thursday Thirteen. On short notice, this is what I've come up with:

_1) "Oh, no. I've left my mobile in the room." Charles patted his trouser pockets and stood next to our table, looking around as though he'd dropped something.

"Why not leave it? I mean, we're only going to be down here a short while. Surely you could just return any missed calls?"

He hesitated, his hands momentarily frozen over his pockets, his expression blank. I understood at once the source of his agitation. He was expecting a call.

Scratch that. He was expecting her call.

"Fine," I said, pretending not to notice his guilty composure. "Go on up. I'll take my time over the menu, then."

Another hesitation, and then he was walking away from our table with obvious restraint.

I sat quietly, unsure how to feel. Charles had never before been quite so transparent about her. Part of me was quite hurt by this, and yet part of me was relieved. Of course, now I had my own mental diversion, and while it wasn't exactly the same it did seem to ease the pain a bit.

There was scarcely more than a moment for me to consider this before a sizeable group of men passed through the dining room and headed toward the exit. Stunned, I sat and watched them file by, chatting amongst themselves while their names ticked off a mental list, one by one: Meijer, Browdowski, Mendoza, Mendoza…

How was it possible we'd stayed in the same hotel and I hadn't even known it?

So much for any "psychic connections," then. I had to smile at my silliness, and that was when Renard passed by the table, one hand raised in a subtle greeting. My smile stayed in place even as my heartbeat sped up and my own hands shook on my lap.

He didn't seem to notice – he only smiled and continued out to the lobby. He glanced back at me before stepping through the doorway, and I heard the rumbling of what I presumed to be the team bus outside the front doors of the hotel.

_2) In retrospect, the benevolence of being granted a few free hours the night before now made sense. It had been our last chance at that kind of freedom.

"No way should that stage have taken us out like it did. You've all been letting things slide, acting on your own, not following orders." Jerzy turned his cold gaze to Rom, who ducked his head onto his chest. No understanding of English was necessary to know how he'd screwed up, and no doubt the message hit home. "This is what happens. As of today, you get one hour of free time after dinner. That's all."

Adrie's scowl behind Jerzy's back surely hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of the team, but no-one would rat him out. Any rider with a family, or at the very least a girlfriend, was bound to resent such a limit on the time we could spend with them privately.

With surprising calm, Adrie cleared his throat, and Jerzy slowly turned to face him. James tensed next to me, and Alvaro, seated next to Adrie, shifted his seat away to one side after a skyward glance.

"You have something to add, Major?"

"What about our families? An hour a day is hardly enough time to spend with my wife and my daughter, and we all know there will be days we don't see them at all, anyway."

Silence spooled out in the meeting room, and I wondered if anyone else had neglected to breathe, as I had. As quietly as I could, I drew a long breath, waiting to hear Jerzy's response.

"I'm being generous. I could make it one hour a week," he said, and turned again to face the rest of us. "You all need discipline; that's clear. You should be supporting the team leaders, and instead, you fell apart!"

I couldn't help bristling at the plural. Leaders? I screamed mentally. That's the whole fucking problem!

"As far as families go – I don't want to keep any of you away from them. If you want to be with your family, go." He gestured toward the door and Adrie dropped his gaze to the table. "If you stay, you need to remember this: I am your father, your brother, your best friend – even your mother! I am your family. This team is your family. You depend on them, and they depend on you."

The composure with which he spoke was chilling. This was not ranting Jerzy, not blustering or manic Jerzy.

This was Jerzy at his angriest, and I'd never been more aware of walking on a knife-edge than I was then. The rest of the team seemed to be, too. No one spoke, whispered or so much as coughed in the silence that followed.

"Get out to the bus. Now."

Jerzy stalked away, and we all stood, not a chair scraping across the tiled floor before we filed out as quietly as possible.

_3) "You can give him my apologies, if you like," he said, not looking at me.

I laughed and shook my head. "He'd never believe me if I tried to."

"What, that I apologized?"

"No, that I sat here with you as if we knew each other or something. He'd never believe it. I mean, I hardly believe it myself."

He smiled again and my heart lifted.

"We do know each other, don't we? You're Abigail. I'm Federico."

"Acquaintances at best," I said, drawing the words out and shaking my head. I didn't want to delude myself into believing anything too far-fetched, even if he was encouraging it.

"Yes, but…. It has to start somewhere, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

He licked his lips, took another drink and set his glass back on its coaster with exaggerated care.

"Friendship," he said with an air of finality, his gaze meeting and holding mine. "And don't you think these coincidences are enough to show maybe we could be friends?"

Or something else altogether, if your eyes are saying what I think they are.

I pushed the idea aside and tried to focus on the inherent sweetness of the statement he'd just made. Friendship was a lovely option, wasn't it?

"Well, going back to the hotel thing…" I began, unsure why I wanted to return to the topic.

"Hmm?"

"Where is the team staying tonight? That is to say, I doubt we're in the same place again, but it's probably a good idea to be sure."

He laughed quietly, nodding, and I understood he wanted to put me at ease. Something changed in that moment and he ceased to be "Renard" in my mind, becoming "Federico" instead.

That's one step closer to something, but what?

Friendship?

_4) For a short while, Brunn and I rode shoulder to shoulder, chatting amiably. He asked whether I was still considering moving to Italy, and if so, where? I said I hadn't changed my mind, but was undecided about where exactly I wanted to go.

Behind me, Schlessinger barked a short, disapproving laugh. I glanced back at him and returned my focus to the ride, only to have him pull alongside. I paid no attention to him, but let him get ahead of me and take his turn at the head of the group.

Brunn looked back at me, shrugged, and when the time came he took over at the head of the group again.

"You never did answer my question, Ciccio," Schlessinger said, dropping behind me once more.

"Which question was that?" I asked, filling my voice with as much bored disinterest as I could.

"How's your girlfriend?"

A ripple of chuckles went through the group around me, but I pretended not to notice. Evidently, word had gotten around.

Now I understood who had sent the magazine to me at the hotel.

I took my time answering him, prolonging my silence by taking a long drink from my water bottle, then meticulously replacing it in its cage. It was my turn to lead again, and I did, noting Brunn's questioningly-raised eyebrow as I passed him.

I waited until my turn was over, and then Schlessinger's, before responding.

"She's fine. I wish her the best."

5) "I thought we were supposed to be on holiday. Or at least that you were treating it like that," I said, sitting opposite him. "You never said you'd be working the whole time."

Charles rubbed his eyes slowly, then lowered his hand to the tabletop. "Abby…"

I stiffened. What on earth was coming, now?

He took a deep breath and looked out the window again. "I might have to go home."

"Why?" I asked, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. Was he going to tell me about the other woman? Was he going to ask for a divorce? Should I be feeling almost eager to hear, one way or the other?

"Work, darling. Always for work."

There were no words. I sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before a question finally formed.

"When were you thinking of going?"

"I thought we'd leave from Torino."

"'We'?"

"Of course, 'we'. I couldn't possibly leave you here alone, following that bunch of miscreants –"

"I'm not going home. Not until the Tour is over."

"Abby, be reasonable-"

"I am. If you need to go home, then go home, but I'm not going with you. I'm following this through, all the way to Paris."

He sighed again, and I resisted the urge to stand and slap him. "Abby, Abby… Of all the things to see through, you pick this?"

For just a moment, I hated him. The moment passed, but it passed slowly.

6) My confidence grew with every step I took, and by the time I passed through the lobby, a sense of invincibility had begun to sink in. All these years, I'd convinced myself that Jerzy had some sort of sixth sense going for him. He'd caught so many of my teammates when they'd misbehaved, hadn't he? Why the devil wasn't he down here now, dragging me back upstairs and threatening to break my legs or something?

Because I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, I thought. Not even the desk clerks saw me go by on my way to the front doors.

I stepped out and watched the entrance of the restaurant across the street. I was suddenly sure that were I to simply start walking across the street – without so much as a glance in either direction – no harm would come to me.

Still, I checked. No point in pushing my luck and getting mown down by a bus.

Once I'd crossed I glanced back at my own hotel, fully expecting to see Jerzy at his window, scowling down at me. Or perhaps waiting at the front door with a hangman's noose in his hand. Or the bucket.

I shivered a little, unable to stop, and then went inside.

7) "I'm glad I found you, Abigail."

"Abby," I said, my lips forming my own name in spite of the fact I couldn't feel them, any more. "My friends call me Abby."

That smile again – innocent, not sly or seductive – and I couldn't pull my gaze away. I was distantly aware of the heat rising to my cheeks. And a few other places, as well.

My heart was pounding to the point I almost couldn't hear when he spoke again. The din of rushing blood in my ears and the rattling of suitcases as they were pulled through the lobby behind me had rendered me nearly deaf.

Then he rested his hand on my arm, just below the short sleeve of my t-shirt, and I snapped out of my daze.

"Abby," he said, my name sounding awkward as he used it for the first time. "Could I buy you a coffee, or something? I'd like to see more of your photos, if I may." His eyes flicked in the direction of my computer bag, and I followed a moment behind, uncomprehending.

"Oh," I said, half-laughing as I understood at last. "Of course you can. We could go in the restaurant here, or in the bar in the back. I think they might have some booths free."

"Perfect." He started across the foyer with me, one hand rising to touch the back of my arm, just above my elbow. It was an innocent, gentlemanly gesture, nothing more, but it sent a small shock through me.

8) My heart was beating triple-time as I hurried across the street and into my hotel. I put my hand in my pocket and felt my keycard there, then took it out and grasped it tight in one hand. Scanning the lobby to reassure myself, I went straight to the stairwell and unlocked the door with my keycard, then took the stairs two at a time, bounding up as quietly as I could.

When I reached my floor, I paused, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths until I could hear the air-conditioning hum echoing around me. There was no other sound on the floor, as far as I could tell.

I opened the door carefully and poked my head out, harbouring a momentary, insane desire for a mirror to check around the corners with. No sign of Jerzy. He wasn't lurking behind the decorative ficus, nor was he standing by the door to my room. The corridor was completely empty.

Easing the stairwell door shut behind me, I took a few tentative steps toward my room, the keycard against my palm now slicked with sweat.

More silence. Only silence. The quiet padding of my trainers across the carpeted floor barely registered. A sudden, blatting fart – reminiscent of an angry duck's quack! – made me jump as I passed James and Phil's room.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard, to stop the laughter which threatened to erupt. I didn't know if I wanted to laugh because of the noise, or because the noise had actually startled me.

I had to be crazy. This was the biggest risk I'd ever taken – none of my races even compared to this. I knew as well as anyone that Jerzy's wrath wasn't something to be trifled with – contract or no contract, if he wanted you off the team, you were gone.

And here I'd acted against his very explicitly-expressed wishes. I'd broken one of his biggest rules by defying the team curfew.

9) Hollowness carved itself into my stomach at the thought. Could I really be so pragmatic? Could I really let him go so easily? Living alone was something I could handle, no doubt – I was already doing so, wasn't I? – but truly being alone?

I shivered at the thought as Charles replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone. The bed sank beneath his weight as he shifted and stood up, and I pulled the covers up over my shoulder. I listened to him padding to the window, heard the shick of the curtains opening and the soft patter of rain against the windowpane.

"Abby, you need to get up. We'll want to leave for Avignon as soon as possible this morning."

I ducked under the covers a bit more, sighing. He was right. The stage was starting there today, and it wasn't likely we'd arrive early enough to beat most of the crowds. Perhaps I'd have to shoot further along the route instead?

I shook my head. The logistics alone made it unlikely that Charles would agree to change any plans at this late hour.

With a groan, I extracted myself from the covers and shuffled across the room. My lack of sleep the night before was going to be problematical. Charles laughed softly behind me and I turned to face him.

"What?" I asked, allowing myself a smile at the sound of his gentle mirth.

"You're becoming an old fart like me, darling. The late nights aren't agreeing with you as much as they used to, eh?"

"I guess not." I nodded, stepping onto the cool, tiled floor of the bathroom. "Maybe I just need to get back into the habit?"

"Maybe."

He stood in the doorway while I took off my nightgown. I felt his gaze, steadily assessing, slide over me while I turned on the water in the tub and pulled the lever to send the water up to the showerhead. I stood straight and faced him, making no attempt to hide myself. Why should I? He'd seen everything a thousand times before, and had shown his appreciation just a few days ago, hadn't he?

And yet… The desire to cover myself up, a perverse demure impulse, flitted through me. The words were there, on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be spoken.

Who are you? Where did you come from? Why did you go?

And the worst, most painful question of all came as he turned away, half-smiling.

What did I do wrong?

10) I wondered briefly how Schlessinger thought he might fare on the descents this time. Would he manage his nerves better this time around? In the team meeting on the bus that morning, Jerzy had alluded to the descents as being of key importance. I was climbing well – stupendously well, in fact – and a touch of that sense of invincibility returned as I worked my way up the ascent.

I don't really believe in luck – good or bad – but I couldn't deny the feeling which had wrapped itself around me this morning. Aware I was smiling again, I wondered if I looked as oblivious and simpleminded as I feared I might.

The day came into sharp focus: the green of the mountains, the white peaks in the distance, the deep grey of the tarmac rolling slowly beneath our wheels all had a clarity which I would have sworn wasn't there moments before. The air itself was crisp and sharp, magnifying the approaching summit until it seemed as though we were there a thousand times over.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, her voice was whispering her name to me.

She was in Grenoble by now. She was waiting.

I had to reach her. Forget everything else.

And if I happened to snatch a little time and close the gap a bit? If I happened to get a bit closer to the Royal in the process? All the better.

11) There were still three weeks before the race was over, too. Could I really do it on my own? And if I did, what would I be coming home to? In a way, it was almost better not knowing. At least then I could imagine whatever I wanted, and deal with the reality later.

It was a foolish way to address the situation, but there it was. I'd made my choice by not saying anything. It was already too late. Whenever I told him (tomorrow? the day after? the day after that, when he left?), there was no way to know how he'd react.

We'd have to hash this out eventually, but I was reluctant to set it all in motion.

Or I could just go home with him and be done with it.

I shook my head. No, that would never do. I'd hate myself forever if I did. How many dreams did I have to let die to find the dream I wanted most? I'd given up the idea of children when his career made it clear I'd be raising them alone, and now it was nearly too late. I'd passed on owning a photo lab in our small town because he felt it was too risky and besides, "The chemist's got that covered, hasn't he?" Artistic photography? Too arty-farty and I'd need a proper patron in order to make it work. "And what would you photograph, anyway? Backsides and landscapes?"

I sighed, remembering. He'd methodically shot down each and every one of them with stunning accuracy. I still didn't understand why he'd gone along with the Tour project. Maybe because the magazine had liked my demo shots and put up some funding for this project? Or maybe because his job had all but pushed him to take a holiday in the first place?

Most likely he'd thought I'd get bored and abandon it, just like I'd done with other half-hearted projects in the past; furniture refinishing, an attempt at watercolour paintings of landscapes, volunteering at the local crafts club.

But this was different. This was my passion reborn, but he couldn't see it at all.

He couldn't see the changes in me, either. I reckon we'd grown too far apart for him to see me clearly any more.

12) "I saw what happened with Solange. Her pictures are all over the 'net right now."

Was it possible I had no idea what she was talking about? Did she mean the AvantMode – if one pardoned the unfortunate choice of word – spread?

Abby blushed again, deeper this time.

"I saw the photos of her with that Conway person. They were on the entertainment news on TV, too."

"They were?" I asked, strangely incredulous.

Abby nodded, guiltily this time. "Yes. Some sort of art show or premiere or something? I hadn't heard anything about that until today. You're taking it rather well, though."

"Well, you know. I wish her the best. Really, I do. She'd never have been happy with me, anyway."

I don't know why I said it, but as soon as I had, I realized it was true. Solange had hated cycling – she hated most sports, except for figure skating and diving competitions – and she had admitted it from the start. That was, once her gig as a Tour d'Europa podium girl was over, of course. It wouldn't have done for the public to know that the smiling girl in the royal blue dress, giving kisses to each cyclist on the podium, thought that the sport itself was boring and the competitors were egotistical bastards (her words, not mine).

"How can you say that?" Abby's face held a sincere confusion which I found both puzzling and endearing. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm not being hard on myself," I said, and a small chuckle wormed its way out of me. "Honestly. It's very kind of you to defend me, though. Even if it is against myself."

"Well, you seem like a decent enough person to me. I mean, you're nice, you're accessible, you're attra-" She cut herself short, but not before I understood what she was about to say.

The ever-deepening flush in her cheeks only confirmed it.

"Maybe I'm not so nice, Abby."

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning the computer so she could see it without looking up at me.

"The fact I've hardly thought about her the last couple of days should mean something, shouldn't it?"

13) I was thankful Charles had gone up to the room to do some work, particularly glad he hadn't put up much fuss about the fact one of the teams was staying there. That they would be on the bottom floors and we would be at the top seemed to help, too.

The team came into the lobby while I was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the dining hall entrance, just passing the time before I went up to get changed for dinner. I put away my computer, resisting the urge to go up to Federico and…do what? Throw my arms around him and kiss him? Ask him to take me away?

I shook my head and laughed to myself. Ridiculous. I'm absolutely ridiculous.

But when I got up to leave, he turned around and spotted me as though he'd expected me to be there all along.

Stopping short, I stood there, his gaze holding mine across the lobby's parquet flooring and wooden furnishings. In spite of the chaos of a couple dozen people checking in at once, the lobby seemed silent and still. He broke eye contact with me to face the receptionist and take the keycard she'd slid across the desk to him, and then he turned and pushed through his teammates in order to come over and join me.

A swift rush of dizziness came over me and I realized I'd stopped breathing for a moment. I drew a long, deep breath before he stepped up to me, smiling his usual sweet, warm smile.

And there you have an additional thirteen excerpts from 27 Stages.












I hope you've enjoyed them.























I'm working hard to get the book finished and then, of course, out for all you fine readers to enjoy in its entirety.































In the meantime, I'll have to give the ladies a little something to tide them over.






















Just a little somethin'-somethin'.