I stood in the dirt track staring at what was to be my home for the summer. My heart sunk. It was nothing like the advertisement.
“Something is wrong?”
I glared at the agent who’d brought me from the airport and pointed at the structure.
“Look at it. The door and windows are boarded up and painted, the wall is crumbling, the grass hasn’t been cut. This isn’t what I paid for.”
“Please, follow.” He disappeared around a corner.
I stomped after him, stepping surprisingly into a new world of groomed floral gardens, repainted pink stucco and brightly painted trim. Standing on the veranda, I looked down into a beautiful valley of vineyards, surrounded with green rolling hills.
“Back of house still in renos. This and inside complete. Is okay?”
I smiled. “Is okay.”
My dream to spend the summer writing at an Italian villa was a reality.
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