‘An Illuminated Life’

Earlier in the week, before the urge to reorganize the kitchen and paint the cabinets had taken hold, I’d started combing through the hundreds of documents stored on my laptop, looking for material that could be reworked into magazine articles and short stories. I felt certain I had pieces from my three months of work on a tourism project in Assisi that I could reuse, but I hadn’t been able to find much of the material. After talking to Jenny and cleaning the insides of the cabinets with white vinegar, I left all the doors open so the shelves could dry and sat down at my computer. My plan was to search my documents by date to find everything I’d written during that time.

The tourism project had fallen into my lap when I was trying to recover from having my life go up in flames. My daughter, Mia, had been killed a year and a half earlier, and in the aftermath of her death, I’d discovered that my marriage was a total sham. I was paralyzed by grief and barely functioning when Porter—my former fiancé, whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in three decades—saw an article online about Mia’s death. She’d been killed by a bicycle courier in central London who’d run a red light and sent her flying. The accident had received an enormous amount of press and ignited a huge firestorm about cyclists’ rights and traffic laws.

After reading about Mia’s death, Porter tracked down my number and called my house in London. And then he called back every day for weeks, patiently listening to me cry and telling me stories about his life in Italy. Eventually he invited me to fly down and visit him, thinking a change of scenery and some sunshine would do me good. I was half-starved and half-crazy with grief and barely functioning, but I flew to Rome. I stayed in Porter’s guest room for four months, and then finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I flew back to England, confronted Crawford, hired a lawyer, packed my belongings, and fled to my uncle David’s home in Chapel Hill to lick my wounds and try to imagine a day when I might want to interact with the world again. An editor I’d worked with several times over the years emailed out of the blue while I was still trying to figure out my next step. She offered me the chance to work on a three-month project in Assisi, Italy. The centerpiece was a new tourism initiative about the life of Saint Francis, but there were several side projects as well, writing about various places across Umbria and Tuscany.

Marco Mastropietro, a historian and Assisi native, was hired as my guide and driver for the duration of the project. He was a real character who became a good friend during the countless hours we spent together in the car. A lot of our adventures made their way into what eventually became my first book, so when the book was released, I mailed a copy to Marco at the tourism office. I hadn’t heard from him in ages, but as I was dragging Word documents into file folders and searching for material to reuse, WhatsApp rang with a video call.

“Marco!” I said when his face appeared on the screen. “Come stai? I thought I’d hear from you months ago.”

“Bene, grazie. I get your book a long time ago, is true. Is nice, this book. I am happy for you.”

“Did you read it?” I asked, propping the phone against the lamp on my desk.

He shook his head. “I cannot read so much English. But I look for my name.”

I laughed. “Of course you did.”

“You are beautiful today. I like this color for you.”

I looked down at Porter’s faded Forten Hall sweatshirt. “Yeah? Do you like the coffee I spilled on it?”

“Sei maldestra come sempre. How you say this, maldestra?”

“Clumsy. I’m clumsy as usual.”

“Clumsy.” He nodded. “Is a good word.” Marco held up a finger, silencing me, then called out, “Ciao, Bruno!” He waved and nodded, listening for a minute, before returning his attention to the screen. “Sorry. Was a friend of mine. I know everybody.”

“You should run for mayor.”

“No need,” Marco said, shaking a cigarette out of a pack. “I will be famous from your book.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you miss me, darling?” he asked, lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply.

“I actually do! I think of you often.”

“Say this in Italian. Is nice to hear,” he said, then started coughing.

I waited for him to stop, then said, “Ti penso spesso.”

“I think of you, too,” he said. “But this is because I am curious about your life. That is not why you think of me.”

“Oh, really? Why do I think of you?”

“Because you love me,” he said, shrugging as he exhaled. “Don’t worry, is normal. You are woman, I am Marco, is normal you should love me.”

I laughed out loud. “I see your ego is still doing well.”

He coughed again, then shook his head. “I am not well.”

“I was talking about your enormous ego … Never mind. Maybe you wouldn’t cough if you didn’t smoke?”

“Is true, I am enormous, but how you know this? Who tell you?”

“Oh my God, Marco. Moving on.”

“Tell me, cara, how is Pedro? You are still together with him?”

“I don’t know anyone named Pedro.”

“The man with the house where you stay.”

“Porter? He’s fine, he’s good.”

“You are married with him?”

I shook my head. “No. He lives next door.”

“Brava,” Marco said, smiling. “Is not right to marry with him when you love Marco. When do you come to Assisi?”

I rolled my eyes. “Actually, I do need to come over. I’m writing about the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and I need some photos. Unless you want to take them for me?”

Marco shook his head. “Is not possible. I make photos always with this in the view.” He held up his thumb and waggled it. “How you call this?”

“Your thumb.” 

“My tum-ba.” 

“Close enough. I’m thinking of coming in a few days. Do you want to grab a coffee when I’m there?”

“We will have lunch together.”

“Great! It will be good to see you.”

“Is because I am beautiful like the Davide of Michelangelo.” He smiled. “Try to control yourself. Ciao, cara.”

“We have new neighbors,” Porter said, pulling up next to me on the long, cypress-lined driveway we shared a few hours later.

“Oh yeah?” I went around to the passenger door and freed Oliver, who was barking maniacally and trying to squeeze himself out of the half-opened window.

“They’re coming over later for a drink. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure, whatever.” I shrugged. “You want to go for a walk? I was just heading out. I’ve been excavating the contents of my laptop and need a break.”

Porter nodded and turned off the car. He grabbed the leash from the back seat and clipped it to Ollie’s collar.

“How’d you meet the new neighbors?” I asked as we made our way down the drive. Oliver was zigzagging in front of us, dragging his leash behind him and investigating every tree trunk and shrub.

Porter said he’d been in the little hardware store in the next village over when he’d stepped in to help two guys who were having a hard time explaining what they needed.

“Are they American?”

“One. The other is Australian. They told me they’d just bought a house nearby and are renovating it and can’t get the plumber or the electrician to call back.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“That’s what I said. It turns out the house they bought is Villa Rosmarino. They moved in last weekend while we were in Turin, which is why we missed it.”

“No way! I love that place. But boy, it really needs an overhaul. Are they nice? What are their names?”

“Dean is the American and Darren is the Australian. Or maybe vice-versa? Crap. Anyway, they’re coming at five, just for a quick drink.”

Porter whistled at Oliver, who had taken off across the field after a rabbit. Oliver ignored him.

“Oliver, come!” I shouted.

Oliver stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. He glanced in the direction the rabbit had gone, then slowly began making his way toward us with his tail at half-mast.

“Thwarted again, huh, buddy?” Porter said, reaching down to scratch Oliver’s ears when he rejoined us. “Should I be mad that he listens to you but not me?”

“It’s all in the tone. Are the neighbors living here full-time? Are they retired? When did they buy the house? Do they speak any Italian?”

“We talked about nails.”

“I better head back and take a shower,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Want me to make olive tapenade? I got some bread this morning.”

“That would be great. I’ve got a decent Tuscan red. If we like them, we’ll move on to something better. I just invited them for drinks, so they won’t be here long.”

Those turned out to be famous last words.

Porter and I went to bed around three o’clock this morning, after the four of us killed six bottles of wine, including three bottles of very nice Barolo. Porter made omelets with fresh herbs—complete with showy pan-flipping and several rounds of applause—around midnight, after we’d polished off the tapenade and bread, plus a bowl of pasta with tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella that was left over from lunch and the almond cookies I’d made a few days earlier.

It was after two when we walked Dean and Darren—Double D, as we were calling them—home across the field using Porter’s megawatt flashlight. Oliver was surprisingly spry, given the amount of table scraps he’d been fed over the course of the evening, but as soon as we got back to Porter’s house, he curled up on the couch and fell asleep. Porter and I cleaned up the kitchen, crawled upstairs, brushed our teeth, and fell into Porter’s bed. He was snoring before his head even hit the pillow.

I intended to stay in bed until at least noon, but just before eight, my eyes flew open. I was lying very still, hoping I could trick myself into falling back asleep, when Porter suddenly sat up and chucked a pillow at the window. 

“Shut up, you goddamn birds!” he yelled, then turned to look at me. “Why are you awake?”

“Birds,” I croaked. My throat felt like I’d eaten a bag of sand.

Porter groaned and lay back down, rolling onto his side and pulling the sheet over his face. I eased myself out of bed as he began snoring again and found my bathrobe, then brushed my teeth as quietly as I could before tiptoeing downstairs. Oliver was waiting by the bottom step, his tail beating a rhythm on the wall. 

I let Ollie out and filled the bottom of the big Bialetti moka with water, scooped coffee into the metal basket, and screwed the pieces back together. I set the moka on the stove to percolate, then filled Oliver’s water bowl and let him back inside. He drank like a dehydrated horse, sending water flying all over the floor and my bare feet as I leaned against the counter, yawning and looking out the window.

When the coffee was done, I divided it between two ceramic cups with lids that I’d found at the Leroy Merlin store and headed back upstairs. I put one cup on the nightstand next to Porter’s head and made sure the lid was sealed tight, then took the other cup with me into the bathroom, setting it on the edge of the sink while I forced the ancient window up a crack and turned on the taps to fill the tub.

Porter and I went to bed around three o’clock this morning, after the four of us killed six bottles of wine, including three bottles of very nice Barolo.

I was in the bath drinking the last of my coffee when Porter wandered in, stark naked but for one sock. His face looked like he’d done ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.

“Can I—” he said, gesturing towards the toilet.

I nodded and added some more hot water to the tub while he peed for what seemed like an hour. He pulled the chain to flush and went to the sink to wash his hands and brush his teeth. 

“Is there more coffee downstairs?” he asked, looking at me in the reflection of the mirror. His toothbrush was sticking out the side of his mouth and there was toothpaste on his chin.

“I put it on your nightstand.”

Porter rinsed his toothbrush and dropped it into a cup, swished water in his mouth and spit into the sink, dried his hands on his bare torso, then shuffled out. He returned a minute later with the coffee. “Any room?”

I nodded and pulled my legs into my body. Porter handed me his coffee cup and slid into the bathtub, sending water sloshing over the rim and onto the floor.

“F---,” he said, then reached underwater to remove the sock he was still wearing. He dropped it over the side of the tub and settled himself, then reached for the cup of coffee. I handed it to him and stretched my legs out on one side of his body. 

Porter pried the lid off his coffee cup, then leaned back, resting his feet on top of my thighs. “Thanks for the coffee. I’m worthless today.”

“We need a bigger tub,” I said, grabbing his toes.

He nodded but didn’t say anything else until he had finished the entire cup of coffee and leaned over the edge of the tub to deposit the cup and lid on the floor.

“I feel like death,” Porter groaned.

“Me, too. I thought a bath would rehydrate me.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rim of the tub. “It smells good in here.”

“Lavender.” I closed my eyes too. I’m not sure we didn’t both fall asleep because when Porter shifted in the tub, startling me, my hands were wrinkled like prunes and the water was noticeably cooler.

“I don’t want to get out,” Porter said. “But I’m starving.”

“Me too. And Ollie’s only had water this morning.”

Porter looked down at Oliver, who was napping on the bathmat with his chin on Porter’s wet sock.

“God, last night was fun, huh?” he said. “I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a long time.”

“We drank for almost ten hours. I feel lucky to be alive.”

Porter yawned. “I’m not going to get anything done today.”

“You told Double D we’d go look at their house.”

“Surely they’re suffering as much as we are?”

I pointed out the window where, across the expanse of fields, I could see a brush fire and two figures moving. “Looks like they’re up and at ’em.”

“Jesus.”

“Come on, old man. I’m gonna pull the plug so we have to get out.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. I’ll make us something to eat.”

Porter retracted his legs. I put my hands on the tub’s edge and pulled myself to my knees.

“And more coffee?”

I nodded. “Move, Ollie, or I’m going to step on you.”

“Careful,” Porter said, leaning forward to grab my wrist as I got to my feet.

As I towel-dried my hair, I watched in the mirror as Porter stood up in the almost-empty tub. He was still muscular and lean, but where there used to be sharply defined ridges in his midsection, there was now just the slightest hint of roundness. I’d spent hours lying with my head in the crook of his arm when we were in college, running my hands over the topography of his torso while he sang to me, always a schmaltzy Dolly Parton-Julio Iglesias duet called “When You Tell Me That You Love Me.” I have no idea why he chose that song or how he even knew the words, but almost twenty years later, I was traveling in the Netherlands when I heard the Dutch version and had to leave the shop I was in so I wouldn’t start weeping.

“I’m getting old,” Porter said, catching my eyes in the mirror. “You’re going to trade me in for some young stallion with the body I used to have.”

I shook my head. “Never. Who’d make my omelets?”

Porter laughed, then groaned. “Oh God. My head. Don’t make me laugh.”

“We’ll eat Spididol for breakfast.”

“What if we go somewhere instead of seeing Double D’s house? We could go over there tomorrow instead.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“We could take a ride to Gubbio to see the plates in the museum you wanted to see? I just want to do something that involves fresh air and walking. And no alcohol.”

“Yeah, let’s do it. I’ll make us something to eat and feed Ollie, then we can go.”

---

About the Winner 

Corey Stewart’s novel is “heartfelt and beautifully structured, offering a mature take on second chances and emotional reckoning,” said judge Vanessa Riley in her review of the Kilmarnock resident’s “An Illuminated Life,” winner of the 2025 James River Writers/Richmond magazine Best Self-Published Novel Contest.  

“An Illuminated Life” is the stand-alone sequel to Stewart’s first novel, “The Wisdom of the Olive Tree.” It continues the story of Beth Steeler, an American expat whose move to Italy’s Umbria region after a tragic accident and a divorce led to a reconciliation with her first fiance, Porter Haven. In the second installment, Beth’s quiet new life is disrupted when the repercussions of Porter’s past choices literally come calling. As Riley noted, “This book explores how even lives already rebuilt can face new challenges — an angle I found refreshing. The themes of love, choice and quiet strength linger after the final page.” 

The award-winning writer of everything from keynote speeches to video scripts, Stewart is also the director of editorial at the independent publishing house DartFrog, which produces traditional, self-published and hybrid titles. She has lived in seven countries, including Italy, and says Assisi, in Umbria, is “probably my favorite place on Earth.” Stewart says her work “explores what happens when the chaos of life lands on our doorsteps and shakes our foundations,” adding that she plans to write a third and final entry in the Umbria series. 

Also recognized among the 46 contest entries were the runner-up, “The Weight of Forgiveness” by Elizabeth Ray of Henrico, and two finalists: “Stalking Crawrollies” by Derek Kannemeyer and “A Kind Voice in Hell” by Bellamy Scott, both of Richmond.

About the Judge

Vanessa Riley writes historical fiction, romance and mysteries about Black women and women of color in the Caribbean and the Georgian and Regency eras. Riley holds a doctorate from Stanford University and STEM degrees from Penn State, which contribute to her research-oriented approach to her novels. The award-winning author has penned 25 titles, and her work has been praised by The Washington Post, The New York Times, NPR and Publishers Weekly. A resident of Atlanta, Riley will appear at the James River Writers Conference in October. 

James River Writers Conference 

James River Writers hosts its 23rd annual conference Oct. 3-5 at the Greater Richmond Convention Center. The in-person event features pitch sessions with literary agents, first page and query letter critiques, workshops, panels, networking opportunities, a poetry showcase, and a keynote address by thriller novelist Angie Kim. Additional participating authors include fiction novelists Clay McLeod Chapman, Lamar Giles, Etaf Rum and Mia Sosa; nonfiction writer Laurie Gwen Shapiro; memoirist Annabelle Tometich; and poets Tony Keith Jr. and Gloria Munoz. Admission includes two meals and a meeting with an agent. Online master classes on Oct. 3 are $75. Conference tickets are $225 for one day, $475 for two days; members and students receive discounts. For details and registration deadlines, visit jamesriverwriters.org/conference2025.