Welcome to another writing collaboration from the Richonne Writing Network.
We put a dash of summer in this collaborative treat to bring some heat to those cold winter nights at Christmastime.
This Holiday Gift has been brought to you by love devil movies baby and cranesinthesky. Both writers put a lot of love and hard work into bringing you this story, so it would be amazing if you left some love for them in your reviews.
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Happy Holidays and we hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
written by: ldmb
After the fifth phone call, Michonne Bodin shut her cell completely off. There'd be hell to pay later, of that she was sure, and her little act of rebellion was going to cost her dearly. For the first time in her life, she found she didn't care. She was leaving. She boarded the plane without looking back.
Sacramento was just a microscopic speck a thousand miles away, a distant memory already. Her parents' expectations, her boyfriend's endless micromanaging, law school, all of it—it was behind her, at least for now. With every passing moment Italy got closer.
Her parents had questioned her choice for a summer vacation, wondering why she would want to visit one of the world's most romantic cities alone. They'd tried to convince her that she could see Venice one day with her husband in tow. Michonne couldn't think of a less appealing idea.
Just once, she wanted something for herself, not for her mom and dad, nor for Mike. She wanted to wander the narrow alleyways on her own schedule, explore the waterways with no one breathing down her neck. She didn't want to be undermined at every turn, pressured every morning, pushed into a life that seemed predestined for her, but one she'd never wanted.
She wanted to live. Venice seemed like a good place to start.
Armed with a rudimentary knowledge of Italian, her savings from a whole undergraduate degree's worth of summer jobs, and a suitcase of clothing, Michonne was ready. She rushed from the plane, breathing in the air, listening to the cacophony of hundreds of voices all speaking at once. It was chaos, a confusion of checked bags, water taxis, and asking for directions in her bastardized version of Italian. It took an hour to get out of the airport and down the long road that led to the island of Venice. Her phone didn't ring once.
Smiling, Michonne stepped out of her taxi and onto the cobbled streets, the entire summer in front of her.
-l-l-l-l-
The shutter of Rick Grimes' camera clicked open and shut as he knelt on the stone roads, his lens aimed out into the canals. The teal of the water, the red of the brick, the pastel colored houses rising up and twisting round into some great labyrinth were everything he'd hoped they'd be, a veritable buffet for the senses. He needed to be careful to not blow his whole budget in the first week alone. Everywhere there were things to smell, touch, taste, music to hear, beauty to photograph. He drank it in thirstily, absorbing this city as though he could take it all with him, back to the concrete jungle he called home.
His parents had encouraged the trip, hoping it would satisfy the wanderlust inside his soul. No such luck. Every face that entered the lens of his camera, every building, flower, or subject only hardened his resolve. This was what he wanted for his life. It didn't matter if it meant pinching every penny, counting out euros, or dimes, or whatever currency required to make end meets. He would never be happy unless he was out here in the world.
He leapt to his feet, strolling down the streets, his stomach growling, camera bouncing beneath his arm. He had half a mind to buy some gelato, his third cone of the day, but the fraction of his conscious that was responsible demanded he eat something more substantial. He headed towards the Piazza San Marco to find a restaurant, ready to burn more of a hole in his pocket. Merchant stands lined the pathway there, drawing his eye. Perhaps his mother would like one of Venice's famous masks. He'd gotten his affection for beautiful things from her. He was browsing the vendors when he spotted her.
It was only the back of her he could see, but she stuck out instantly, even in a sea of gold and crimson and ivory. Her skin was a dark, lovely brown, smooth and shining in the Venetian sunlight. Her long locs were tossed carelessly over one shoulder, piled all to one side. She moved gracefully, confidentially, as though she were dancing through the crowd. Under the guise of taking a photo, Rick raised his camera to study her more closely. She turned her head just the slightest, offering her profile as she gazed at the scenery. Through his lens he could see the contours of her face, her pouted lips, the curves of her nose, long, thick lashes. He was photographing her before he could stop himself, compelled to capture her beauty before she moved away.
She clutched a suitcase in one hand, looking to and fro, her eyes wide. Delight was clear on her face, even though he could only see part of it. She wore that joy well, seeming to glow in that crowded square. He wanted to talk to her, needed to. Lowering his lens, Rick made his decision, cutting through stands, attempting to get to her.
From the canal, one of the water taxis released its occupants to the world. A flood of tourists crested over the Piazza. Rick doubled his efforts, craning his head, searching for the dark-skinned muse who'd captivated him so.
She was nowhere to be seen.
He stood in the center of the square, his heart sinking as hundreds of people milled about him. An afternoon of searching the maze of alleys around the square yielded similarly disappointing results. Wherever that beautiful girl had gone, she was lost to him.
Rick attempted to shake off the disappointment to no avail. There was no reason to feel so connected to a stranger, but Rick had learned as a boy to never go against his instincts. There was something about this girl, and he was determined to figure out what.
He didn't expect that fate would walk her right back into his life.
-l-l-l-l-
Morning was Michonne's favorite time in Venice. The tourists were not quite up yet, and the boats bobbed lazily along the canals. Michonne spent a week of morning riding the water taxis, sipping on coffee and simply watching. There was so much to watch always, and she could not get enough.
This morning, she wound through the alleyways, peering into the shops. A basket of peonies, pale pink and delicate, caught her attention. She stopped to enjoy a flower shop, taking in the colors and the shapes.
From behind her, she could hear the faint clicking of a camera. Curious as to who else was up with the sun, she turned to look. He was stationed at the mouth of the road, bending to photograph the bread hanging in the window of a bakery. He moved from subject to subject, bounding between them with sheer delight, as though the camera were a part of him and not simply a tool. Michonne stared for a moment, wondering that this world looked like through his eyes, what an artist saw when they looked upon Venice. She had an absurd desire to join him, to ask if she might peak through his lens, might look at the photos he had taken. She was still staring when the lens turned suddenly in her direction.
All movement seemed to cease. Michonne waited with baited breath. She was caught, plain and simple. Attempting to salvage her dignity, she raised her hand, offering a small greeting. The stranger lowered the camera from his face, waving tentatively at her, even as he smiled brightly. The sight of him caught her completely off guard. For one thing, he was young, her age most likely. His hair was dark and curly, dusting the back of his neck. His skin was tan, highlighting bright blue eyes that were trained directly on her. For a moment, she supposed he might be Italian. His features hinted at it, his nose in particular. Then he spoke.
"Morning," his accent was unabashedly American, tinged with a hint of something deep and gravelly and possibly southern.
"Buongiorno," she greeted, smiling back at him.
He took this as an invitation, hurrying over towards her until there were mere inches apart. She could smell the clean scent of his soap, make out his damp curls up close. There was something almost like awe on his face.
"I'm Rick," he extended a hand. Michonne accepted it, brushing her fingers along his calloused palm. He clasped her hand tightly, surprising her by bringing it to his lips to kiss the back instead of shaking it.
A giggle burst forth from her lips, girlish and high and deathly embarrassing. Rick surprised her again by blushing.
"I'm sorry—" he stammered, lowering her hand. "I don't know why I did that."
Michonne adjusted her hand, catching his and raising it to her own mouth. He flushed even deeper crimson when she pressed her lips to the back of his knuckles. He let out a shaky laugh of his own.
"Why'd you do that?" he asked, tilting his head at her.
Michonne shrugged. "When in Rome…"
"Or Venice I guess," Rick grinned.
"I'm Michonne," she introduced herself.
"It's nice to meet you," he shook her hand properly this time. "You're American?"
"California," she confirmed. "You?"
"Georgia initially. But my mom and dad moved us up to Queens when I was a kid. Wanted to work on their art." Rick tilted his head again, studying her. Michonne flushed.
"You're an artist too?" she gestured to his camera.
Rick laughed. "Trying to be. They aren't crazy about the idea of me being a penniless photographer, but they support it as best they can."
Michonne felt the sting of jealousy. "What are you photographing?" she asked.
"Everything," he grinned again, wide and happy. "Got a whole summer here. I'm planning on taking pictures of everything I can."
"I'm spending the summer too," it was out of Michonne's mouth before she could consider the wisdom of disclosing her plans to a complete stranger. "I saved up for years. I even learned Italian."
Rick was clearly impressed. "You learned Italian. Well damn." He paused to look at her, smiling again. "I think I speak about three words."
"You came out here without knowing the language?" Michonne laughed.
Rick shrugged. "I like to live wild," he deadpanned. "Been out here for two weeks, and I'm making it work."
They giggled together in the middle of the street. A silence stretched between them, loaded with something Michonne could not quite name. Logically, this is where their correspondence should come to an end. She knew better than to spend time in a foreign country with a stranger, especially when she had a boyfriend at home.
"What are you doing today?" she asked Rick, taking a step closer to him.
"I was thinking of going to Burano," Rick gestured vaguely beyond the walls, to the canals and waterways connecting the islands. "Want to come? Help me learn Italian?" he smiled, his cheeks going pink, a hopeful expression on his face.
"Only if you teach me how to take good pictures." Michonne's eyes darted to his camera again.
Rick looked delighted at the prospect. "It's a deal, Michonne," he shook her hand.
"Are you going to kiss it again?" she joked.
"If you want me to," Rick didn't miss a beat. This time, it was Michonne who began to blush.
"Should we go?" she fiddled with her hair, suddenly nervous.
Rick lifted a finger. "One second." He bounded away, disappearing into the shop behind them. Michonne watched, baffled, until he emerged clutching one of the peonies she'd been admiring. He presented it to her with a flourish, tucking it behind her ear. "Would you mind?" he gestured.
Michonne moved nervously, allowing herself to be posed. Rick disappeared behind his camera again, snapping away.
"Should I be doing something?" she asked, heart pounding.
Rick glanced at the screen on his camera, grinning brightly. "No," he told her. "You're perfect." He reached for her hand. "Want to get going?"
Nodding, Michonne took it. "Andiamo," she announced, giggling again as she followed him.