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welcome to from the Front Porch, a conversational podcast about books, small business and life in the South. Days are like countries, she said, not moving a muscle. As I digested this, she gave a little cough, then tenderly added, meaning they will change tomorrow. One day is for us, the next against us. So it goes. Andrew Sean Grier Villa Coco I'm Annie Jones, owner of the Bookshelf, an independent bookstore in beautiful downtown Thomasville, Georgia, and this week I'm back with another installment of our Summer Readings series. Series have you ever wondered what the Bookshelf actually looks like? Consider following us over on Instagram ookshelftville. We post behind the scenes pictures and give important updates on store hours, events, and special promotions. We'd love to see you over there. Now back to the show. Last spring, when I finally came to terms with the fact that I was pregnant and a baby was actually coming, I brainstormed ways to keep the podcast episodes coming throughout my maternity leave. We rarely run reruns on the show, and even though I'm not opposed to taking a break, I simply haven't taken many. Last summer, though, with Olivia and I both down for the count, I knew something had to give. So we launched our summer reading series. I fell in love with the shorter format, so this summer, even though I'm not pregnant and neither I nor Olivia is on maternity leave, we're bringing the summer reading series back. These episodes are short and sweet, much like our traditional yes, Virginia episodes, but they'll provide you with a taste of some new summer book I think you'll really love. Each book featured can be found on our website, bookshelfthomasville.com, and each week you can receive 10% off that week's featured title. Use the code SUMMERREADINGS. Make sure to add the S at checkout each week in July. I've been telling you a little bit about a featured summer book, then reading an excerpt and closing with some comp titles so you'll know if the book is right for you. The comp titles are 10% off in the shop, too. I hope these quieter episodes have given you a respite and a reprieve this summer that you've appreciated the feeling of being read to as much as I typically do. For this year's series, I've shared excerpts from Abbey, Offsides on Witness, and the Half Life, and today I'm back with a final excerpt from a book I've been raving about for months, Vila Coco by Andrew Sean Greer. You've already heard me talk about this one on at least three previous episodes of from the Front Porch, so I'll keep my introductory pitch relatively short. Novelist Andrew Sean Grier is a master at crafting a quiet story about a seemingly unassuming main character trying to find himself. He did it with his Pulitzer Prize winning less, and in Villacoco, he's done it again. Greer's goal with Villacoco, by his own description, was to write a charm novel, a timeless work readers could turn to for comfort. Again and again, I'd argue Villa Coco is indeed re readable and comforting, a book I wanted to sink into. Our initially unnamed narrator is an aimless young archivist who, post college graduation finds himself at the crumbling estate of a 90 year old Italian baronessa. He's there to chronicle and record her furniture and her art piece by piece. But of course he winds up completely enmeshed in the baroness's life, absorbed by her group of friends as he grows up and into himself. This is an excerpt from Villa Coco by Andrew Sean Greer. Your djeviti? She asked. Her sandals scraped along the dusty path. The late September day was bright and hot as midsummer, but there was the scent of burning leaves and a sensation in the shadows of the first hint of autumn. She was older than I was, but what exact age I was too young to guess, for she walked with the slim elegance I associated with a queen or prime minister. Yet her style I thought of as youthful sandals, dark denim overalls, gold hoop earrings. Her face was narrow, with a wide forehead and chin. Her eyes were large and half closed in the bright sunlight. She wore her kinky hair natural, and the light caught the gold in its spirals, lighting it briefly from within like a Venetian chandelier. She seemed aware of the effect and put a hand to her hair, tossing it as she smiled. She seemed like someone who knew many things that I did not. Yes, I said. No, I said. I mean I'm Estelle. She held out her hand and I shook it. You're here too early. My mind scrabbled at her words, looking for a handhold. She spoke with an accent I could not place, but I the telegram said this Estelle produced an elastic band and both hands behind her head began the difficult act of pulling all her loose afro into it. Yes, yes, you're fine. But Coco. She sent the telegram without consulting me. You see, the rooms aren't ready. I wondered who this Coco was and somehow understood there was no place for me to stay, and my face must have conveyed it because she laughed and put one hand on my arm. I mean in the villa. For your list. The rooms aren't ready.
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Not ready. Panic twitched within me, back to taming her hair. Don't worry, she'll find things to occupy you. I could see that what I had taken for a stone wall was in fact the plain, flat side of a building studded with windows whose iron bars were equally twined with ivy along its length. I could now make out three doors, a large double door camouflaged and presumably made unusable by greenery, the small door through which Estelle had appeared, and a wooden gate painted precisely the deep green of the ivy. On that gate hung a dark bronze knocker in the shape of a foot, and poking out above it one could see the green aigrettes of a bamboo grove. How strange to find bamboo in Italy. I wondered what maniac had planted it. Along the wall also were two stone benches, and I saw in the shadow of each bench a number of huddled black kittens staring bright eyed up at me. Across the road was another wall, this one built to the height of the olive grove which it supported. In the wall was a low green door that I assumed led inside the hill to some cool dark chamber, and above, hanging down over the cliff of the wall, an herb garden fragrant with rosemary, thyme sage and others whose leaves I could not yet identify. A basket lay on the road below these with a pair of shears inside. I saw a dog race by on the dark path down the hill, a flash of white fur. But I understand I'm to complete a catalog by Christmas, and I don't even know what I am cataloguing. She was finishing with her hair. Perhaps she did it automatically because her hands seemed engaged with the task without involving the rest of her. You'll have it done in no time. And don't worry about this heat wave. Things will cool off any day now. That's how it goes around here. You work here? Estelle released her hands to her sides. Her hair, compressed, had gone from gold to bronze. Oh, no. I'm a kind of a neighbor. A friend of the house. I'm sorry for asking. You're French? I'm Italian, she said, then smiled. And Algerian. A long story. She looked behind her to where the door had closed, hiding itself once again within the ivy of the wall. You'll stay in the house with her? I live just down the road. I know this all must seem strange to you. An esteemed archivist. You're probably used to regularity. Things aren't exactly like that here. Oh, I'm not. I was going to say esteemed, but something made me stop. Was this some terrible comedy of misunderstandings? Let's get you into the house, she said. She shouted at Gazelle, who had begun to smoke on the roadside. She said quite a deal in Italian, then turned to me. Oh yes. We call it Villa Coco. Estelle reopened the door and gestured for me to enter the house, and I saw that this hidden door led, in fact, to the kitchen. It was of two parts. Before us, up a few steps, was the kitchen proper, laid out in a U shape with a sink to the left, an old white enameled stove in the center, and a cutting board set into the counter at the right. Canisters were crowded on shelves. Straw whiskets hung on hooks. Tarnished silver platters were mounted one above the other. On the walls, books huddled together, painted ceramic bowls overflowed with fruit and vegetables, and as if the decorator imagined this might not be enough, the wall behind the stove was tiled in black white op art trapezoids. The second part was the dining area, as free of clutter as the first was crammed. A long table of dark polished wood stood before an enormous fireplace on whose mantel sat two crudely done brass cupids in an erotic position, and round the table were arranged tall chairs with white linen covers tied over the cushions. At the center of the table sat an ornate blue white speckled fruit bowl, from which rose a similarly mottled candelabra of sculpted cherubs, and above it all hung two great concentric metal rings, each with half a dozen lamps, such as one sees in an Orthodox church. It startled me, this combination of the coarse and the sublime. Ah, here they are, said Estelle, picking up a set of keys from the deranged confusion of a countertop. I've been looking for these for days. This is the kitchen. The cook's not here right now, estelle said. She has a headache. I could well understand why her husband is somewhere. Do you want to meet Coco? Who's Coco? Lisabetta. I call her Coco. She'll be down soon. Lisabetta. Her eyes brightened with amusement. The Baronessa. I notice now that beside us at the entrance and still two steps below the kitchen, we was another humble door. Estelle examined my face more carefully, then lifted the latch. The door opened onto what looked like a dimly lit chapel. I gestured for her to go before me. She waved her hand. Oh, I'm not going in. I'm heading home. Don't worry if there's a crisis. I live just up the road. You turn left at Signora Guicciardini, the lady who sits in the chair and yells at cars. She's always there. You'll be all right, Giovetti. Oh, there's been misunderstanding. My name's not Giovanni. It's of course, she interrupted, shaking her head. Who would be named Giovanni? Giovdi, but Coco thought it was funny. She always has a nickname for people at first. Gazelle's name isn't Gazelle? I wondered. It's Giselle, estelle said, scraping her throat at the first syllable. He's from Lebanon. You'll know she likes you when she uses your real name. She doesn't like Giselle. She'll like you. Thank God you're handsome. She let me pass before her into the dimness of the room, before closing the door and sealing me in alone, and I wondered if this was all a terrible mistake. If you liked less a room with a view and the view from Lake Como, I think you'll enjoy Andrew Sean Grier's charm novel Vill Coco, the book released earlier this summer in hardback and you can purchase it and the comp titles from the bookshelf website. Receive 10% off this week by using code Summer Readings. Make sure you include the S at checkout this week. I'm Reading the Little Friend by Donna Tartt from the Front Porch is a weekly podcast production of the Bookshelf, an independent bookstore store in Thomasville, Georgia. You can follow the Bookshelf's daily happenings on Instagram ookshelftville and all the books from today's episode can be purchased online through our store website bookshelf thomasville.com Special thanks to Studio D Podcast Production for production of from the Front Porch and for our theme music, which sets the perfect warm and friendly tone for our Thursday conversations. Our Executive Producer, the producers of today's episode are Cami Tidwell, Beth Linda, Lee Drost, Stephanie Dean, Ashley Farrell, Jean Queens, Jamie Treadwell, Joseph Shorter IV, and Kimberly. Thank you all for your support of from the Front Porch. If you'd like to support from the Front Porch, please leave a review on Apple Podcasts. Your input helps us make the show even better and helps us reach new listeners. All you have to do is open up the podcast app on your phone, look for from the Front Porch, scroll down until you see, write a review and tell us what you think. Or if you're so inclined, support us over on Patreon, where we have three levels of support. Each level has an amazing number of benefits like bonus content, access to live events, discounts and giveaways. Just go to patreon.com from the front porch. We're so grateful for you and we look forward to meeting back here here next weekend.