The writing in this book is anguished from the first page: It’s precious, far too self-aware, awkward, and twee. It set me on edge. I pushed through another or ten or so pages and gave up. I might return for another try to see what all the press fuss is about, but probably not. Here’s the framework: A young American with an archivist’s training and no plan takes a job in the Tuscan hills cataloguing the contents of a crumbling villa. That turns out not to be the job. The villa belongs to Lisabetta, a baronessa of ninety-two whom everyone calls Coco, still flamboyant, still running her own show, and what she actually wants from him keeps shifting. He becomes her assistant at whatever she decides assisting means. Summer turns to autumn, the house gives up its secrets, and the farce settles into something warmer about coming of age at twenty-two and at ninety-two at the same time.