Racing the Sun Read online

  Through the middle of it all is a crumbling cobblestone path that leads down a slight slope to the house itself. From where we are and the angle of the hill, the house doesn’t look all that big. It’s built of flat stones stacked on top of one another, similar to the wall running around the grounds, with vines and deep orange Campsis flowers climbing its rugged planes.

  But as Felisa bustles past me and I follow down a path that turns to stairs, leading us past fragrant lavender and rosemary bushes at the side of the house, I realize there is so much more to the house than I thought. A lot more. From the front it looks like one story, but from the back it’s two, with what looks to be an additional attic area above the second story. The house is enormous and the ceilings have to be well over ten feet high. And that’s just one surprise. Before us is a large outdoor area made up of red brick and tile that stretches from the open back door all the way to what seems to be the edge of a cliff. There’s a blue swimming pool here that appears to be only half full and a wooden bench overlooking a stunning view, hidden by chipped and cracked terracotta pots of unkempt flowers. Grapevines climb over a pergola, which shelters a massive outdoor dining area that looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time.

  The whole place is stunning in a shabby-chic way. It’s like an old-school millionaire built the house of his dreams on the side of cliff, the blue sea at his feet, and then thought of a new dream and kind of forgot about this place. It all looks a touch neglected, which I guess would be creepy if it wasn’t so charming.

  And stunning. Because holy hell. No matter that the tiles need some power washing, I could totally see myself sitting on that bench in the mornings and having a cappuccino while watching the boats head to and from shore. The breeze wafts in from the sea and carries the scent of fresh herbs and bracing salt and lemons, the way I imagine sunshine should smell. I close my eyes and breathe in deep, trying to capture it somewhere in my brain.

  “Sit here,” Felisa says. I look over and see her gesturing to the table and chairs underneath the pergola. “I’ll go get the children first.”

  Oh right. The reason why I’m here. She disappears into the house and suddenly I’m beyond nervous. Even though it’s been a bit strange and an inconvenience, now that I’m here I’m curious about the position; even a weird job would be better than no job at all.

  I sit down on the chair, the linen cushion starchy and stiff under me, and wait. After a few moments of grappling with the view—some places are just too much for a person to absorb all at once—I crane my head to look at the house. A few wide, brick-lined steps lead up to a smaller patio and to an open door, through which I can kind of see inside the house. The walls are bright white and the floors look intricately tiled. I can just glimpse the end of a gilded frame on the wall.

  A movement on the second floor catches my eye. Near a set of French doors that open onto a small balcony, I see someone staring at me. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s been caught. I stare at him and he stares right back.

  It’s hard to see him properly because of the glare of the sun on the glass, but he seems to be quite tall and slim, with dark, brooding features. A little too brooding. It almost looks like he’s giving me the stink-eye. I wonder if this is Signor Desiderio Larosa? And I wonder if I’ll have to say his full name every time I address him. It’s quite the mouthful.

  “Amber.” Felisa’s harsh voice makes me tear my eyes from the window. She’s standing at the back door with two children on either side of her, a hand firmly grasping an arm on each one. The children are cute—you know, for kids—but they look just as brooding as the man at the window. In fact, I know they’re giving me the stink-eye.

  “This is Alfonso and Annabella,” Felisa says, yanking the children forward toward me. Both kids let out little grumbles and cries—not from pain, it seems, but from having to come over and meet me. Can’t say I blame them.

  Up close they are both cuter and angrier than I thought. They are also clearly twins who look to be about six or seven years old. Both of them are in uniform: white polo shirts with a crest, navy pants for him, pleated skirt for her. Shiny shoes. They both have the same bright brown eyes, thick dark hair, full lips, strong noses, and prominent brows. I have a feeling they’ll grow up to be classic beauties when they’re older, though they’re already very striking right now.

  They are also striking out. Alfonso smacks Felisa’s arm with his hand, yelling, “Non mi tocchi!” Which I gather means, Let go, mean lady.

  Felisa’s grip is tight and she smiles at me grimly. “Alfonso doesn’t know his manners yet. We have been trying, but he is very disruptive at school. Likes to push kids down. Always in trouble.”

  Oh great. I’d be taking care of a bona fide bully?

  Felisa jerks her head at Annabella, who is staring bitterly at an empty spot on the ground. “Annabella doesn’t talk much but is the same. You have to be more careful with her. She’s very smart.”

  At that, Annabella lifts her eyes to look at me. It’s like staring into the fiery pits of hell. Or into the face of a female Damien from The Omen. I half expect a Doberman to come trotting out of the house and lie down beside her.

  Didn’t Felisa say the children would be the easy part? Charming house, stunning view, and Capri location aside, I’m starting to rethink the whole job. There better be a hell of a benefits package. Of course, I know there won’t be, and I’m one step closer to leaving.

  As if sensing my hesitation, or simply reading the blatant fear in my eyes, Felisa lets go of the children. They quickly run back into the house without giving me a second glance. For the first time today, Felisa looks worn down and I notice the exhaustion pulling at her crepey eyes.

  She sighs and sits down across from me, folding her hands on the table. “You seem like a strong girl, and only a strong girl will be able to handle those two. They aren’t normal children, not like the ones you might know.”

  Oh my God, they’re vampires, I think. Funny where the mind goes.

  “When their parents died, everything changed,” she continues. “They were five when it happened, two years ago. They were very different. Always very bright, but that is because their mama and papa were bright, especially mama. But they were kind, too. Considerate. Very well behaved. People would walk past this house and talk about the mama and how successful she was, how papa was such a strong figure in town. They would talk of the house and how beautiful and well kept it was, and of course about the Larosa children. ‘What darling children,’ they would say. ‘What a brave, handsome older son.’ Now they hurry past this place, either in disgust or in pity. ‘It is such a shame,’ they say now. And they shake their heads and carry on their way.”

  There’s real pain in Felisa’s voice and I have so many questions to ask that I don’t even know where to begin.

  “How long have you been working for the Larosas?”

  “Since Desiderio—Signor Larosa—was born. Twenty-nine years ago.”

  So the brother is twenty-nine. Interesting. “And you’ve been here ever since?”

  She nods. “And I am getting tired. The kids are getting to be too much.”

  “But my job is just to teach English, right?”

  She nods again, sharper this time, not looking at me. “Yes. They need better English than they get at school.”

  “And how long should these English lessons go on for? How often? And if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about getting paid and my living situation.”

  Her eyes briefly flit to the window and back. “I’m afraid that is for Signor Larosa to decide. I can assure you he will be fair, though he has, how you say, pinched a lot of pennies lately.” She gestures to the backyard. “The gardener was let go six months ago. The cook and housecleaner went before that. Signor Larosa is in charge of the estate but he is needing to be careful with the money that was left. The Larosas were wealthy but things cost money here. Capri is very expensive.”

  “Why doesn’t he sell the house and move some
where cheaper with the children?”

  She tilts her head to the side and gives me a look that says I have no idea what I’m in for. “Because Signor Larosa has not left the island since the accident.”

  He hasn’t left the island? Is this turning into an episode of Lost?

  “The accident? You mean, when the parents . . .”

  She shakes her head. “No, not that accident.”

  Not that accident? What the fuck is going on in this crazy house?

  She looks over my shoulder and straightens her spine. I turn my head to look and see the tall brooding man standing by the back door. He doesn’t look too happy. I wonder if he overheard what we’ve been talking about. I try not to look sheepish.

  He raises a finger at Felisa, and without saying a word, walks back into the house.

  I look at her for an explanation.

  She gets out of her chair. “Come, come, he wants to meet with you now.”

  I swallow hard. At my last job the interview process had been conducted by my supervisor—Larry Groberman—who wore a too-tight tie, never smiled once, and made me feel ashamed for even being alive. I survived that one and got the job after all, but I don’t think I’m going to survive this one. As I follow Felisa up the brick steps to the back door, I feel like my legs are going to give out. Holy hell, I’m nervous.

  Being inside the house doesn’t help either. I’m overwhelmed as we step into a hallway that opens onto several different rooms, including a giant chef’s kitchen, living area, dining room, and eating nook—plus I can see other doors lingering in the background leading to who knows where. The bedrooms are upstairs, accessible by a giant staircase. The walls are white; the chandeliers are brass and crystal; and the floors are shiny ivory tile, sometimes with splashes of yellow and blue, sometimes with black. The sun streams in through large radius windows, with thick gold curtains drawn back with velvet rope, but even though it’s all very bright, it’s also a bit sterile. The decor should be warm but it comes off as cold, for some reason. This definitely doesn’t seem like a house for two small children. I can’t detect any signs that children even live here.

  “This way,” Felisa says, taking me to the left and past the dining room to a brown wood door that looks weathered and worn. She knocks then clasps her hands at her waist. Considering Signor Larosa had walked into the house moments before, you’d think he would have left the door open or something, expecting us.

  “Entri,” a commanding voice says from the other side. I take in a deep breath as Felisa opens the door. I remind myself it’s just a job, and a crazy-sounding one at that. If it doesn’t work out it’s probably for the best. And then some.

  I step into a room that takes my breath away. If the rest of the house doesn’t have a soul, surely one resides in here. We’re in a library of sorts, a room of light and dark, a delicate balance between glass and wood. There are dark mahogany bookcases upon bookcases, all packed with books, broken up by floor-to-ceiling windows through which the light streams in, as well as a set of French doors that lead to the patio overlooking the pool and the sea. Another wall contains French doors that look out over a dry fountain in the middle of a small, overgrown courtyard, complete with iron chairs and table. In the middle of the room is a giant teak desk, stacked with papers, file folders, and overflowing trays. A laptop rests among the chaos. This is where Signor Larosa is sitting, ramrod straight in a leather chair.

  I’m so taken with the room—it must stretch the length of a whole side of the house—that I almost dismiss Signor Larosa. I say almost because once my eyes do settle on him, they bulge right out of my head.

  Signor Desiderio Larosa looks like he just rolled off the model runway in Milan and then hitchhiked his way here. I don’t even know where to begin, how to take him in. He’s handsome as hell, for one thing. He’s a got a face that makes you stare, maybe do a few double takes. His eyes are a golden brown, really clear, framed by perfectly arched black eyebrows and long eyelashes. His nose is very Italian and strong, but it suits his features. His cheekbones are high and razor sharp, his lips full and smooth, and his chin has a slight dimple in it. He’s got a ten-o’clock shadow running along his jaw, which just adds to his aura of masculinity.

  Then there’s his hair. I’ve seen this cut on so many men since I’ve set foot in Italy, but so far he wears it best. Short sideburns, close-cut on the sides, and then a swoop of long hair on top. It’s thick and dark and almost rockabilly. I kind of want to run my hands through it and give his strands a tug.

  But of course that would be entirely inappropriate since he’s staring at me like he wants to toss me off the side of a cliff. Man, can this guy glower. I’m not sure whether to be scared or turned on. Or both.

  “Signor Larosa,” Felisa says, her hands still clasped in front of her. She treats him so demurely and respectfully for someone who has probably been working at this house since he was in diapers. “This is Amber MacLean. She is one of the first applicants for the tutor position.”

  I try not to look at her in surprise. There were more applicants? How stupid of me to think there was no competition for this job, that I was the only one who applied.

  Signor Larosa is studying me. Nothing moves except for his eyes, which are roving all over my face and body like he’s trying to figure me out. If he likes what he sees, he doesn’t show it. He’s still got the brooding-meter turned up to the max.

  “I would like to speak to Miss MacLean alone,” he says to Felisa in perfect, albeit accented, English. He doesn’t look at her.

  Felisa isn’t all that surprised but when she nods at him and turns to leave, she gives me a look that says good luck. She actually looks anxious for me. I remember all the things she had said about him before we boarded the ferry.

  The door closes behind her and it feels like I’ve been sealed inside a vault. Suddenly the library seems darker than before and my whole body is aware that I’m alone in this place with this smoldering, stupidly hot man.

  “Please, take a seat,” he says, nodding slightly. I look behind me to see another desk against the wall, an even bigger stack of papers on top of it, as well as an Underwood typewriter. Thick dust has settled everywhere, and the desk looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. I walk over and pull a leather chair from it, and as I do my eyes briefly rest on a stack of paperbacks. They’re all the same book, Villa dei Limoni Tristi. I try to make out the author but the spines are hidden by the typewriter.

  “If you please,” Signor Larosa says harshly, and I nearly jump where I’m standing. I shoot him an apologetic smile and immediately feel my face go red as I pull the chair to rest across the desk from him. I make a point of not sitting too close. I want to be able to run if I need to.

  I sit down quickly, folding my hands in my lap and crossing my feet at the ankles. I can see now why Felisa’s brash demeanor changed when she knocked on the door. Suddenly, she seems like a ray of sunshine.

  “I must tell you,” Signor Larosa says, pulling out a piece of paper from the desk. It’s a printed copy of my résumé and he already has a red pen in hand, as if he’s going to cross the whole thing out and tell me everything about my life is wrong. “I don’t think you are right for this job.”

  Well, that’s encouraging.

  I raise my brow. “And why is that?”

  He gives me a sharper look. That is to say, he gives me an even sharper look. His eyes slice into mine like razor blades, but I refuse to look away. Telling me that I’m not right for the job is a surefire way to bring out all of my Taurus tendencies.

  “I had asked Felisa to make sure the applicants were older and more mature. You seem very young.” His eyes trail down my body again and back up to my face. I try not to show the fact that my hairs are standing on end.

  “I’m twenty-four,” I tell him.

  “But you have no experience with children or teaching English,” he countered smoothly, his face a mask.

  “I have a degree in English,” I say, raisi
ng my chin a little, “so I know more than most people do. I’ve been told I’m a natural teacher. And I have experience with children. There are many in my neighborhood.” Sometimes I yell at them to get off my lawn.

  He glances at the résumé. “In San Jose, California?”

  “That’s right. Have you ever been there?” I ask, hoping to enliven the conversation.

  “No,” he says simply, looking over my résumé again. “I don’t want to have to trust Felisa on this one, though she hasn’t let me down before.”

  I chip away at my neon yellow nail polish, not really sure what to say to that. I have a million questions and this man is going to be even more difficult to get answers from than Felisa was. Still, I have a feeling I should wait for him to say something.

  Silence cloaks the room; you can really feel its presence in here. Meanwhile, the sun has started to descend to the horizon, the light through the radius windows becoming a pale gold. It’s beautiful. I wish I could open the French doors and let the breeze in. I wish I could just snatch the résumé out of his hand, leave the room, leave the house, and go back on the ferry to Positano. I wish I had the money to walk away.

  “So you met the twins, did you?” he asks, finally putting my résumé away and folding his hands in front of him.

  I nod. “Yes, outside.”

  “And how did you find them?”

  “They are very cute.”

  “There must be a better English word than that. Try me. I know English very well.”

  “Then why aren’t you teaching them?” I blurt out. I didn’t mean to say it but it has been on my mind ever since he opened his mouth.

  He tilts his head, considering me. “I have a difficult relationship with them. You see, they are my brother and sister and they are in my care. I am all the family they have left. You have parents, am I assuming correct?” I nod. He goes on. “Do you think you would learn anything if your parents tried to teach you another language?”