Racing the Sun Page 5
“Alfonso sleeps here,” she says and points at a door inside. “That leads to a bathroom that he and Annabella share.” We walk down the hall and look into Annabella’s room. It’s pretty much the same as Alfonso’s but she has more books and there are a few dolls sticking out of a box. Her bedspread is leopard print. Sassy.
“Where are the kids?” I ask, since they aren’t in their rooms.
She leads me to the end of the hall to two doors. She opens one of them and pokes her head in. It’s carpeted—gasp—and the kids are sitting on the floor, flipping through coloring books. They have a TV playing in the background with what seems like Italian-dubbed Dora the Explorer, and the room is full of organized chaos. Suddenly they seem like little kids, and they aren’t in their uniforms anymore either. Annabella is wearing shorts and a zebra-print top. Guess she likes the prints. Alfonso looks like a mini version of his older brother in a dark polo shirt and knee-length khaki shorts.
“Alfonso, Annabella,” Felisa addresses them. “Signorina Amber MacLean will now be your tutor. She will be living in the room next door and will help you to better your English. You must behave for her, listen to her, and do as you’re told.”
Alfonso looks upset, says something in Italian, then gestures to the room that’s to become mine. Annabella’s lip quivers and she promptly sheds big, sad tears.
Holy cheesus, what is going on?
Felisa says something sharply to them—no sympathy from this lady—and then shuts the door to their muffled cries. I’m staring at her with big eyes, my maternal instincts that I didn’t even know I had all tied up in knots.
She avoids my stare for a moment then gives me a look that says she’s more affected than she lets on. Her eyes are watering and she takes in a deep, steadying breath.
“They are still upset over their parents’ death,” she explains in a low voice.
“Well, of course they are,” I tell her. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
She nods, considering that. “You are to sleep in Signor Larosa’s old room. The one he was in before he married.”
Married? Married?!
“Married?”
She grimaces as if she’s said too much. She probably has since she barely divulges anything. “Was married. They are divorced now. Not long after the accident. But that is his story to tell, not mine.”
One story he’ll never tell since you told me to basically never talk to him, I think.
Sighing, she continues, “The children still hope that Signor Larosa will go back to his room. But now that you will stay there, it means that . . .”
“Their parents aren’t coming back,” I fill in sadly.
She shakes her head. “Alfonso seems to be the one who knows this but sometimes Annabella has a hard time. It’s been two years but she remembers them as if they were here yesterday. She knows the truth but she prefers to live in a dream world. When that dream is no more, she has problems. You will see. The doctors say she needs time.”
“It sounds like she needs therapy,” I say, crossing my arms and feeling a bit cold.
“She has someone at school she talks to,” she says. “Signor Larosa thinks that is enough.”
I frown. To be fair, Signor Larosa has only been taking care of them for two years. He’s only twenty-nine. I’m not sure how much he can know about any of this. But then again, I am not one to talk. This is a house where I should definitely keep my opinions to myself.
She opens the door to my room and we step inside. It’s bigger than I expected. The tiles are terracotta, giving it some warmth, and there’s a large, fluffy, white throw rug in the middle. The queen-size bed fits into a bit of an arched alcove in the wall, framed by fancy moldings. There’s also a love seat and coffee table right in front of a window that overlooks the front yard, with its bower of lemon trees, and the towering hill on the other side of Via Tragara. It’s almost completely dark now and the lemons glow yellow in the fading light.
I look to Felisa for permission before I open the door to my right. It leads to a nice en suite bathroom, complete with a shower and tub, marble counters, and gilded faucets.
Yup. I could live here. Oh wait. I will be living here.
“This is very nice,” I tell her. “Are you sure you don’t want this room?”
She dismisses me with a wave. “This is too much for me. My room is just fine.” She looks around and points to an ancient-looking armoire. “There should be some spare clothes in there. This is usually an additional guest room, though we don’t have them anymore. I’ll let you settle in. I have a meal to prepare.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No, thank you,” she says and then closes the door, leaving me alone in the room.
I stand in the middle of the room for a moment, trying to take it all in, but it’s too much. I throw my purse on the loveseat and then collapse, starfish style, onto the bed, facedown. It’s comfortable. Signor Larosa must have had good sleeps in here.
At that I start thinking about him and everything I’ve learned. He has night terrors that might wake me in the night. His parents are dead. He’s been left in charge of his much-younger brother and sister. He was married, now divorced. There has been more than one accident. He seems to not like me very much but obviously likes me enough to hire me. I’m not allowed to really talk to him, let alone look at him.
But I do want to look at him. A lot. And I want to talk to him, too. I want to know more about him, what happened, why he got divorced. I want to know what his dreams are about. I want to know what he does in that beautiful library-turned-office all day long. I want to know about the Villa dei Limoni Tristi. I want to know everything.
My brain is working on overdrive. In the room there is silence except for a warm breeze that comes in through the window, rustling the gauzy curtains, and the hum of crickets and cicadas.
I shut my eyes for a second.
* * *
There is a knocking sound. It’s in the darkness but I can’t tell if I’m asleep and dreaming or awake. I can’t see anything.
“Amber,” I hear Felisa say, her voice sounding disembodied. “Signorina MacLean.”
“Yes?” I croak, my throat feeling like it’s been stuffed with cotton. I suddenly remember where I am. Sad lemon house. Capri. New job. Traumatized twins. Hot, mysterious Italian boss.
What a crazy fucking day.
I pry myself off the bed and stumble over to the door, nearly sliding on the rug. I feel for the handle and then open it.
It’s completely dark out in the hall except for Felisa, who is holding a lantern in front of her face, her wrinkled features black in the shadows. She looks straight from a Gothic thriller and I have to blink a few times to remember what century I live in. But then I notice the lantern is battery-operated and the flame is phony, like one of those fake candles.
“The children have gone to bed and like to sleep in complete darkness but must have their doors open,” she explains. “They complain if the hall light is on. I am off to bed soon. I wanted to let you know that I saved you some dinner. I tried to wake you up earlier but couldn’t. I didn’t want to disturb you if you needed your rest.”
I don’t want to be a bother to her but since she saved me some dinner and I’m absolutely starving, I nod my head. “Thank you, I would love some food.”
I follow her out into the hall quietly as we pass by the twins’ rooms and head down the stairs. I notice that there’s a light visible under the door to Signor Larosa’s room. I wonder if he’s gone to sleep already as well.
Once in the kitchen, Felisa pulls out a bowl from the fridge and puts it in the microwave. I sit on the barstool at the giant island, waiting for her to tell me not to sit there but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s tired and seems a bit defeated, which is a change from earlier.
I feel the urge to say something, to fill up the silence as the microwave clock counts down. But surprisingly, she beats me to it.
“Signor Larosa i
s a very nice man,” she says softly, resting her hand on the counter and staring blankly at the dish in the microwave as it goes around and around. “And the children are lovely. Please don’t hold who they are now against them. They were not always angry. Once, everything was different. This was a beautiful house. The children were happy, always smiling. Signor Larosa had his own career. He was a motorcycle racer, you see. Their mother was a famous novelist, and their father owned the newspaper in Sorrento. This family was very successful, very happy. Then, one horrible night, it was all gone. Taken by God. Things have never been the same. Sometimes I am afraid they never will be. And that is a difficult thing for me to watch. I have been here for twenty-nine years, but now I am losing my courage.”
There are so many things I want to say, want to ask, but Felisa seems to be having a moment. I feel like she’s talking more to herself than she is to me.
The microwave finally beeps and she takes the dish out, placing it in front of me. It’s full of large ravioli in a creamy red sauce. It looks amazing and smells even better. She grabs a fork from a drawer, and as she hands it to me I catch her eyes.
“How did they die?” I whisper.
“They drowned,” she says. “One night, the elder Signor Larosa and the Signora took their private boat to Sorrento for a benefit dinner. Signor Derio, who lived in Positano with his wife at the time, was to meet them there. The sea was rough, as it usually is in November, but they made it. After the benefit, Signor Derio decided to come home with them to visit the children. His wife remained in Positano. They were halfway across when the waves got too bad. They radioed for help but the boat was overtaken and capsized. Signore and Signora drowned, yet somehow, Signor Derio did not. They found him hours later hanging on to a seat cushion that he must have ripped off.”
I almost drop my fork. This is far, far more horrible than I imagined.
“Didn’t they have life jackets?”
She shook her head. “I assume there was not enough time to get them. Signor Larosa doesn’t talk about it,” she goes on, her voice softer now. “He refuses to talk about it, to anyone. But the nightmares, the screaming. I know he suffers in his dreams. He might be reliving it over and over.” She pauses, clearly moved. “He is a good man. I’ve said that before. His parents were the world to him. He would have fought to keep them alive. It must be horrible to try and save the people you love and to fail in the end.”
A tear runs down my cheek, and I’m suddenly overcome with emotion. My parents drive me absolutely nuts. My dad’s harshness, my mother’s inability to cope with her emotions without food. But I still love them to bits. I don’t know what I would do if I were in Mr. Larosa’s shoes, if I saw my parents drown before my eyes.
“Don’t cry,” Felisa chastises me, her features growing hard again. “To be in this house, you must become tough. You cannot let your emotions for the children and what happened get in the way. They deserve your sympathy but they, too, must move on. They are stronger than they think they are.”
“And what about Mr.—Signor—Larosa,” I say. “Am I not to have compassion for him?”
Her mouth quirks up into a dry smile. “Many women have compassion for him. They try to get him out of his shell, to make him feel. But they do not succeed.”
“That’s not really what I was talking about,” I quickly say. “I mean in a . . . friendly way.”
“He is your boss now, the master of the house. He is not your friend. The sooner you realize this, the better. Amber, he has not left this island in a year. He refuses to cross the sea. He has a lot of damage deep inside. Your job is to help the children learn English. It is not to solve all the problems of this house. If I can’t solve them, neither can you.”
Well, that sounded like a challenge, if I ever heard one.
“But . . .” I say feebly.
“No more,” she says with a shake of her head. “I have told you more than you should know. Eat your dinner.”
“But if they died at sea two years ago, why is it only in the last year that he hasn’t left the island? What is this other accident you spoke of? Is that when his wife left him?”
“Eat your food,” she repeats. “You have to go back tomorrow to Positano for your things. The first lesson will begin tomorrow night. You have a long day ahead of you.”
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable leaving the island now either.”
She gives me a look. “I will see you in the morning. We eat at eight thirty a.m. if you wish to join us.” And at that she turns and walks out of the kitchen. I’m grateful she left her little lantern behind so I can find my way back to the room without falling down the stairs.
I take in a deep breath, trying to wrestle with all this new information. My heart feels heavy, sinking at the thought of what they’ve all been through. I know Felisa’s advice was to toughen up, but I don’t want to if I don’t have to.
I slowly finish my food—delicious, though I don’t take any pleasure from it—and look around. Suddenly, I’m aware of how big and dark the house is. I put the dish and fork in the large sink and decide to leave the light above the stove on. I pick up the lantern and am about to head up the stairs when something just outside of the back doors catches my eye.
I carefully walk across to the breakfast nook that opens onto the back patio and look through the glass and into the darkness. The sky is clear and the crescent moon shines just enough to bathe the sea in stripes of silver light.
There’s a tall silhouette at the edge of the patio leaning against the railing and staring out into nothing. I can tell it’s Mr. Larosa. A small light burns, flickering in and out, and a puff of smoke follows. So he smokes. That doesn’t surprise me. Everyone in Italy smokes. They know the warnings and they don’t care. It’s part of their lust for life.
I watch for a few moments, wishing I could turn off the lantern so I can observe him unseen. But I don’t want to risk not being able to turn it on again, and when I look back out the window, I can see his position has changed. He’s watching me now.
I raise my hand, just enough to qualify as a wave. He doesn’t move. The cigarette burns orange red in the darkness.
I quickly lower my hand, feeling stupid, and scurry away through the house and up the stairs. I close the door to my room and breathe in deeply, actually feeling kind of angry. It was just a wave. I shouldn’t feel so rankled by it but I do. Damaged or not, it’s just plain rude not to return such a gesture.
There’s not much else for me to do, so I take off my pants and climb into the soft covers of the bed. I leave the lantern on, even though it creates creepy shadows on my wall. If I’m this annoyed by him already, there’s no telling how I’m going to survive the next two months.
This is your ticket home, I tell myself.
I repeat it again and again.
CHAPTER FOUR
I wake up slowly, blinking my eyes at the sun streaming through the windows. I already know where I am, even half asleep. When you travel all the time, spending nearly every night in a different bed, you adjust quickly.
I’m in my new room at the Villa dei Limoni Tristi. For the first time in a very, very long time, I realize what this means: my own room. I have privacy. It was just me, alone in the room. No snoring Canadians or smelly Swiss boys. I smile to myself and settle into the bed even further. Normally¸ when I wake up I get up and get ready. Sleeping in doesn’t really exist in a hostel. But it can exist here.
Then I hear the muffled yells of the children from downstairs and I realize that I probably can’t sleep in here either. I have to get back to Positano and then I’m on the job.
I slip on my wrinkled clothes from yesterday, even though they smell kind of rank, then head into the bathroom to try and make myself look presentable. It’s not easy to do with a small cosmetics case and no toothbrush, but I manage to find a spare toothbrush and toothpaste still in the wrapper in one of the many drawers and douse myself in a lemon-smelling perfume that livens me right up.
Who am I kidding. There is someone to impress. It’s just that I doubt Mr. Larosa would notice even if, I don’t know, Beyoncé was standing in his house, naked in front of him.
Once I am somewhat satisfied I head out the room and walk down the hall, peeking over the railing at the open living area below. The voices are much louder now, drifting up from the kitchen. Alfonso is protesting something or other and Annabella is making whining noises. Felisa is chastising both of them. I can see how I will need to walk a fine line with those two. On the one hand I feel so terribly sorry for them because of all they’ve been through. On the other, they can’t go through life acting like delinquents.
When I round the staircase I glance out the windows and doors to the patio and backyard. The day is bright and sparkling, so beautifully alive. It’s amazing how sunshine can clear away the doubts that night bring.
I try to keep that thought in mind as I approach the kitchen. Alfonso and Annabella are at the round table in the breakfast nook, picking at their food. On the kitchen island is a lavish spread of cold cuts, cheese, and bread—a typical Italian breakfast.
“Espresso?” Felisa asks me, already reaching for the tiny cup. Coffee—dark and so strong it’s nearly painful—is a way of life here, so I don’t dare refuse. Plus, I need it. My head is still a bit in a fog.
She starts making the espresso from a fancy, gold-toned machine and eyes me over her shoulder. “Do you know how to use this?”
I nod. Luckily I do since I worked at Starbucks part-time during my first two years of college.
“Good,” she says. “Help yourself to the breakfast.”