Racing the Sun Read online

  I grab a plate and pile meat and cheeses on it and pour myself a cup of orange juice, sneaking a glance over at the table. Do I sit here at the kitchen island or do I go and sit with the children? Part of me wants to just drink my coffee and try to wake up, but the other part realizes that if I am to teach these kids I should start making an effort to befriend them right now.

  I wait until Felisa hands me my espresso cup. I shoot it back in the customary fashion, wincing as it burns down my throat. This stuff isn’t to be sipped; it’s something to get over with, like hard liquor. Then I take the juice and the plate to the table. I draw a deep breath, smiling at the children, who aren’t looking at me, and sit down. Annabella shoots me a furtive glance and concentrates on spreading honey on her bread. Alfonso takes a messy sip of his juice and then spits it right back into the glass. He looks at me defiantly, waiting for me to get angry with him.

  Instead, I smile even wider, gulp back most of my juice, then spit a little back into the glass. Yeah, it’s gross, but at least it makes him giggle. Felisa turns around at that, staring at us with hostile curiosity. I look down and busy myself with my prosciutto.

  After that, Alfonso goes back to being grumpy and it’s not long before Felisa is gathering the twins together to take them to school. She tells me it won’t take her long, but if I wish I can leave as soon as Signor Larosa gets back from his ride.

  “Motorcycle ride?” I ask as she ushers the children out the front door.

  “Yes, he goes every morning.”

  I wonder where he rides since the island isn’t very big, but she’s already closing the heavy front door on me, the kids halfway up the lemon-strewn path to the road.

  I sigh and grab my purse from the bedroom before heading back downstairs. I try out the espresso machine, finding it just as simple, albeit more compact than the ones at Starbucks. Then I briefly eye the door to his office and pause. If he were to come home from his ride, I would definitely hear a motorcycle. I reach for the door but stop myself. It’s probably locked, and if it’s not there’re probably cameras or some shit set up. He may even be inside the office right now and the whole motorbike story was a ruse to see how curious and disobedient I am.

  Well, I won’t give him that satisfaction. I swiftly head out the back doors by the breakfast nook and into the backyard.

  It really is a shame that the area is in a bit of disarray. Unless the pool is half full for safety reasons, it really should have more water in it. The outdoor furniture needs some sprucing up and the flowers and plants need a lot of attention and care. Now that I’ll be living here, I know what I’ll be doing in my spare time: bringing the villa back to its former beauty. If the plants are pruned and thriving, then maybe everything in the house will fall in line.

  I walk to the edge of the patio and carefully peek over the railing, ever conscious of my fear of heights. The slope beneath isn’t too steep and I marvel at the cacti and bright purple bougainvillea clinging to the earth among fragrant sage shrubs and wiry grass. Beyond that, the sea beckons—deep, beautiful, blue. Small boats weave between the sharp spires of the Faraglioni Rocks, possibly carrying tourists up the coast to the famous Blue Grotto, a sea cave I read about in my Italian guidebook and am dying to see for myself.

  Time slips past me. With the dry air, the salty breezes, and the hot sun bursting through a few low-lying clouds, I feel as if I could stay here forever. Here, in this moment, it’s just me and this earth and this sea and this sky. There is no uncertain future to head home to, no fear—fear that I won’t be able to find a good job, that if I do find a good job I’ll be stuck in it forever, that I’ll never be able to move out of my parents’ house and live on my own, that I’ll turn into my parents. Fear that I’ll never lose those last ten pounds, that I’ll never find someone to love who will love me in return, that I’ll never really grow up.

  Fear that I’ll never truly be happy.

  Because what this trip has taught me so far is that the happiness I’m seeking can’t be found at home. And while it’s been hit or miss on my travels, I’m at least one step closer to it on the road. When I’m traveling, I feel like the secret to my life, to myself, to really becoming, is one step ahead. It’s in the next destination, the next town I get lost in, the next stranger I talk to. It’s always next but never here. But when I go home, back to the way things used to be, there is no next. It’s all over. The wonder and the hope are gone.

  I like having hope. And I hope I find what I’m looking for before I have to leave.

  “Salve.” I hear a deep voice from behind me. Somehow I resist the urge to jump out of my skin.

  I whirl around to see Mr. Larosa approaching me. He’s wearing aviator shades, big black moto boots, dark jeans, and a dark gray T-shirt, with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. A cigarette hangs out of his mouth. He looks like an Italian James Dean.

  I really want to stop referring to him as Mr. Larosa.

  “Hi,” I say to him. “Nice morning.”

  He nods. “Do you know what salve means?”

  Time to quiz me on my Italian? “It’s the formal way of saying hello. I mean, ciao.”

  He takes a drag from his cigarette and I can feel him watching me, even though I can’t see his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Good surprise or bad surprise?” I find myself asking. I don’t know why my mouth has a mind of its own whenever he’s around.

  His own mouth twitches as if supressing a smile. “It’s just a surprise. It doesn’t have to be either, does it?”

  “Just like luck,” I say.

  He nods and blows smoke away from me. I watch the muscles in his neck strain as he does so. He has one lovely neck, the kind you want to suck on for a moment or two. I bet he tastes like spices.

  “Yes,” he says slowly. “Just like luck.”

  “Felisa said you were out on your motorbike.”

  He nods again, coming to stand beside me. One of his hands wraps along the railing as he stares out at the view, his back ramrod straight.

  “I didn’t hear it come in,” I note, trying to keep the conversation going.

  “I park it on the street. There is a gate for it.” He turns his head in my direction. “You were in your own little world here.”

  I sure was. “I was lost in the view,” I say.

  He takes a slow drag, not saying anything. I can see my reflection in his glasses and wish that I could have put maybe a bit more effort into my appearance. Also my purse is pulling on my shirt and making my cleavage pop out more than what’s considered classy. I think about adjusting it but don’t want to call attention to myself.

  “It is beautiful,” he says, and at first I think he’s talking about my cleavage. Then his head swivels back to the sea. “Angry sometimes, but still beautiful.”

  “Just like a woman,” I remark.

  He actually breaks into a full grin. It’s so gorgeous—his teeth, my God, his perfect white teeth—that I actually suck in my breath. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” he says, his voice sounding the most lighthearted it has been since I’ve known him. Then the smile vanishes and the clouds settle again. “Tell me, Amber, do you really think you have what it takes to do this job?”

  I swallow hard, wishing I had more confidence. “I’m going to find out.”

  “Have you ever really been tested before?” He flicks ash to the ground and the breeze blows it away. “Not by children. I mean by life.”

  I frown at him, feeling a bit pissed off at the question. “Of course I have. Who hasn’t?”

  He shrugs. “Some people go through life without a single true trial.”

  “Not me.”

  He runs his hand under his jaw, his stubble making a scratchy sound, and then says, “Good. Trials make you stronger.”

  Yet as he says that I wonder why he doesn’t take that to heart. His own trials, his brother and sister’s trials, it all seems to have made them weaker. But here I go again, making assumptions about
things I know nothing about. I’ve had my tribulations in life but they don’t compare to what he’s been through.

  “You called me Amber earlier,” I point out. “Not Signorina MacLean. I know you’re my boss and everything, but I’d really rather not call you Signor Larosa. And I really hope you’ll address me with ciao instead of salve.”

  He cocks his head at me. “You are a very bold woman.” Then he nods, as if affirming something to himself.

  I try not to beam at that. “But what should I call you? Desiderio? What do Alfonso and Annabella call you? Desi?”

  “Actually, they call me Derio. And you can, too, if you wish.”

  “All right, Derio,” I say to him and hold out my hand. “My name is Amber, pleased to meet you.”

  He arches a brow but shakes my hand again. There is no electric shock this time but the feel of his warm palm against mine is doing something funny to my insides. My nerves feel carbonated. “Piacere,” he says in a low, charming voice, and the feeling intensifies.

  He finally lets go of my hand and I try to compose myself. Damn it, when did I turn into such a girl? Swooning over a handshake?

  He clears his throat. “You better hurry if you want to catch the next ferry back to Positano,” he says. “That is, if you wish to be back here tonight for the first lessons.”

  I nod, feeling that moody distance creep back into his tone. He’s right, though. Not only do I have to get back to the mainland and hike all the way up that damn hill to get my stuff, I have to find a bookstore somewhere that has something that might tell me the first thing about teaching English to Italian children. I have a feeling that won’t be so easy, though. Thank God for my Kindle and the ability to buy just about any book at any time. I’ve always been a lover of paperbacks and hardcovers, but eReaders really save your ass while traveling.

  “I will see you later,” I tell him, then add, “Derio.” I love the way it rolls off my tongue.

  Despite what we just shook on, he doesn’t seem all that pleased to hear me calling him that. His mouth draws together into a thin line and he nods curtly. I trot off, ignoring his personality change. I hope he’s not Moody McMooderson when I get back.

  * * *

  Going back to Positano seems a lot more dramatic than the trip coming over to Capri. Maybe it’s because there’s a slight swell to the seas and I’m extra conscious now of the way that Derio’s parents died. Maybe it’s because once I step foot on the mainland, I know I never have to go back to Capri if I don’t want to. I can stay in Positano and avoid responsibility and spend my days lounging on the beach with a few good books.

  But the fact is, that scenario would only last a week. And then I would really be shit out of luck. I’m cut off from my parents, and I have no friends to loan me money (they’re all as broke as I am). I can either find another job or I’m really fucking screwed. And the chances of me finding another job that supplies me with a hundred euros a week, plus room and board, is next to impossible.

  So while I slog up the hill in Positano, past all the little boutiques overflowing with ceramics and limoncello, past vine-covered restaurants and lumbering tourists, I make up my mind.

  Once I arrive at the hostel, I manage to get my money refunded for the rest of the week. Amanda, the front desk girl who fell in love with the hot Italian cop, gives me her phone number and tells me to call her if I ever want to meet up or if I have any problems. Then I say goodbye to Ana and Hendrik, who happen to be cooking lunch in the communal kitchen. They were kind of worried when I didn’t show up last night but figured I’d met someone. Funny how they keep on figuring this about me, even though I’ve never hooked up with a boy since they’ve been around. Maybe they figure it’s long overdue. I can’t argue with that. I tell them to e-mail if they happen to go to Capri and I wish them luck on their journeys.

  Ana seems sad but I know the minute I’m gone they’ll continue on like nothing has happened. That’s the thing about traveling couples. They never really integrate into the backpackers’ way of life the same way the solo traveler does. No matter where they go or who they see or what they do, they will always have each other. Me, I sometimes feel like I lose a bit of myself every time I have to say goodbye to a person or a place.

  But this time I don’t feel any loss or sadness. I feel excitement. As I watch them make cheap packaged meals in the kitchen, I’m reminded that all of my meals are taken care of now. I don’t have to eat like a pauper off of borrowed plates. I don’t have to share my room with seven other people or wait in line for the toilet or—as has happened a few times—shower with other women. I don’t have to watch my stuff all the time or feel like it’s seconds from being stolen.

  At that thought I go and get my backpack out of the lockers, pull the straps over my shoulders, and get out of the hostel. It may be the last time I see one for quite a long time.

  * * *

  I get back to Capri a bit earlier than I expected, benefitting from good timing with the hydrofoils. There’s a bit of a pinch in my throat when I see the mainland disappear in a haze. I wonder if I, too, will be like Derio now, trapped on this rock in the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  Maybe because of this isolated feeling, I drag my feet a bit as I head back to the house. When I take the funicular to the crowded streets of Capri town, I decide to explore a bit. Everything is so expensive and posh and geared toward locals and well-off tourists that it’s hard to find some place to go. It’s the afternoon now and I’m dying for a pint of beer or a glass of rosé to take the edge off but I don’t want to spend five euros on a small glass, even though I got about a hundred euros back just by canceling my stay at the hostel. I need every penny for the plane ticket back home.

  I go down one path, which leads up some stairs past a church and out of the busy town center and find my holy grail, finally: an Irish pub. In all the countries and cities I’ve been to, no matter how lonely I’ve felt or isolated because of language barriers, I have always found my English-speaking brethren either drinking in or working at an Irish pub.

  Here seems to be no exception. I walk into the small joint, all dark wood walls, brass accents and green leather seats, and see two white boys who look at me and smile. One with a shaved head seems half drunk and gives me the overly appreciative up and down. Well, at least I’ve impressed someone today, though once again I’m conscious that I didn’t even change clothes at the hostel. After this drink, the next thing I’m doing is taking a two-hour shower.

  “Hello, Blondie,” the drunk guy says with a thick English accent. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Wow. That was fast. I eye him and then his friend. His friend is quiet, smiling shyly at me, and kind of cute with thick brown hair and small blue eyes.

  “Sure,” I say to him, satisfied that they’re just a couple of drunk and soon-to-be drunk backpackers. “I’d like that.” I sit down across from them and am promptly introduced to Cole from Birmingham, England, and Charles from Louisville, Kentucky. They met in Amsterdam, bonded over weed, and decided to see the Mediterranean together.

  “So cute,” I comment.

  “Hey, I’m buying you a beer, not him,” Cole says, slurring enough to make me think he doesn’t need another beer. But according to him, he does. He stands up and walks over to the empty bar. So far we’re the only people I’ve seen in the place.

  Cole hollers, “Yo, pretty bird!”

  Pretty bird?

  At that the bartender pokes her head around the corner, her eyes trained on him in a decidedly evil manner. “What did I tell you about calling me that?” she says in a slight New York accent. “My name is Shay and if you can’t call me that then I can’t serve you.”

  Shay crosses her arms and throws a rag down on the counter in a huff. She seems like a tough little cookie. She’s also absolutely gorgeous, and I can see why Cole has stooped to calling her nicknames. She’s tall, curvy in all the right places, with long, thick, golden-brown hair and Brigitte Bardot bangs. She’s even got the B
ardot pout going on, with full lips and pale lipstick, though her skin is dark bronze and her eyes are strikingly hazel. She’s definitely got a Middle Eastern bombshell thing about her.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Cole says. “I was just buying a beer for my new friend here, Andrea from San Francisco, California.”

  I give him a stiff smile. “Actually, it’s Amber from San Jose, California.” I look at Shay. “I promise I won’t call you any nicknames.”

  She laughs at that and I’m glad. When I first started traveling I felt too shy and unsure of myself to let loose with people I didn’t really know. That’s one of the main things that has changed about me. I’m more eager to make friends, more confident talking to strangers, and I can eat at a restaurant or go to a movie alone without feeling like a loser or caring what people think.

  “Go sit down,” she tells Cole. “And I’ll be buying Amber her drink, not you.” She smiles at me. “First drink here is on the house, so what will it be?”

  I give Cole an apathetic shrug and then go over to the bar, where I can see the selection. I usually accept drinks from guys because it saves me money but only after I’m sure the guy knows that nothing is going to come out of it. With Cole drunk, I can’t be sure if he does or doesn’t expect anything, even if it’s only two in the afternoon.

  “Whatever is on tap is fine,” I say, quickly adding, “but something light. No Guinness.”

  “I like easy customers,” she says and pours me a pint of Peroni. She passes it to me and wipes her hand on her apron. “So, Amber from San Jose, I’m Shay from Brooklyn.”

  I raise the beer at her. “Nice to meet you. So how did you get this gig?” I ask, nodding at the bar.

  She shrugs. “My boyfriend and I came here three months ago. We drank at this bar every night for a week, not wanting to leave. The previous bartender was going back to Ireland so we just kind of swapped.”

  “But what about the whole Schengen Visa thing?”

  She shrugs again. “Italy is really relaxed about people overstaying their welcome, or so we were told. When we flew into Europe, we made sure to fly into Rome. They never stamped our passports for entry there so there’s no real proof of how long we’ve been here.”