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 is 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.”