“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.
My hair is a disaster and only Carrie Bradshaw can get away with the crazy curly bedhead I have going on right now, so I pull it back into a low braid and slick on some anti-frizz serum that I carry in my purse at all times. My face is looking a bit puffy—I’m probably not drinking enough water—but there’s not much I can do about that. I know I can look quite pretty when I put some effort into it, but today I don’t have any ammo. Plus there’s no one to impress.