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.”
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.