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.”