He leads me to the tiled patio and we find two comfortable chairs with deep cushions to sit on. Cacti and magenta flowers line the railing, separating us from the sparkling sea and the sharp Faraglioni Rocks that rise out of it. It’s just before noon and lunch isn’t being served yet, so we have glasses of honey-colored wine and snack on bowls of bar mix. There’s not many people out here enjoying the view, though I know that won’t last for long.
Once we’ve finished our drinks, content to cuddle into each other and ignore the rising heat of the sun, a man approaches us. He’s dressed well in a suit, despite the heat, with a shock of white hair, black eyebrows, and deep brackets on either side of his mouth. His eyes are kind, though, and he looks to be about my father’s age.
“Desiderio?” the man asks politely.
Derio looks up at him and recognition slowly comes over his face. “Ah, Signor Vincetti!” He gets out of the chair and shakes the man’s hand. The two of them converse quickly in Italian, with lots of nodding and smiles, accompanied by low voices and furrowed brows. From what I can piece together, they’re probably talking about Derio’s parents.
Then Derio gestures to me, shooting me an apologetic look, and says, “Where are my manners? Signor Vincetti, this is my girlfriend, Amber MacLean.”
I think I’m smiling at the man but really my mind is reeling over his words. He introduced me as his girlfriend. Not a nanny, not a teacher, not a friend—girlfriend.
“Piacere,” I say to him, getting up and shaking the man’s hand.
“Ah,” he says in his thick accent, “but I speak some English.”
“Bene,” I say, “because that’s all the Italian I know.”
“He is, or was, a good friend of my parents,” Derio explains with a wide smile, clearly pleased to reconnect with this man. “He used to own a house down the street from us—you know, Villa Celeste, with the plaque of the goat near the gate? He and his wife now live in Florence.”
“Oh, I wanted to go there,” I say, “but I picked Rome instead.”
“Bah,” he waves with his hand. “Rome is too dirty. Florence is beautiful, you should both come one day. In fact, I insist. Bring the twins. How are they?”
Signor Vincetti doesn’t notice how Derio stiffens considerably at the mention of travel. He must not know that Derio hasn’t left the island in a year.
“The twins are very well,” Derio tells him, sidestepping the question.
“And you still have Felisa?”
Derio nearly winces. “She has gone on to other things. Amber is helping.”
Vincetti nods at me. “That is very kind of you.”
I don’t bother mentioning that I’m getting paid for it. “Èniente,” I say with a shrug.
“But you are no longer racing?” Vincetti turns to him.
Again, clearly something that Derio doesn’t want to talk about. He gives him a quick, false smile. “For now.”
“You were very good,” Vincetti says. He eyes me with a fat smile. “Desiderio was one of the best there was, in his”—he snaps his fingers, searching for the word—“class, you know. Very exciting to watch. You should convince him to start again. He is missed.” He pats him on the back heartily. “You are missed, boy.”
The two of them converse in Italian for a little longer, then Signor Vincetti points to his watch and waves goodbye to us.
“He was very nice,” I tell Derio as we watch him walk into the hotel.
Derio makes an agreeable sound. “He was the best of my parents’ friends. Always interested, always supportive.” He eyes me. “Are you going to ask me to get back into racing?”
I’m taken aback. “No,” I say, surprised. “I mean, if you want to, I’ll support whatever you choose to do.”
“You wouldn’t find it exciting?”
“I would find it scary, to be honest. But if it’s your passion, you have to follow that, too, even if it’s scary.”
He watches me closely and seems to think that over.
“He didn’t ask about your ex-wife,” I say, though I may be treading in dangerous water bringing up his ex at all. “I would have thought the two of us together would be questionable.”
He shakes his head, smiling sourly. “Believe me, what happened between Daniella and I was very public. Who could forget the man who gave up racing when he was at the top of his game, and the woman who gave up that man for someone else? Everyone knows the story.”
I try not to make a pitying face. That must have been so humiliating, especially for someone as proud as him. I feel like finding Daniella and bitch-slapping her across the face.
“So why did you give up racing?” I ask warily, unsure how he’s going to answer. But this is the closest we have ever been to the subject.
He sighs and pulls me back down to our cushioned seats. He signals the waiter for two more glasses of wine and clasps his hands together. “It was a stupid accident. I made a careless mistake around a turn, a mistake I used to make all the time. I overtook another racer at a sharp turn on my weak side and spun out of control to avoid him. I hurt my leg and shoulder very badly and broke a few bones. It was not too serious, but while I was lying on the ground, half conscious, hearing the screams and the sounds of the track and the emergency horns, I thought maybe I would die. Maybe I would not walk again. When something like that happens, you have no idea how hurt you are and if you are going to be okay. That had never bothered me before, but it bothered me then.”