Racing the Sun

  I look over my shoulder at them and shrug. “I think they’re starting to figure it out.”

  We’ve been careful about showing our affection for each other around them but not too careful. We’re very physical, especially Derio, who is always touching me every chance he gets, like his skin is addicted to mine, but we haven’t been kissing. We don’t even stay the night in each other’s beds yet.

  He clears his throat. “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine. It would have been better if you had been there.”

  “I know,” he says. “We will sit them down and tell them soon. I think they will understand.”

  “I think they already know.” As I say that, the twins look over at us and then Annabella whispers something to Alfonso, who makes a face while Annabella giggles. The kids have become dark brown and freckled from the summer sun, all long legs and highlighted hair.

  I, too, have taken on a bit more color. I’m not as deep and dark as Derio, but I’ve got a golden glow going on and my hair is two shades lighter. I’m even thinning out a little and my legs and arms have more definition. It’s probably from having to walk Capri’s hills in this heat all the time, and the fact that I rarely get a moment to just sit around. I look more and more like la leonessa every day.

  “What have you been doing?” I ask him. “Edits?”

  He shakes his head. “Smoking. Drinking espresso. Il dolce far niente.” The sweetness of doing nothing.

  “Sounds nice,” I say with a tired sigh, gathering my hair behind my head.

  “It is,” he says. “And you should try it, too. I have a little surprise.” He waves his hand at the kids. “Alfonso, Annabella, venite qui.”

  They moan, reluctantly bringing their legs out of the water and staggering over to us with exaggerated effort.

  “Can we go in the pool yet?” Alfonso asks me.

  “Soon,” I tell him. “What is it, Derio?”

  “In an hour you kids are going off on an adventure.”

  Their eyes brighten. “Cosa succede?” they ask in unison while I say, “What?”

  He looks at us rather smugly. “Signora Bagglia has an overnight kids’ camp for children interested in cooking. I thought, perhaps, since you were so eager during our lesson, you would like to go.”

  The twins exchange a look, a little unsure. “Where is it?” Alfonso asks.

  “It is in the hotel where she works, near Augustus Gardens. I have already arranged it, if you wish to take part. There are a lot of children there your own age. It would be a lot of fun; maybe you can even have a food fight.”

  They still don’t look convinced. I know they’re scared about being away from the house without us there but they’re getting to that stage where they have to at least socialize, if not experience a real sleepover.

  “But I had to promise to Signora Bagglia that you are big kids,” Derio goes on in a stern voice. “That you are brave and smart and old enough to be away from us overnight. Was that right of me to say?”

  Derio is smart. That’s a tactic my father would have used.

  Of course, the twins nod eagerly. “Yes,” Alfonso says, always the showboat of the two, “of course we are old enough. We are not babies.”

  “We are seven years old,” Annabella scoffs. I know they still look uncertain but now that they’ve said this, they won’t back down. They are too stubborn, just like their brother.

  “And maybe then you can cook with me,” I put in. Alfonso scrunches up his nose at that but Annabella nods enthusiastically.

  An hour later, we are dropping the children off at the Hotel Luna, located on a cliff at the end of a shady path. Signora Bagglia is waiting out front with a gaggle of overexcited children running around her, overnight packs on their shoulders, while a few parents look on. Derio had read the brochure of the program to me as we walked over and it sounds like a popular—and legit—event.

  After we tell Alfonso and Annabella to behave and be brave, Signora welcomes them over with a hearty wave and a platter full of hard candies. The candy works like a charm and she attracts all the children to her like bees to a flower.

  We watch until they go inside, Alfonso and Annabella already chatting with a cute, pudgy boy, then Derio puts his arm around me.

  “Do you think they’ll be okay?” I ask, leaning into him.

  “Tutto andrà bene,” he says, which pretty much means s’all good. He gives me a squeeze. “And now the two of us can have a well-deserved break. Let’s start with a drink on the terrace.”

  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.”

  He pauses as the waiter gives us our wine and then he takes a big gulp of it. I’m too busy hanging on to his every word to even touch mine. He licks his lips and continues. “I realized if I died, if I was seriously hurt, I could not take care of Alfonso and Annabella. They would be true orphans, with no family at all. We have an aunt who lives in Florida but the twins have never met her. They would be ruined. They would have lost too much. So as I lay there and the medics rushed toward me, I realized I had to make a choice. I could no longer be irresponsible, I could no longer think or live just for myself anymore. I had to quit.” He pauses with a heavy sigh. “After that, Daniella did not want to be with me anymore. She had only been attracted to my status to begin with. It’s very obvious to me now; maybe it was obvious then. But I was in love and I was young and a stupid fool. The thrills, the danger, the celebrity—that’s all that she wanted. Not me. Never me. Now I had guardianship over the twins and she did not want any part of it. She left me and moved on to someone else, a rival of mine in the racing world, of course. Isn’t that always the way?”

  He exhales slowly. “After that, because of the accident, because she left me . . . it stirred up bad memories. Of the night they died. Aside from the police, I had never really told anyone what happened. To relive it was too much for me. But I was reliving it somewhere deep inside after that. The thought of stepping onto a boat was paralyzing. Terrifying. I could not do it. And so I could not leave the island, no matter how badly I wanted to. I was stuck here, in this life, forever. In some ways I still am.”

  I put my hand on his knee and squeeze it. He glances at me, his eyes watering and his face contorted with anguish. It breaks my heart to pieces. “You know,” he says, his voice choked, “I resented them. The twins. Because I did not ask for this. And then I resented myself, for being so selfish, for feeling that way toward them, my own flesh and blood. We had all lost so much and yet I felt that I had lost the most. I lost more than my parents—I lost the life I had, the love I had. I lost everything.” He closes his eyes and sinks back into the chair, taking slow, heavy breaths.

  “You have not lost everything,” I whisper to him, putting my head on his shoulder and wrapping my arm around his waist. “You have them. You have me.”

  “Do I?” he whispers.

  I tilt my head up to him, perplexed.

  “Do I have you?” he repeats, staring down at me with dark, searching eyes. “Deeply?”

  I swallow and nod, squeezing him to me. “Deeply.”

  He doesn’t look all that convinced. “You know, sometimes I feel so trapped. So lost and alone. And then I look at you and I feel found. Does that make sense?”

  I almost want to cry. “That makes perfect sense. More than you realize.”

  He gives me a small smile. “Come. Finish your wine and let us find each other again.”

  When we go to pay for our drinks, though, the waiter informs us that Signor Vincetti has already taken care of it.

  The look of quiet comfort in Derio’s eyes at the old friend’s gesture warms me to my soul.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That night, we go out for a proper dinner, just the two of us, at a small, homey restaurant off the edge of the Piazzetta. I have spaghetti e ceci and he has grilled fish. When we get back to the house, we make up for lost time by making love in the kitchen, the living room, underneath the lemon trees. The last one leaves me sticky with grass and lemon pulp but it’s worth it to have such a man take me in such a way—fast and reckless and delirious.

  Later, we sleep together in his bed, the whole night through, without fear of being caught. I assume that I’ll get to sleep in as well, since there is nowhere for us to be—the twins aren’t finished until noon.

  But Derio shakes me awake before the sky has a chance to lighten from ink to gray.

  “What is it?” I mumble into the pillow.

  “Get dressed, quickly,” he says.

  “Why?” I’m starting to feel more awake now and slightly panicked. I roll over and look at him but he’s smiling. Also completely naked, which in turn makes me smile. He pats my legs then walks over to the couch where I threw my clothes last night. Though I’m half asleep, the sight of his tight, toned ass in the dim light has my full attention. God, I’m lucky.

  He tosses a strapless dress at me. “Put this on, grab your bikini, and meet me downstairs in two minutes,” he says, then grabs a pair of shorts out of his dresser and leaves the room.

  What the fuck? But I get out of bed and do as he says, going off of the sparkling look in his eyes and his voice, which promises danger.

  Minutes later, I’m on the back of his bike and we are riding through the silent pre-dawn streets. Everything is washed in watercolor blue, like God smudged ink all over the world. A few birds sing from the flowering bushes and the air is soft and cool. The smell of a new day, all the blooms and herbs and the waking sea, is utterly intoxicating. I want to make a point to start waking up before dawn and experience Capri before the day ravages it, but who am I kidding, I cling to sleep like it’s a sinking ship.

  I don’t ask any questions as we ascend toward Anacapri; I’m content to just hold on and watch the world go past. Even the heights of the zigzag road don’t scare me like they used to. As long as I have Derio, I feel safe.

  Eventually, we zoom through the center of Anacapri, the occasional chicken darting across the road, and head down a road I’ve never been on before.

  Finally, I have to ask, “Where are we going?”

  “You will see” is his totally non-helpful answer.

  But then I do see. We are on Via Grotta Azzurra, which leads to the famous Blue Grotto, Capri’s shining jewel and one of the places I’ve wanted to visit. The renowned light paints the water in the cavern electric blue, but because you have to pass through it on a small gondola, I figured Derio wouldn’t want to do it. It’s not quite the open seas but it doesn’t help.

  “Here we are,” he says, parking the bike next to an empty café. We are the o
nly people in the small parking lot overlooking the cliffs.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  “Going for a swim.”

  “A swim?” I repeat, looking at the water. Though it’s calm, with only small waves rhythmically lapping against the rocks, it’s still kind of dark. The sun is barely touching the tops of the few trees scattered about.

  “Yes,” he says. “I used to do this when I was a teenager. All the locals do. But I haven’t done it since . . . you know . . .”

  I nod and he says, “This is the first step toward facing my fears. You did it with the bike, on Mount Solaro. Now I must do the same.” He pauses and gives me a serious look. “If you are with me, I know I will be okay.”

  He takes my hand and we walk over to a locked gate, which he helps me climb over, lifting me up like I weigh nothing at all. We walk down steps carved into the rock and stop at the end. There are no stairs leading down into the water, which seems deeper and darker than I imagined. It’s one of those jump-in-or-don’t-get-in-at-all situations.

  Now, I’m not afraid of the sea the way Derio is, but I’m also not a fan of deep water, especially when I can’t see to the bottom.

  “Is this safe?” I ask him as he takes off his shorts, revealing his buck-nakedness underneath. I blink at his penis because it’s such a wonderful but unexpected sight. It even seems to grow under my watchful gaze.

  “It is as safe as anything,” he says, gesturing to my dress for me to take it off. “Hurry, we only have so much time before the first boat shows up.”

  “You don’t want them to catch you naked.”

  He gives me a cocky look. “I don’t mind if they catch me naked. I might give a little old lady a thrill. But we could get in trouble and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

  I can’t argue with that. I tear my eyes off his body, not surprised that he’s not the slightest bit bashful about it, and take off my dress, tucking it under his shorts on the platform. I can’t even see the entrance to the grotto from here; it’s just nothing but steep rock.