Racing the Sun

  “Where else should I go?” I ask instead.

  He points up at Mount Solaro. “Up there. Picnic among the flowers. Great views.”

  I give him a look. “Don’t you have to take a chairlift up there? Fear of heights, remember?”

  He nods. “I remember. Perhaps you will face your fears.”

  “Are you going to be there holding my hand?” I say, half jokingly.

  He smiles softly. “The chairlifts only fit one person. So, no. My arms don’t reach that long.”

  “Then no fucking thank you,” I say. Then I immediately clamp my hand over my mouth, realizing I swore in front of the children. Somehow this is the first time it’s happened.

  Alfonso bursts out laughing at my profanity and then launches himself off the step and into the water, splashing us. He’s yelling, “Merda!” which I’m pretty sure is Italian for shit.

  “Eh, smettila,” Derio admonishes Alfonso. Alfonso just giggles and swims back to Annabella, who is poking her fingers into the rocks near my caftan.

  “Sorry,” I apologize to Derio. “I forget I say bad words sometimes.”

  “Just another bad habit,” he says. “Apparently I have the same one. Maybe we are more alike than I thought. Of course, you don’t smoke.”

  “No.”

  “But alcohol and sex, that’s okay with you?”

  I nearly sputter in the water. My mind reels, trying to think of something clever and witty to say to that. “I like both those things,” I say, like a total noob.

  He gives me a grin and then swims away, doing a fast front crawl through the water, slicing through the shades of blue and around the corner of the rocks.

  “Where are you going?” I call after him but he can’t hear me.

  “He comes back,” Alfonso says from the steps. I eye him in surprise, not only because of his English but for being so forthcoming.

  I swim over to him, finding a non-jagged part of the rocks to hold on to. I’m amazed that these kids aren’t bleeding all over the place from cuts and scrapes.

  “Where does he go?” I ask slowly, in my teacher voice.

  He gestures. “Around the . . . the . . .” He points at the lighthouse.

  “Lighthouse,” I tell him. “In English we call that a lighthouse.”

  “Si, lighthouse,” he repeats. “Then he comes back.”

  “And he leaves you alone like this?”

  He shakes his head. “Oh no, Felisa, she is here. He never leaves me, Annabella, alone.”

  “Good,” I say. “He takes good care of you, you know.”

  Alfonso shrugs and kicks at the water. “Certo,” he says noncommittally. I think it means sure.

  Suddenly, Annabella bursts into a fit of laughter and I look to see her waving my caftan in the air before she lets go. The breeze hooks it and carries it away, floating down to the rocks on the other side of the narrow cove.

  “Annabella!” I yell at her. “That isn’t very nice!”

  She only smirks at me and makes the motion of a bird flying away.

  I sigh and say, “Stay here,” to the twins, repeating, “Non muovetevi.”

  I swim across the cove and reach the rocks. I look over my shoulder at them before I start climbing. They’re sitting side by side on the steps and watching me in anticipation.

  I’m not so bad climbing up things as I am climbing down things, and the lump of rock isn’t high enough to give me vertigo or anything like that, but I don’t really like how my ass is probably hanging out of my bikini while I try to lift myself up. I’m glad that Derio has decided to go for his lighthouse swim so he doesn’t have to see this.

  Once I’m close to the caftan, which is snagged on a sharp rock, I steady myself, my toes hooked into one small ledge. I grab on to a solid rock with one hand to balance and stretch across to my caftan, my breasts smushed painfully against the rock, my arm reaching as far as I can. The caftan suddenly lifts, about to be blown away, and I make a grab for it.

  At the same time, my whole body tips to the left, completely off balance, and as my fingers wrap around the edge of the cloth, I know the victory will be short-lived. I let out a cry as my body dips toward the sea and I try hard to twist away from the rock.

  Despite my efforts, my left shoulder and the corner of my head still hit the rock, and I feel a sharp stab of pain at my temple and scraped skin at my shoulder bone before I plunge into the sea.

  I’m not knocked out but I’m in deep water and disoriented. I let go of the caftan, which has wrapped itself around my head underwater, obscuring my sight. I don’t know which way is up or down, and in a moment of panic I open my mouth to breathe. Water seeps into my lungs and I try to cough but I can’t, and my arms and legs don’t seem to be working. I don’t know where the surface is. I want to scream but I’m drowning and I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Suddenly, arms hook underneath me, pulling me up to the surface, and I’m gasping for air, still choking on water. I try to get it out, violently puking the water back into the sea, my lungs feeling as if they have been scraped with pumice stones. I cough and cough and cough, but still so thankful that I can, that there is air and my head is above water.

  I am dragged to the steps and only then do I realize that Derio has rescued me. His face is absolutely pale, his eyes frozen in fear as he keeps repeating my name.

  I can only nod at him to tell him I’m okay. I hear Annabella and Alfonso crying and the murmurs and gasps of the bystanders watching it all unfold.

  A man comes down the steps and aids Derio in helping me up to the platform. I stand there, shivering for some reason, while a woman wraps a big towel around me. I look down and see my shoulder is scraped open, a gaping pink wound, and blood is leaking from my head. I can’t help feeling a bit woozy at the sight but Derio’s arm is right there again, holding me up.

  Soon, I am led away from the sunbathers and past the restaurant full of gawking onlookers. A tiny ambulance speeds into the parking lot and I am quickly ushered into the back by a lot of fast-talking Italians. I want to tell them that I feel fine, that I will be fine, but I honestly don’t know if that’s true. I’m just glad to be alive.

  The hospital is located outside of Capri town but this time the ride doesn’t bother me—I just keep my eyes closed anyway and figure, What are the chances of an ambulance careening off the cliffs? When we get there I’m amazed to see how small it is, a somewhat modern but nondescript building we could have passed by earlier, unnoticed.

  The size works in my favor, though. I’m escorted into the emergency room by the attendants but there’s no one there so I’m immediately put into a room. Derio and the kids aren’t there either; I guess they had to catch a cab and follow since there was no room in the tiny ambulance.

  There’s a friendly doctor, Doctor Romano, with tiny, kind eyes who speaks perfect English and dotes on me with lots of stinging solutions and Band-Aids. He asks me lots of questions about my head, how I’m feeling, if I’m dizzy. I tell him I’m tired and in shock but my head feels fine otherwise, just hurts a bit where the wound is. Luckily he says that the head bleeds easily and it’s not a deep injury at all. He also adds that I’m very lucky that someone was there to save me.

  I feel horrible about that. I would have rather some random person pull me out from the sea than Derio. I saw the fear in his eyes. I almost drowned in front of him. I know I don’t mean much to him, but that couldn’t have been easy for him to see.

  Eventually, Doctor Romano tells me I am free to go, I just need to treat the wounds like I would any cut and if I feel the slightest bit dizzy or sick, I have to come back here immediately. He also tells me I have a load of paperwork to fill out. I give a silent prayer of thanks for the travel medical insurance I purchased.

  I step out into the waiting room, dressed in the blue hospital gown since I didn’t think to bring my dress, and see Derio sitting there. He’s in his shorts and shirt, his hair still wet
. His hands are clenching and unclenching by his sides. When he sees me, he immediately gets to his feet and comes over to me, his brow knitted together.

  He says something to Doctor Romano, who smiles and says something reassuring. It doesn’t seem to soothe Derio, who looks to me with an even more worried expression.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him. “I’m fine. Really. Just a scratch.” I lift up the side of my hair and show him the bandage on my widow’s peak. “I’m a lioness, remember?”

  He doesn’t smile. His dark eyes are almost smoldering in their intensity. “I heard screams as I was swimming back and came around the corner just as you hit the water. I thought I wouldn’t reach you in time.”

  I give him a small smile, not wanting to make a big deal about this at all. “But you did. Thank you.” I reach out and touch the side of his arm. He doesn’t move. “Where are the kids?” I ask.

  “Felisa came and got them,” he says, “while you were in there. Alfonso told me what happened, what Annabella did.”

  I shrug but the skin on my shoulder stings. “It’s fine. She was just being funny.”

  He shakes his head. “It wasn’t funny at all. I’m sorry she’s like that with you. I’m sorry they both are.”

  I meet his eyes. “They have reasons to be,” I say sincerely. “I don’t blame them.” And I don’t blame you, I think. “So I guess we aren’t going out for dinner now, are we?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

  “No,” he says in a low voice. He clears his throat. “Maybe we can take what you call a rain check?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Does it ever rain in Capri?”

  “Sometimes. And it’s beautiful when it does. It’s like the island has been holding on to it for too long and she finally lets it all go. Usually in the fall, after the summer season, we get the heaviest rains.”

  I breathe out in relief, happy that he seems to be relaxing. “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to have my dress, would you?” I ask him.

  He raises a brow. “You mean you don’t find this to be the height of fashion?” He tugs at the sleeve of the gown. “It shows off your legs.”

  Before I can say anything to that, he goes back to the chair and gathers our beach totes. He hands me mine and our fingers brush against each other as I take it from him. I really need to pretend it’s nothing, that there isn’t this potency between us every time we touch. It’s all in my head. My crazy, knocked-around head.

  I head into the bathroom, laugh at my reflection—wild eyes, wet hair, bandaged head—and get dressed. It seems both Derio and I faced a bit of our fears today. I just don’t know if either of us came out any stronger.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning I wake up feeling groggy, my head and shoulder burning like they’re on fire. But I don’t feel nauseous or dizzy so it’s safe to say I escaped the event without a concussion. I also see that it’s eleven a.m. when I finally pull myself out of bed, and I’ve missed breakfast. I know I should take the fact that I’m injured and use it to my advantage to get some much-needed rest, but I’m curious about Derio, as well as Alfonso and Annabella. I don’t want any of them to worry about me.

  When I get dressed and go downstairs, I find the house to be completely empty. At least it seems that way.

  “Hello?” I call out as I walk into the kitchen, which is usually the hub of activity in this house. Everything is put away neatly, spic-and-span.

  I decide to make myself an espresso and after I wrestle with the noisy machine, I pull up a stool to the island and sip it. In a week, my body has gone from barely tolerating the stuff to finding it delightful and kind of addictive.

  Though I can hear the usual birds chirping merrily outside, the house hums with silence. I’ve actually never been completely alone in the house before. It’s kind of nice, albeit spooky in a way. Despite the sunshine that pours in through all the windows, I guess the dramatics of yesterday are casting a bit of a shadow on my subconscious, and when I think I hear something thump from upstairs, it scares the bejesus out of me.

  I finish the last bit of dark espresso and slowly put the cup down, listening hard now.

  Another thump. Coming from the attic.

  Well, actually, it’s a storage space, accessible from a narrow hall between Alfonso’s and Derio’s rooms. I’ve obviously never been up there but this isn’t the first time I thought I heard something funny coming from there. There was a reason why I ended the first week somewhat convinced that there might be a ghost in the house.

  I’ve never actually seen a ghost in my life, and even though I believe in them I’ve always been a bit skeptical. But old villas on Italian hillsides kind of get your imagination running. I listen again and hear the same thump. It sounds like something being dropped or knocked over. The other night it was more like a scratching sound as I passed by it in the hall. It was probably a rat, if anything, but in my imagination in the dark, it was the sound of someone trying to claw their way out.

  I had a brief notion of Derio keeping his ex-wife locked up in the attic, but then decided that sort of thing only happens in books.

  I get off my stool and look out the windows again to the patio. It’s sunny, bright, and the sea gleams blue. There is absolutely nothing scary going on. I take in a deep breath and head to the stairs.

  Once I get to the second floor I pause, holding my breath and listening.

  Thump.

  There. Above me and down the short hall, almost where the ladder pulls down from the ceiling.

  I wish I had something to defend myself with, like a candlestick or something, but I’m not really sure what the protocol is. My knowledge stretches as far as those ghost hunters on YouTube, like that crazy guy with the mustache and the girl who screams a lot, who never really seem to solve anything.

  I creep down the hall, my bare feet sticking to the tiles, and then I wait below the attic door, the pulley hanging above me. I inhale, reach up, and with one go jerk it down.

  There’s a cry and then the door opens, the steps slamming down onto the tiles. Suddenly, it’s raining books as paperbacks hit the tiles and echo loudly—bang, bang, bang.

  When it finally stops and I’m able to swallow my heart back down my throat, I poke my head around the stairs, looking up.

  Derio is in the attic, staring down at me with the most exasperated expression on his face.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, feeling foolish all of a sudden. “I didn’t know you were up there.”

  He swears in Italian then says, “Well, who did you think was up here?”

  He’s pissed off. This isn’t good.

  “A ghost?” I say, helplessly.

  He makes a disgusted face. “A ghost?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”

  “You think I would leave you alone in the house after what happened?”

  I shrug. Not when he put it that way. “I thought you were all out.”

  “Felisa took the twins to the gardens,” he says, his voice hard. “I was up here attending to some matters.”

  I look at the books at my feet. They are by his mother, Sophie Larosa, but I don’t recognize the titles. Almost all of them are different, too, in the small mass-market format you might find at a grocery store. “Your mother was a writer,” I say, stating the very obvious, though I know he knows he’s never told me that himself.

  He makes a disgruntled sound and comes down the stairs in a huff. “I was organizing these,” he says, gathering all the books into his arms. I try not to look at his muscles or his angry, handsome face.

  “What for?” I ask. “How many books has she written?”

  He shoots me a look that says it’s none of my business. But I have the power of Google and I can make it my business if I want to. “She wrote a lot,” he concedes.

  “What kind of books?”

  “Does it matter?” he asks.

  “I love books, I read all the time,” I tell him. Of course it matters. “Have any been tran
slated into English?”

  “No,” he says, somewhat bitterly. “Not yet.”

  I reach for one of the books on the pile. “Can I have one? Maybe it will help me learn Italian.”

  He holds the books away from me. “These are not for sale.”

  “I’m not going to buy one, I’m going to borrow one.”

  He narrows his eyes into mahogany slits. “You’re not going to borrow anything.”

  I take my hand back and put it on my hip. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  He jerks his head back. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Then why are you acting like an ass?”

  “Because you act like a little girl,” he says without hesitation.

  My eyes widen. “You’re the one playing keep-away with books.”

  “I do not know what keep-away is,” he says. “Now, please go make yourself breakfast or something.” He takes the books and goes back up the stairs into the attic.

  “Little girls don’t know how to make breakfast!” I yell after him. Not my best comeback.

  Still, I sigh heavily and head down the stairs and wrangle up some toast and olive oil to get me through the day.

  * * *

  Because Derio was in such a rotten mood, I was happy when the kids and Felisa got back from the gardens. That was until Felisa started acting harsher than usual, which was saying a lot. Thankfully, Alfonso and Annabella were on their best behavior around me. I could tell that the near-drowning really scared the crap out of them and made them be a little more considerate, even nice. We spent the rest of the day in the garden, and I managed to teach them a little bit about the plants and how to keep them healthy. I decided that in the future I would get them their own pots where they could grow easy herbs. That kind of stuff always kept me occupied and hopeful as a kid.

  Sunday morning was a little bit better. I was allowed to sleep in again, even though last week Felisa had insisted I accompany them to church. When I woke up they were all just coming back, and though Alfonso and Annabella were relieved to be free from church in that overly dramatic way that involved flinging themselves over couches and moaning from the residual boredom, the tension was high between Felisa and Derio.