Designs of the Heart

by Renee Ryder

  The clock showed it was past five. The evening sun wasn’t a threat to her skin; luckily, because her hat was still drenched and needed to dry.

  She put her phone in her purse, grabbed the keys from the living room table, and headed for the door.

  She went outside.

  As she locked the door, a drop of water hit her head. Then another. The morning detour to the hotel immediately popped into her mind and she worried the rain was returning. She looked up at the sky.

  “Sorry,” called down a middle-aged blond lady from the second-floor balcony, in the middle of hanging out her laundry. “I didn’t realize they were dripping.”

  “No problem,” she replied, stepping back to avoid more.

  “I’ll bring them back in and wring them out better.”

  What she meant by “wring them out” wasn’t clear; but it was clear that she was waiting for a reply.

  “Don’t worry. I really like seeing all the colored rags hanging!”

  The jovial expression of the woman suddenly changed. Her face darkened and, without explanation, she began to briskly remove the clothespins and collect the clothes.

  The woman’s annoyed attitude left her perplexed. She shrugged it off and walked down the stairs, focusing back on the part of her that still felt conflicted about going.

  Basically, there was this guy that she’d met less than four days ago; he’d just confessed that he was falling for her, and she was about to go with him to a place that, according to him, no one else knew about. Even a sexually adventurous woman would be more cautious in a situation like that! On the other hand, if he’d had bad intentions, there had been many other opportunities to act on them—like in his storage room, the woods after the festival, the hotel.

  He did try in the hotel, though!

  But would he have done it if she hadn’t thrown herself on him because of the thunder? No, he would never have dared. He’d always behaved like a gentleman with her. She perceived him as a lover of art; even if she wanted to, she couldn’t picture him as a lecherous creep. In this sense she felt safe, so she could focus on her plan: to pay off her moral debt to him, to clear the guilt from her heart that had driven her to all of this upsetting introspection, and to leave Italy able to call him a good friend.

  The appointment was at five by his boat.

  She walked among the people on the small street in front of the beach, frowning because she couldn’t see him or the boat at the usual place. At length she found him standing on the shoreline, retrieving the wooden supports he usually put under the keel. He must have just used them, since the boat already rested at the water’s edge, oars tied onto the oarlocks with twine.

  It rattled her. She’d figured they would be taking the Vespa. But by now the die was cast, so she took off her sandals and headed across the sand. He turned the boat 180 degrees, aiming the bow at the sea.

  When he saw her, his face transformed.

  “Hi, Nico. Sorry for being late.”

  He kept staring at her, as if unable to form a word.

  “What is it? You look surprise.”

  “Huh?”

  “You were thinking that I wouldn’t come, true?”

  “What?! Oh, no! Definitely not.”

  She smiled. That he was a bad liar reassured her about the decision to come.

  “I assume we go to your secret place by sea.”

  “There’s another way, but it’s too complicated. And dangerous,” he added, pulling the boat in until the hull grounded. “Go ahead, hop in.”

  She approached the back of the boat and, resting her sandals on top of the stern, climbed up from the side as if she were stepping over a fence. Once on board, she realized how solid and firm it was. He hadn’t even had to counterbalance from the opposite side when she’d gotten in.

  “Should I sit here?” she asked, pointing to one of the horizontal benches.

  “Yup, but we’ve gotta switch seats in a minute.”

  She sat up in the bow looking back towards the stern.

  He gave the boat a boost to make it float again, before showing his agility by jumping in with ease. Once he grasped the oars, he stood, facing her, and started to row gently, probably because there were people in the water and he had to be careful until they were farther out.

  “Have you ever got in one of these?”

  “Yes, but only in my imagination,” she replied, thinking about her grandma’s painting.

  “Then I can say that I’m making one of your dreams come true.”

  “I guess you could.”

  His good mood relieved the turmoil that assailed her every time the words “I’m falling in love with you” echoed again through her mind. Words that she wanted to leave behind them on the beach.

  “So tell me about this, your secret place.”

  “Just wait. You’ll see it with your own eyes.”

  “You really showed it to no one?”

  “I never even talked about it.”

  “Not even with your dad?”

  “Not even him.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, scared to hear the answer of the real question she had in mind, Why me?

  “Because it’s a special place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Careful!” he called out past her.

  She turned around and saw two girls astride an air mattress changing direction and ending up in the boat’s trajectory. They mustn’t have noticed it coming.

  “Is it far from here?” she pressed him, when they passed the two girls.

  “What?”

  “Your secret place.”

  “Not very. We get there in fifteen minutes,” he explained, making a slight turn—perhaps to avoid someone swimming.

  She had feared seasickness riding in that small boat. Instead, the only rocking she felt came from to the pushes of the oars.

  “Anna?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wanna thank you for coming with me.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “I understand that it’s not easy after what I told you. So, thank you. I really appreciate that you understand how important this is to me … I don’t know how you actually feel, but I’ll do my best not to make you uncomfortable.”

  He hadn’t looked her in the eyes as he spoke this brief monologue, because he had to watch ahead as he steered, but the fleeting glances they’d exchanged gave her additional proof of his sensitivity. Any doubts she may have harbored dissipated like mist.

  “You’ll see, Anna. You won’t regret coming with me.”

  “I’m sure I won’t. But let me tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s of my name.”

  He frowned.

  “It’s not so important. Just for your acknowledge.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You call me always Anna, but actually it’s Hannah. With two Hs, one in the beginning and the other in the end. I know the Italians don’t pronounce the H, so it’s fine if you keep calling me Anna.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “So it’s Hannahhh?”

  “Hahaha, you don’t need to suffocate. The last H is silent. You have to aspire the first one only. Like this, Hannah.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Bravo. But you can continue using Anna if you want. It makes me feel Italian in a way … You know, my grandma’s name was Giulia, with G. But since everyone in the United States wrote it wrongly, she changed it to Julia, with J, when she was young.”

  “But hers sounds the same. Instead, yours … I’ll try to remember to say Hannah, ’cause I think that Anna has the same effect on you as if you called me Neco.”

  Meanwhile the boat had passed the buoys marking the swim area. At that point, they swapped places and he—his back to the bow, still facing her—sat down on the seat in the middle, starting to
row with long, powerful strokes.

  “Why do we go this way?” she asked, since he diverted towards the cliffs that framed the bay rather than going straight to the open sea.

  “Here it’s more sheltered. You can’t even feel the waves. So it’s more pleasant and we go faster, too.”

  The creaking of the wood at every stroke and the occasional scream of seagulls punctuated the silence between them, when she got the urge to lean over the side of the boat. The brilliant blue of the water hid its depth. Overcome by the notion that this part of the sea had languished in solitude for years, she lowered her hand to caress it, feeling the silkiness of the water slip past her fingers as she traced an ephemeral trail across its skin.

  Thinking about the sea helped her escape the quiet growing between them, and avoid looking at him. It wasn’t easy. Seeing him row, his biceps contracted at each stroke in a tempting show. At least focusing on the sea kept her from falling victim to dangerous distractions.

  For the first time, she had trouble finding something to talk about with him because each path seemed to lead to personal subjects, only steps away from references to his crush on her. The last thing she wanted was to spread salt on the wound she’d unknowingly inflicted on him. She was thinking of asking him about his friends, but friendship is a complement to a love life he didn’t have. She could show interest in his taste in music or films, but then she had to hope that they wouldn’t end up talking about love songs or romantic movies. She considered it useless to broach sports, because she only understood the basics of some American sports. If he were a fan, he would have brought it up earlier when talking to someone from the US. Maybe by mentioni—

  “I went on YouTube a while ago,” he said out of the blue, continuing to row.

  She raised her highbrows at his words. Then she realized that this weighty silence wasn’t only crushing her.

  “I spent almost two hours at the computer.”

  “Wow. I hope that all those fucked up pranks haven’t given you the idea to do one to me, too.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  “I know. I was joking.”

  “Well, I watched the pranks at first. Then it suggests other videos, like guys creating disasters at work, fat people trying to be acrobats at home, kids playing with animals … There was a young girl wearing a butterfly costume who was in despair ’cause she couldn’t fly.”

  “Oh, little poor!”

  “Um, ‘little poor’ sounds weird.”

  “I meant, how do you say if you feel sorry for the kid? ‘Poor little girl?’ ”

  “Ah! Yes, we say that. Or ‘Poor thing.’ ”

  “I was worried that I hadn’t said anything weird this afternoon yet …”

  “Hahaha.”

  “You have to tell me when I make mistakes!”

  “I’ll try. Anyway, if you’re not careful with this YouTube thing, hours pass by without you noticing. Man, there are so many videos!”

  “Well, I’m glad I opened a new universe to you.”

  “At one point I called my dad and we started watching some drunk people doing stupid shit.”

  “What kind of stupid shit?” she got curious, having never watched such videos.

  “One walked leaning sideways and wasn’t able to set himself straight,” he began, still rowing. “Another one tried to pedal a bike with no front wheel. One was fighting a mannequin, and the more the mannequin didn’t answer, the more pissed off he got … Another one seemed okay ’cause he was walking straight, but at a certain point there was a wall and he didn’t stop. Telling you about ’em, they don’t sound that funny, but if you saw ’em …”

  “Okay. I have my phone,” she said, happy to find an escape route.

  “Anna, wait … Hannah! We’re almost there.”

  She looked past him and then around them. They were following the coastline, keeping the cliffs on their left. Then, only the sea. She looked more carefully at the cliffs, searching for a cove or a docking point; but she only saw a rock wall as tall as a four-story building. It continued towards the horizon about as far again as they had just come.

  “Where is it?”

  He turned to look over his shoulder.

  “See that buoy marker?” he asked, pointing to something up ahead.

  “That orange thing? Is it that your secret place?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well?”

  “Just one more minute of patience.”

  If she hadn’t known him so well, she might have been worried. Then again, did she really know him well? Her mind said no, but her heart held the opposite opinion. And since the heart had proved that it knew more than the mind—for example in analyzing her sense of guilt—she decided to ignore any other logical objections.

  Nico left the oars, stood up, and moved to the bow. The boat drifted on the inertia of the last row and he leaned over to grab the buoy.

  “Will you pass me that line?”

  “Line?”

  “There, behind you,” and he continued to point his finger at the stern of the boat.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The rope.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  She turned back and picked it up.

  “Here. Sorry, Nico. I was thinking about phones or computers when you mentioned ‘line,’ hahaha. But now I remember you taught me this word when I explained to you the meaning of Lifeline.”

  “Yes, the ‘rescue line.’ Your project for helping children with disabilities,” he added, giving her a thrill of joy that he remembered it.

  He tied the rope to the buoy and pushed the other end into an iron ring bolted to the top of the bow, then fixed it with a complex knot.

  “Okay. You ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To see my secret place,” and he took off his T-shirt.

  She was disoriented.

  When he took off his jeans and was left in only a speedo, she couldn’t take her eyes off of his sculpted body.

  “What’s up?” he said all of a sudden. She snapped her eyes back to his face. “You put on a swimsuit, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Oh, you had me worried.”

  “You mean we should dive in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” he added, since he had touched her leg with his while returning to the stern.

  “But is not it dangerous? There could be … I don’t know … some big fish?”

  “Nah, don’t worry. It’s safe. I come here every day.”

  She sighed. In for a penny …

  While she was undressing, he was doing something with a watertight plastic bag, putting his wallet and phone inside.

  “Will you take them with you?”

  “Yes, but just to be sure. Gimme yours, too. I’ve never heard other fishermen complain about being robbed in the middle of the sea, but ya never know.”

  She appreciated his caution and, after pulling off her cover-up, handed him her own.

  “Put your purse down here,” he instructed, lifting a board in the floor to reveal a small space below.

  He blew all the air out of the bag and sealed it. Then he rummaged in the small locker at the stern.

  “I brought this in case you don’t want to open your eyes underwater.” He showed her some swim goggles.

  “I usually don’t have need of them, but it would be nice to take a good look down there.”

  He passed it to her. Then, as she adjusted the band for her head, he bent down again and pulled out two thermal diving vests.

  “It’ll be loose on you, but better than too tight,” he told her as he tossed her one.

  She caught it on the fly.

  Although the goggles made sense, the vest made none given the warmth of the water. She put it on, even as her concern increased.

  He put on his and, before pulling up the zipp
er, tucked the bag with phones and wallets in it against his chest. Then, without another word, he dove in.

  The boat swung and she had to hold on to the bench to remain standing.

  “Come on,” he encouraged her from the water, while she hesitated.

  “Hang on.”

  “What?”

  “How will I re-get on board? I doubt I can get up from the sea.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

  “How, Nico?” she replied, somewhat irked.

  “I’ll climb up first. Then I’ll reach down and pull you up.”

  It seemed like it would take impressive strength to do that.

  “Are you capable for it?”

  He smiled and glided to the side of the boat. He hung from the edge of it, careful to avoid the oar. With the strength and agility of a gymnast, he pushed himself out of the water with his arms and then climbed back in the boat one leg at a time.

  “Have I convinced you?” he asked with ostentatious boldness.

  Partly relieved and partly aggravated, she stopped thinking and, leaving the goggles dangling like a necklace, jumped into the water.

  She resurfaced and was startled when she looked around and couldn’t see him.

  “Everything okay?” he asked from behind her.

  He must have dived right after she did, befuddling her again.

  “The water is warm. Why do we wear these?”

  “Come with me,” he said, and began to swim lazily toward the cliffs a dozen yards away from where he’d moored the boat.

  She followed him.

  As he approached the rocky wall awash in sunlight, she saw it rise majestically above her. She wanted Nico to say something, but he kept on swimming in silence.

  When they were only a few strokes from the cliffs, he stopped.

  “So? Where is it?” she tried again, seeing nothing but water and rock.