“Sometimes I think you know what I want before I do.” Catherine peeks under the dish towel at three rows of pudgy-bottomed rice balls. They come to pixieish peaks and wear deep-fried coats of crispy bread crumbs. “They look perfect!”
“I will teach you these later in the week. Very easy.” Giulia walks around the studio, examining things with a level of interest that suggests she’s stalling.
“Catherine,” she says, “I have something to ask.”
“Sit down, Giulia. In the rocking chair. Which has been so wonderful out here, by the way. Thank you again.”
“It was nothing.” Giulia sits. She clasps and unclasps her fingers as if no position is quite comfortable. “My question, though—is big. I want to know if—maybe—you and Mark would think about buying this place.”
Catherine isn’t sure what she was expecting, but this wasn’t it. “This place, meaning―”
“The whole place. Both houses, the barn, the olives, all of it.”
“But, Giulia—”
“Change is coming. All we ask, my mother and I, is to live here until we go. We can work out together a way to do this that is good for everybody. If you and Mark can make a good offer, I know I can talk to my brothers to take it, and they will.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“It must be before Mark’s investors make a bigger offer because then I must tell my brothers. These investors—they will not love the place the way I know you and Mark will love it.”
“I do love it. And I’m so embarrassed that Mark is behaving the way he is.”
“Mark is a good man. He must do these things for his work. But once he lives here, it will be different. I can still work the olives and help you to hire more workers. And you can do your art here. I would be very happy. You and Mark would be very happy. Everyone would be happy. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
“That Assunta would be happy?”
“Yes, Assunta too. But . . .”
Catherine hesitates, then says, “Nico?”
“Mamma and I, we always knew you would understand.”
The next afternoon in the studio, Catherine works as Nico sits on the floor nearby. She’s pretty sure Mark’s at a meeting—was it in Trapani? A few short months ago, they always knew each other’s plans, although now she can’t help wondering how often Mark was being straight with her. When she hears him approaching, she looks to Nico, who slips into the shadows toward the east end of the barn.
“Getting a lot done?” Mark puts his suit jacket over the back of a stool and sits.
“Surprisingly so. You?”
“The meeting went well. I guess you were out for a walk when I left today.”
Catherine wipes her hands on a damp cloth. “In the olive grove again. Those trees have more personality than a lot of people I know. I think I’ll try some sculptures of them tomorrow, or at least of some branches.”
“Nice. The olive branch—the official peace offering. Accepted everywhere.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. I’ve been thinking about them on a less metaphorical level.”
Mark gets up and walks over to another table, hands in pockets. “I haven’t seen much of your sketch work lately. I miss that.”
“Maybe this evening we can go through some together.”
“Sure.”
Catherine looks away from Mark’s “You and I both know we won’t” expression. “Giulia came by yesterday. I tried to wait up to tell you.”
“Oh. Anything wrong?”
“She wanted to ask us something.” She rushes to finish, sprinting to get through what Mark’s face tells her is a swiftly closing door. “It would be a wonderful chance for us. To start over.”
“Start over here with Nico, you mean.”
“We could put the past behind us. All of it—Seth, what’s been happening here between us. It would be a fresh beginning.”
“I’ve said it all before. I can’t trap myself here, in a place I don’t want to be, and with no end to this Nico thing. I need to get away, not move here. Don’t you see that?”
“I don’t. I don’t know what you’re trying to escape.”
“Me? You’re the one trying to escape. You can’t face your life back in New York. You want to hide here, you want me to hide with you, and you want me to share in your joy about Nico. When he—or some other phantom child—wants to harm me. And you don’t seem to care about that at all.”
“You can’t stop lying, can you?”
“Look. We’re not getting anywhere.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pen. Ripping a page from one of Catherine’s sketch pads, he writes. “I’m going to go throw together some clothes and spend a few days in Trapani. At this hotel.” He pockets the pen. “We both need some time to think alone.”
“Fine. Go.”
“I don’t like saying this any more than you’re going to like hearing it, but I’m afraid it’s coming down to a choice—Nico or me.”
“Or maybe you’re the one who has to choose.”
“There is no choice for me. I cannot and will not stay where I’m not safe.”
Catherine sits down in the rocking chair, head in her hands. “How did we get here, Mark? I thought we’d always be happy. Each other’s biggest ally. Now, I don’t even know you.” She whispers, “Or trust you.”
“I’m the same guy, Catherine. Come back home. Break the stranglehold this place has on you and things will look just the way they used to.” Mark looks down at the floor, jingling the car keys in his pocket. “I didn’t want to mention this before because it’s so—it sounds—I’d think it was unhinged if someone else said it. But it’s more than a threat I’m worried about with Nico —or whoever the hell he is. He actually assaulted me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mark. How far will you go with this?”
In two strides, Mark is at Catherine’s chair. He leans in over her, looking straight into her eyes. “It was the middle of the night. He got on top of me and kept touching my face. He painted my face with blood. With blood, Catherine! I thought I would lose my fucking mind. It was horrifying. I’ve never been that scared. Not even close.”
“And where was I?”
Mark paces. “Right there. Asleep.”
“Why didn’t I see any blood on you or our bed or the floor—or anywhere? Come on, Mark, it was a guilty nightmare. If you aren’t making it all up on the spot.”
“What can I do to make you believe me? What would make you stop being so angry and listen to me?”
“The only thing that would help me now is if I never have to hear you or any of your disgusting lies again.”
Mark grabs his jacket. “Your concern is touching. I’ll be back in three or four days.”
Catherine refuses to watch Mark leave. Let him be dramatic. Let him go. The car door slams, the engine starts, and a piercing squeal fades down the driveway, leaving a harsh silence behind.
A rustling sound from the back corner breaks the stillness as Nico steps out of the shadows. Approaching Catherine, he climbs into her lap, so cautious and gentle as to be almost ethereal, and settles there, head on her shoulder, body a fetal curl. Catherine lays a tentative hand on the back of his head, and when he does not object, she wraps her other arm around him. Stroking his hair, she rocks him like an infant. “I will always love you, Nico.” Nico looks up into her face, and Catherine’s heart fills with tenderness and uncomplicated contentment as he touches her cheek and smiles.
THIRTY-FIVE
Mark
Sitting on the hard ground in the windy tophet, Mark checks his watch. Five minutes until midnight. He’s pretty sure he just said that out loud. He’s been doing that a lot the past three days, not th
at anyone’s been around who could possibly care. Unless that kid cares. He’s been around, although not this evening, at least so far.
Placing the black candle on the uneven dirt in front of him, Mark worries and works it into a stable position and takes the sketch of Nico from his pocket. He had watched Flavia fold it, each move precise, and sew it closed with a smothering of meticulous small crosses. He’d done as she instructed and carried it with him for two days, periodically chanting the words she’d taught him, which, Paola assured him, boil down to “Get lost.” He laughs but stops as the gusty wind blows the chilling sound of quavering echoes to his ears. The whole thing is ludicrous, and he ought to just stop now, but . . .
From a white plastic bag, Mark takes a bowl, a bottle of water, and a jar filled with a golden liquid Flavia had said was the best for this kind of thing. What kind is that? Laughing again, something he’s quite certain Flavia would frown upon, he places the bowl next to the candle and pours in the water. When it settles, he adds the liquid almost drop by drop, letting it form a fat layer on the water’s surface. Hey, this will make a great topic of conversation the next time Richard and Simone give a party. Oh yeah. Simone was right. He’s so lucky to get to experience this firsthand.
He looks up at the sound of a twig cracking and holds still. It had to be the wind. This dismal island is hardly a hot spot for the locals. He hesitates. The next step will leave him unable to hear or see anything around him—not that there’s anything but this blasted wind. Taking a thin plastic tarp from the bag, he drapes it over himself, the candle, and the bowl, pulling a portion of it under himself and sitting on it. This takes an exasperating amount of work, since the wind appears bent on taking the tarp sailing. Using sand and rocks—and probably pieces of precious Phoenician pottery, Catherine, so how do you like that? Meet your expectations of Mark as the Philistine?—he at last secures the tarp to his satisfaction. Flavia had specified two companions holding a dark blanket over his head, but, hey, a guy can only do what he can do. Imagine if Flavia knew he wasn’t even sure this cemetery was the kid’s home?
In the pitch black of the enclosure, Mark feels for the candle and the matches. The racket of the tarp in the wind is pissing him off now, but he’s almost done. He lights the candle, nearly burning his fingers, and touches a corner of the sketch to the flame. It flares, and he lifts the photo and moves it toward the bowl. He pauses. Maybe it’s not too late to stop and retain some shreds of self-respect. But he’s too far gone for that. All that’s left now is to repeat the chant three times and make sure the picture burns to ash, so he shrugs. Flavia had warned twice that if it burned partway, if the slightest bits were left, his situation could get much worse. He begins the chant and drops the photo into the bowl. The liquid on the surface bursts into a hot green flame, and when Mark jerks away, the wind frees a corner of the tarp, which dips into the bowl, igniting. Mark reaches forward, hoping to stop it, but he hits the bowl, splashing flaming liquid onto the tarp. The flame twists its way along the tarp, connecting the dots of splashed golden liquid, and in moments, he’s in a burning cocoon that clings to him, hot and tenacious, even when he stands. The wind pushes the thin plastic against him, and as he struggles to free himself, the melting plastic sticks in agonizing patches to his bare skin while the fumes burn his throat and lungs. When he finally escapes, the fire out, he bends, hands on his knees, breath harsh, eyes tearing.
What a fuckup. He couldn’t even do this right—a stupid, senseless ritual probably dreamed up in the year 1300 by some toothless village idiot. He’s got to get out of here. He’s got to get himself straightened out back home. He can come back for Catherine later.
THIRTY-SIX
Catherine
Surrounded by a tangle of clay olive branches, Catherine adjusts the armature for a small tree, trying for the perfect twist to the limbs. The right warp and curve is critical to capturing the grace and charm of these old souls. Every few minutes she looks up to see if Nico is here, but he never is. He hasn’t been back since the afternoon he sat on her lap, the afternoon Mark left almost four days ago. Did Nico decide she’d gone too far? Or maybe that was a farewell hug he’d given her. It’s too sad to think that, even for a minute.
It’s just as sad to think she might lose Mark. This could be—should be—such a happy time for all three of them. It would break her heart to leave Nico now. At the same time, the thought that she owes Mark a chance haunts her, a chance, as he said, on their home territory. She prides herself on being sensible and observant. You can’t be an artist without being a good observer. So she would have noticed at some time in ten years if Mark had been a liar, wouldn’t she? Is he right—that she’s in the thrall of this magical place, and once she gets away, she’ll see Mark and Nico more clearly? But who’s to say it isn’t the other way around? That in New York, she’s under the spell of Mark, and only here has been able to see the truth. Then again, it’s possible that her failure to detect what was coming with Seth proves she’s not the sharp observer she likes to think she is.
Catherine looks up at soft footfalls approaching the barn. There are too many for it to be Nico. It must be several people, adults from the sound. They are speaking Italian, sober and subdued, and she can make out enough as they get closer to know it is Giulia and two men who seem to want Catherine.
Giulia enters first, followed by the men, their uniforms identifying them as municipal police. Nico! Something’s happened to Nico. Let it not be that.
After brief introductions, one of the officers nods to Giulia. “Catherine, these gentlemen asked me to tell you why they have come today. I’m afraid the news is not so good. It is about Mark. He is in hospital now after these men found him.”
“Found him?”
“They found him alone on Mozia in the tophet. They think he must have been there all the night before, maybe longer. He was in—how do you say this?—the shock? He has some serious burns. And he has not spoken to anyone.”
“Burns? Why was he there, and what he was doing? And—he hasn’t spoken at all?”
Giulia confers with the police. “No, he says not a single word to anyone. Not one word. No one knows why he was there. They found some things—some things people use for Sicilian magic near where they found him.”
She drops onto her stool. “Magic? That’s not Mark.”
“The police, they want to know if you know why he would need this?”
Catherine shakes her head no.
“And—” Giulia hesitates.
“Giulia—what? Tell me.”
“They found his car on the main island. And in it they found some letters to you from a man. Seth—”
“Seth! To me here? In Sicily?”
“Yes. And—these letters were wrapped in some herbs also used for the Sicilian magic to make a person—em—leave your life. The police want to know if this Seth is here and where they should look for him.”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t know anything about them. The letters, I mean.” She covers her face with her hands. “I need to see Mark. I don’t understand any of this.”
“Catherine?”
Catherine looks up to see Sandra approaching. When had she come in? She notices Kenneth standing next to Giulia, baby Valeria in his arms and Claudio at his side. Had he been there all along? And Assunta at Giulia’s other side. She’s sure Assunta hadn’t been there a few moments ago.
Sandra sits next to Catherine and puts an arm around her shoulders. “Giulia called us. She thought we might be a comfort to you. Kenneth and I will help you with everything—getting to see Mark, making sure he gets the right care, all of it.”
Catherine can’t think straight. Giulia must have called Sandra and Kenneth before she came to tell Catherine about Mark. That makes no sense.
“Catherine.” Sandra’s eyes are sympathetic, her voic
e soft. “We are all your family here. We will—all of us—all help you through this.”
Before she can reply, a sensation of being watched seizes Catherine, one she has not experienced in a long time. Now, though, her deep unease comes not from fear of the unknown, but from the horror of what she is quite sure she does know. She turns, and there, in the shadows, is Nico. Without moving a muscle, he catches her eye, holds her gaze, and smiles.
THIRTY-SEVEN
April 2016—twenty-three years later
Catherine stands in the doorway, watching; her latest guests are due any moment. She notices that the sign is getting worn, the letters fading from their original blood red to a dusky rose. That will need attention. At the sound of tires on the dirt drive, half a dozen hens scatter, squawking their grievances.
Catherine smooths the front of her blouse, checking that it is clean and presentable before opening the door and greeting the young American couple. “Welcome to Agriturismo di Caterina. You must be Deirdre and Lawrence.”
“Yes. Dee and Larry. And you are Catherine?”
“I am. This is my favorite moment—when my guests go from being names on an e-mail to flesh-and-blood people. Come in. Come to the desk, and let’s get you settled.”
Catherine opens the register to a page marked with a crimson ribbon. “If you would sign in, please. And fill in here.” She points. “I’ll need to see your passports. The Italian government requires it.”
“Sure.” Larry picks up a pen and writes.
“Would you like help with your bags?”
“That would be nice,” says Dee.
“Nico!” A tall, almost-beautiful young man comes out from a back room in response to Catherine’s call. “This is my son.” His smile is warm and welcoming as he shakes hands with Dee and Larry. “You can always ask him if you need help with something. Right now, Nico, please get the bags for these nice people, and bring them to number three.”
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