by Karina Halle
“Lucky,” I say. “I have to leave in two months.”
She makes a face. “Well, you can probably stay a bit longer. A lot of the people I meet, the customs officials don’t even look at their passports when they leave.”
“Ciao, bella!” A singsongy voice comes from the door. I turn to see two Italian girls enter, all long limbs and even longer hair. They wave at Shay and sit down at a table by a window. I spy a Fendi purse being placed on an empty chair. So chic.
“Ciao! Un momento,” Shay says and then starts pouring two Guinnesses. She nods at the girls and eyes me. “Those’re Utavia and Lenora. They come here every Friday for their cheat day. They love Guinness but I guess it doesn’t mesh very well with their diets.”
I look back at the girls. So much for Italians being able to eat everything and anything. These girls obviously have to work to stay slim.
Shay runs the beers over to them and comes back to me. With only a few people in the bar we get to talking, and soon I’m two beers in and feeling a bit buzzy. She tells me all about her boyfriend, Danny, and how they were a lot like me—couldn’t find a job after college so they decided to work boring jobs and save money and just travel instead. As I talk to her, I get to thinking that maybe I’ll just do that again when I go home. Forget about using my English degree, I’ll just work at Starbucks and travel all over again. Or maybe I can even use the experience I get at the Larosas’ and teach English somewhere else in Europe.
I’m daydreaming about this when Shay asks me, “So how long are you planning to stay in Capri for?”
“Well, unless I can get a work visa or something like that, two months.”
“Oh, I thought you were traveling in Italy for two months. You’re going to be on Capri for that long?”
I nod. “I got a job as of yesterday. Teaching English to children. Of course, I don’t know the first thing about teaching or teaching English to Italian kids, but they seem to know enough already, so I’m hoping it won’t be too hard.”
“Where will you be living?”
I gesture in the direction of the Faraglioni Rocks. “Down the Via Tragara. Villa dei Limoni Tristi. House of sad lemons?”
She frowns and looks over at the Italian girls who are still nursing their beers and chatting away.
“Scusi,” Shay says in broken Italian. “Dove si trova Villa dei Limoni Tristi?”
The girls exchange a look and leave their chairs, coming over to us.
“Why do you ask?” The taller one says in English, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m staying there,” I tell her. I tilt my head at Shay. “I was telling her I have a job teaching English to the two children who live there.”
“Larosa?” the other girl asks. “Annabella and . . . and . . . Alfonso, yes?”
“Yes,” I say, somewhat excitedly. “You know them?”
Another brief exchange and then the taller one says, “Yes. I know their brother, Derio.”
Is that bitterness I detect in her voice?
“Oh,” Shay suddenly says. “That’s where the motorcycle guy lives! Yes, okay, I got it now.” Then she looks to me. “Oh my God, you’re living there? That house has so many rumors around it.” She catches the look on my face. “Sorry, don’t mean to put a damper on your new job.”
My eyes go wide. “What kind of rumors?”
“First of all,” the tall one says, “Derio has to be gay.”
“Gay?” I repeat. “But he was married.”
The woman raises her hand. “Gay. Not interested in women.”
Her friend elbows her and laughs. “Not interested in Lenora.”
Lenora rolls her eyes. “Anyway, he has mental problems.”
“So handsome, though,” Shay says somewhat dreamily. She grins at me. “Sometimes I see him riding his bike in the mornings. Danny hates it when I’m trying to sneak a glance.”
“The house is so ugly now that Sophie and Adamo are dead. They were their parents. Very nice people, very classy. Derio isn’t. He shouldn’t have been left in charge. The poor housekeeper, she’ll die next if she continues to work so hard.”
“Felisa?” I ask, not really appreciating Lenora’s callous tone. “She’s tough as nails.”
Lenora purses her bright pink lips and shrugs. “It’s all a shame. The children are orphans, all of them. Even Derio. They should be in the care of people who know what they are doing, not some divorced motorcyclist.”
“Ex-motorcyclist,” Utavia adds.
“That’s right. He doesn’t even make money anymore. You know, he was very good at what he did, very famous here in Italy. Had a beautiful wife. But she left him when he quit racing. Went for another racer. That must have hurt, but what did he expect? The money was gone except for what was left in inheritance. But what sort of man lives off of that?”
“And he’s gay. She probably left him for that, too,” Utavia says jokingly.
“Why, what happened?” I ask. “Why did he quit?”
Lenora sighs as if she’s suddenly tired of talking to me. “There was an accident. About a year after they died. He was racing and his bike spun out. He was favored to win the race but then it happened. He broke his arm and ribs. He wasn’t that badly injured but it was enough for him to decide to never race again. He wouldn’t really say why, but he quit. Lost the sponsorships, everything. And for nothing.”
“But he still rides on the island.”
“It’s a small island. He doesn’t race here. One of the rumors is that he hasn’t left Capri since then. Who knows why? That’s why we think he is not all right in his head. What kind of man gives up everything to take care of his brother and sister?”
Um, a really good man? I want to spit at her.
“Tell her about your date with him,” Utavia says.
Lenora rolls her eyes again. “I would rather not. We went out for dinner to a very nice place in Anacapri. He got too drunk and then ignored me. That’s another thing, he drinks too much.” She pauses and looks me up and down. “I don’t think you’re going to last long.”
I paste on a smile. “As long as I last two months, then I’ll be golden.”
She gives me a derisive snort. “You’ll see. They’ve never had a nanny before other than the old woman. What a horrible person she is.”
“I’m not the nanny,” I point out. “I am teaching the children English.”
“Why?” Lenora asks. “They learn that in school.”
“Apparently it was the wish of their parents,” I say.
“So they were a bit crazy, too. She was an author, you know, Sophie Larosa. Very famous, though she kept to herself. Who knows, maybe she thinks learning more English will make them little writers in all languages.” She looks at Shay, who has been listening intently this whole time. “What do we owe you?”
“Ten euro,” Shay says and Lenora fishes out a twenty from her Gucci wallet.
Lenora wiggles her manicured nails at me. “The extra ten euro is for you, for the next boat out of here. You’ll thank me later when you have no choice but to leave that crazy family.”
She turns around and leaves the bar with Utavia.
“I forgot to mention,” Shay says carefully and with a smile, “that aside from ordering a Guinness, they also like to indulge in their bitchy tendencies. Don’t worry, though, most people on the island are really nice.”
I nod, feeling out of sorts and strangely defensive about the Larosas, especially Derio. I don’t doubt what she said is true. He could be gay, I guess. His wife probably did leave him over money. He might drink too much. He might have mental problems. But none of that makes me like him any less. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t.
“Have another pint?” she asks, just as a few more people enter the bar and sit down next to Cole and Charles.
I glance at the clock on my phone. “I wish I could but I guess I should get going.”
“Hey, don’t let those girls scare you. You’ve already been hired right? That means you’r
e right for the job. And anyway, it’s just for a couple of months, not a lifetime commitment. You can do anything for a couple of months, I believe that. Besides,” she says, and pulls out a paper coaster. She takes her pen out of her apron and writes down her phone and e-mail address. “You have any problems, or just want to talk or have a beer, just call me, okay? You’re one of the few Americans I know staying on this island. It would be nice to have a friend.”
I take the coaster, tell her I’ll be in touch, and attempt to pay for the second beer I had.
She shakes her head. “Just come in next time and maybe I’ll let you pay.”
I gratefully agree and take off, heading toward my new job and the scary unknown.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s been one week since I was hired to work at the Larosas’, one week since I’ve called the Villa dei Limoni Tristi home, and one week since I’ve seen Shay or really anyone else outside of the household.
During that week I’ve managed to make Alfonso and Annabella cry. They’ve made me cry. Felisa has yelled at me. Felisa has yelled at them. I’ve thought about quitting, especially when notebooks and pencils were hurled at my head by angry Italian children. I’ve had too much espresso at breakfast and too much wine at dinner. I’ve spent all my spare time reading up on how to teach these damn kids better, how to be better, and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to bring the grounds around the house back to life. I’ve also become convinced there’s a ghost in the small attic upstairs.
And yet, during all the trials and tribulations of the first week, I’ve barely seen Derio at all. Sometimes in the mornings I’ll see him walk up the path to the road and bring his motorcycle out of a gated shed to the left of the property and then zoom off. Sometimes I catch him on his bedroom balcony smoking. Sometimes I just see the door to his office closing, as if the ghost I think lives in the house is passing through. But I have not conversed with him, nor exchanged any sort of smile or acknowledgment.
In some ways it’s good. It keeps me focused on Alfonso and Annabella. In some ways it’s bad, for those same reasons. After one week, the two don’t seem to be warming up to me at all. The good news is that their English is at least improving a little bit. So far I’ve let them choose the topics. For Alfonso, it’s sharks; for Annabella, it’s everything involving Africa. Turns out her obsession with animal print is because she loves the idea of safaris, not because she’s making a fashion statement.
It’s Friday afternoon and I’m sitting on the floor in the kids’ playroom, going through my day planner and trying to think of what to teach them. I’ve turned the place into a partial classroom, complete with a whiteboard on an easel, plastic chairs, and a box of “mystery” (aka, weird things of mine or things I find around the house that might make for good show and tell). It’s the end of a long, difficult week and I want to make things interesting and fun—then I want to hightail it to the Irish pub and have a few pints with Shay and get hit on by drunk British boys. Anything to take my mind away from here.
There’s a knock at the door, and as I say “Come in,” I expect to see Felisa telling me she’s about to pick up the kids from school. Instead, the door opens and I see Derio poke his head in.
I immediately get to my feet, feeling like the president has just walked into the room.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asks. He still hasn’t come in.
I shake my head, smoothing down the front of my yellow maxi dress. “No. Not at all. I was just planning the lesson.”
He nods and then comes in. He walks right over to me, hands behind his back, mouthing whatever I have written on the board. I get a whiff of his scent, musk and sage and lemons. I try not to inhale too deeply.
“So this is where you teach them?” he asks, eyeing his surroundings.
“Uh, so far,” I say, quickly tucking my hair behind my ears, but being the unruly beast it is, my hair springs forward. “I’m working it out as I go.”
“How about teaching them outside, in the sunshine?”
I bite my lip. I considered that. “Perhaps. I just wanted to establish a routine first.”
“Very good,” he says, his eyes sliding to mine. They’re so dark and intense that I feel very small and exposed next to him. I’ve gone from never seeing him to having him extremely close. It’s jarring. I’m not sure I like being jarred.
“And how has your first week been to you?” he asks, his voice lower now.
I’m a horrible liar. “It was okay.”
“Just okay?” he asks, sounding a bit amused.
I shrug. “Alfonso is better at throwing pencils than he is at using them. I’m afraid of what will happen if I let him use his iPad.”
“But you believe writing by hand is important?”
“It’s easier for me,” I tell him, honestly. “I guess I’m kind of going by how I’ve been taught.”
A rare smile glimmers across his lips. “But you are barely more than a child yourself.”
I want to laugh. I throw my hands out to the sides. “I told you, I’m twenty-four. Just turned it last month.” I pause. “And you’re only twenty-nine. You’re not even thirty yet. We’re practically the same age.”
“But you look very young,” he says.
“It’s the hair,” I explain.
It looks like he wants to reach out and touch it—his hand moves slightly—but he doesn’t. “Yes. And your face. It’s a very innocent face for someone with such wild hair.”
I’m not sure what to say to that at first. I feel like he’s paying me a compliment, which is a rare thing. I want to clutch his words to my chest and hug them and never let go. But then my mouth opens and I say, “I only look innocent, believe me.”
He takes that ballsy comment in stride and moves away from me toward the door. “I’ve been quite busy this week. I wanted to apologize for that,” he says. He pauses and looks at me over his shoulder. “I thought perhaps it might be nice to do something different for the last day of the week.”
“Like what?”
“Can you swim?” he asks. “Do you like to?”
I would have thought that would be an extremely loaded question coming from him but he says it casually. “Uh, yes I can swim. And I love to. I haven’t since I’ve been in Italy, though.”
“No?” he asks, brows raised. “We will have to change that, then. Sometimes I take the twins to the beach. I haven’t done that for a while now. I was thinking we could go now and pick them up from school. Give Felisa a night off. Does that interest you?”
I nod. Hell yes it interests me. No teaching and an evening at the beach? Count me in.
“There aren’t many beaches on Capri, and they are not like the ones you have in America. I have an aunt who lives in Florida and it is not the same at all. Very rough stones here. But the water is warm and so clear you can see the bottom without goggles. The beach I take them to is by the lighthouse, Punta Carena. It is the only beach that has sun all day, until it sets.”
“How do we get there?” I briefly imagine riding on the back of his motorcycle, my hands wrapped around his chest. Maybe we can stick the kids in a sidecar.
“I’ll call a taxi to meet us by the Piazzetta and I’ll call the beach as well. You must reserve a spot ahead of time.”
What kind of a crazy-ass beach is this? I nod anyway. “Okay, let me just throw together a little bag.” I follow him out into the hall and while he goes to make his call I pop in to my room next door and start packing a tote with a towel, bathing suit, sunblock, hat, and my Kindle.
Ten minutes later we’re saying goodbye to Felisa, who looks tired but relieved, and I follow Derio up the path through the lemon trees and through the gate to the road.
We walk along the Via Tragara at my pace, though his long legs could carry him much faster. He’s got his shades on and another fashionable outfit—blue untucked dress shirt, knee-length tan cargo shorts, tan Converse shoes. He slips a cigarette in his mouth and lights it.
“Does no one tell
the Italians that smoking is bad for you?” I ask.
He smirks at me. “They do. We just don’t care. We like all of the bad things.” He inhales, his nostrils flaring, then breathes it out. “Smoking, racing, drinking, sex. All bad. All very good.”
And is that sex-with-a-woman sex? I want to ask but as I’m staring at him, despite his loner tendencies and his fashionable ways, I’m just not getting that vibe. Sometimes his eyes seem to smolder with something, though it’s probably wishful thinking on my behalf.
“Tell me, Amber,” he says, playfully pronouncing my name. “What are your bad habits?”
“Bad habits?” I repeat.
“You must have some,” he says.
I ponder that and pull my shades out of my bag. The sun is hot and glaring off the sea in the distance. “I guess I eat too much,” I tell him honestly. “I try not to, and I’m always worried about it. So I guess that’s a bad habit, too. Worry. I worry about a lot of things. I’m really bad with money. I spend recklessly. I’m impulsive with things and don’t really think them through. I also make snap judgments with people and I know I shouldn’t. I guess I used to think I was entitled but I got over that one pretty fast. I’m stubborn. I think I know more than I do. I tend to look for split ends in my hair and pull them apart. I pick at my nail polish. I don’t exercise as much as I should, mainly because I hate exercise. When I have wine, sometimes I have too much. I forget to put on sunscreen. I kiss all the wrong boys.” I pause. “I’m pretty sure I’m just a person composed of nothing more than good intentions and bad habits.”
“Wow,” he says quietly. “That is a lot. I didn’t really expect you to be so honest. Most women—most people—are never honest about their faults. But really, it sounds more like you are more human than made of bad habits. Though I don’t really understand the last one. You kiss all the wrong boys. How do you know who the right boy is?”
