by Karina Halle
I raise my shoulder. “I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet.”
“Like the story with the princess and the frog.”
“Maybe,” I say, and suddenly I feel vulnerable for sharing all my worst qualities with him. Vulnerable, but free.
We walk along the road, passing the other fancy houses and tourists. I nod at them and smile but notice that Derio keeps his head down, his focus in front of him, as he puffs away on his cigarette. I wonder if he knows what the people in town say about him. From his cagey demeanor as he passes people by, I gather he does.
Once we head into the clean, impossibly narrow streets of Capri town, Derio sets off down a small street to the left, grumbling to himself in Italian as he goes.
“Not a fan of the crowds?” I ask him.
He makes a tsking sound. “No,” he says gruffly. “I hate living here this time of year. You should see Capri in the winter; it is heaven. All the Prada and Louis Vuitton stores and overpriced tourist joints are closed and only a few bars, restaurants, and grocery stores are open. Even hotels are closed. That is the real Capri, not this.”
I try to imagine Capri with dark gray clouds instead of stunning sunshine, with just a few locals milling around instead of the throngs of sunburned visitors. “It must be very lonely,” I say, picturing the isolation. This is just a rock in the middle of the sea.
“Yes, but it is good to be lonely sometimes,” he says. “There is one bar in the Piazzetta, the square here, that remains open. Everyone goes there. If you are lonely, you can go there and be with people.”
But something tells me he doesn’t do that.
We come to a stop outside of a large stone building. Through the windows I can see a chalkboard, like schools used to have before iPads and computers replaced everything.
“Is this their school?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “There are two small schools on the island. One here, one in Anacapri. Have you been there yet?”
I shake my head. “To be honest, I haven’t really left the house until now.”
He tilts his head at me. “Oh? Then I am especially glad we are going to the beach. We will take the cab through Anacapri. Perhaps on the way back we can stop somewhere for dinner. I prefer it to here, less crowded and more charming.”
The sound of a bell ringing, almost like a church bell, comes out of the building, and suddenly the air is filled with children yelling and laughing. But I’m thinking about what he just said and the way it made me feel. Going out for dinner with Derio? Granted, the kids will be there, but somehow that almost makes it more intimate. My stomach does a little flip at the thought.
“Derio!” Alfonso says as he comes out of the building. Annabella trails behind him, her thumbs hooked around the straps of her backpack, her head down. Another child races past us, yelling something at Alfonso that makes him smile but Annabella seems to be totally shut off from the world around her.
I think Alfonso asks what we are doing picking them up instead of Felisa, but when Derio tells them they are going to the beach instead, even Annabella’s face lights up a little.
Soon we’re hailing a cab just outside of the funicular, and I can’t stop an internal squee as one of the convertibles pulls up to us. Alfonso wants to sit up front with the driver so Annabella goes in the backseat, followed by Derio in the middle. I’m glad for that because my fat ass would be a hindrance to both of them if I had to ride in the bitch seat.
I squish myself in, trying to buckle the seat belt and leaning against Derio to do so. I hear him inhale and for a second I think maybe he’s trying to smell my hair. I freeze. Don’t look up, don’t look up, I think, while also thinking, What shampoo did I use? What does my hair smell like?
The seat belt goes in with a click and when I do raise my head, Derio is facing the other way. Hmmm. Maybe my imagination is running away from me. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would smell my hair.
The taxi starts and we jet off down the hill. I casually take a strand of my hair and run it under my nose. The faint note of coconut lingers on it. At least I smell good.
Driving in Capri, like the rest of Italy, is nearly a full-contact sport. I close my eyes as the car winds down the hill and overtakes pedestrians in the narrow lanes, orange buses squeezing past us with a hair-width to spare while people on scooters tailgate us. Once we’re out of the congested city streets, the road begins to climb, up and up, and curve some more. Soon the houses drop away and it’s just lush foliage, rock face, and a serious cliff edge on my side. We must be hundreds of feet up, and I know I saw this very road from the marina when I first arrived. If I were brave enough to look, I would’ve seen nothing but space.
I close my eyes again, feeling my body freeze up on the verge of a panic attack. I get pins and needles all over my limbs as I experience vertigo, that falling sensation, again and again.
“You’re not looking at the view,” Derio says, his voice so close to my ear, but even that doesn’t help. Instead, I turn into him, burying my face into his shoulder, my weight against his side. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod against him but I still don’t move. It’s crazy what the fear can sometimes do to me, especially if the drop is sudden and I’m up really high. It’s almost like if I don’t hold on to him or if the seat belt isn’t tight enough, there’s a chance I’ll be sucked away, pulled over the edge. Sometimes I even fear that I’ll jump on purpose. It’s fucked up, but it happens occasionally. (The fear, not throwing myself out of cars or off of balconies.)
Derio doesn’t say anything. Instead he puts his arm around me. His grip is firm and strong and somehow that centers me, knowing that he has me and is holding on. I know it’s not a romantic gesture and that’s okay. I just want to feel anchored.
And I do feel anchored. I feel protected and warm. And though I know he wasn’t smelling my hair earlier, I’m inhaling the fuck out of him because honestly I can’t get enough.
CHAPTER SIX
After about five minutes of closing my eyes and burrowing myself into Derio’s arms, I can feel the air around us change. It becomes more dense, less open, and street sounds become louder. I carefully raise my head and look around, the wind whipping about my hair. We’re driving past large resort-like buildings and white-washed residences. We seem to be inland enough that there’s no chance of us falling to our doom. It pains me to think we have to take that road back home. Maybe I can hitch a ride on a boat.
I swallow thickly and straighten up, afraid to meet Derio’s eyes. I know they’re studying me underneath those sunglasses. With deliberation, he slips his arm away. The breeze feels cold for a moment before the sun goes back to searing my skin.
The cab takes us through Anacapri, which does look like a cuter, less touristy version of Capri town, past olive groves and tiny vineyards in the looming shadow of Mount Solaro. Finally, the island flattens out, opens up, and we’re parking at the base of a pink lighthouse.
“This is the Faro di Punta Carena,” Derio explains as we pile out of the cab. “We are at the most southwestern part of the island.”
It’s absolutely beautiful. The startlingly clear water, with its millions of shades of vivid blue, laps against the dramatic rocks and craggy coves. After Derio pays the driver, we walk down toward a restaurant perched on the edge of the cliff. He motions for me to stay put with the kids while he goes in to talk to someone.
Alfonso tries to follow him but I reach out and grab his arm.
He glares at my hand and says something along the lines of “You are not my mother!” in Italian.
My head jerks back at the ferocity in his voice but I don’t let go. I can’t let them do whatever they want, especially when their brother is around, and especially in public.
Thankfully, Derio returns and when he sees me holding on to angry little Alfonso, he stoops down to his brother’s level. He talks to him in a low voice, gentle but firm. Then he eyes me and takes my hand off of him. He holds it for a moment, squeezes
it so that Alfonso sees this, and then lets go of me. He finishes by asking Alfonso, “Capisci?”
Alfonso looks at me. I give him a small smile, not wanting him to think of me as the enemy. Eventually he nods.
Derio sighs and straightens up. “I am sorry,” he says.
“It’s not a problem, really,” I tell him. “They’re just kids. They do this kind of stuff.”
He shakes his head slightly, seeming lost in his own mind. “Yes, but they are raised to be better than most kids. They need to show you respect.”
I have to admit, I’m a bit touched by all of this. Derio grabs on to Alfonso and Annabella’s hands and takes them around the side of the restaurant. I watch their silhouettes, black against the sun, for a beat before I follow.
Though the area below and around the restaurant’s patio is made up of different platforms, all with well-oiled people relaxing on loungers, Derio takes me to a private deck with its own umbrella, lounge chairs, and even a brightly colored bathhouse for changing. He hands the kids their swimsuits and they disappear inside, hooting and hollering and making noises in the echo-y space.
I take a seat next to him, pondering if I should use the bathhouse after them or put my bikini on underneath my maxi dress. I can do it fast and without anyone seeing parts of me they shouldn’t, but doing it next to Derio doesn’t seem right either. Somehow it’s more intimate to undress next to him that way than to just strip naked.
“Heights,” he says to me as he opens the bright blue umbrella between us.
“What?”
“You have a fear of heights,” he says. “That is why you were hiding on the ride over.”
I nod, looking away. A seagull wheels down toward the loungers beneath, trying to steal bruschetta off of someone’s plate. “Yeah. It’s not that bad, but sometimes it just hits me, you know?”
“I know,” he says gravely, his focus now on the sea.
“You’re not afraid of swimming?” I ask him carefully, unsure of how much to let him know that I know. It’s definitely not a secret and I don’t think Felisa was sworn to silence, but it’s the first time I’ve talked about it with him. Hell, it’s the first time I’ve really talked to him since I got here.
He stiffens and I know I’ve probably done the wrong thing by asking him. I wait, holding my breath. Finally he shakes his head, ever so slightly. “No, I am not afraid of swimming, provided I am not too far from shore.”
But I guess boats are a different story. I don’t say anything more, of course.
Alfonso and Annabella come spilling out of the bathhouse, dressed in their swimwear, and gather around the rails of the deck, pointing at things below. I gather up my suit and a blousy caftan that I use as a cover-up for all my jiggly bits and disappear into the dark bathhouse.
It smells like heat and wood and sea inside and I take a moment to just compose myself. Some days I’m ashamed of my body, others days I’m loud and proud and couldn’t care less what people think. But today is one of those days that I feel my pale skin will be on display in that bright sunshine and I’ll be exposed more than ever before. My bikini is black-and-white striped and very flattering, but having Derio there makes me wish I had the lean, tanned, tall body of someone like Lenora instead of the pale, dimpled, curvy, short body that I seem to be stuck with. My mother always harps on me that I need to change my diet and exercise more, and while I think she’s right, she’s also one hundred pounds overweight and hard to take seriously. If anything, her nitpicking over my body aggravates me more than anything else.
I ignore her comments in my head and step out into the sun. Even though I put the caftan on I still feel exposed. It isn’t until I put my dress down on the lounger that I realize I’m not the one exposed here. Derio is standing beside Alfonso and Annabella, leaning against the railing and pointing at a passing yacht.
He’s in a goddamn Speedo.
I kind of freeze. And then I ogle. Because his back is to me and I have a mighty fine view of his body, I feel the need to soak it up while I can. Derio Larosa, without his clothes on, in practically nothing.
As I suspected, his body is pretty much perfect, at least from the rear view. His skin is this uniform reddish brown shade from his feet to the nape of his neck. His legs are firm, muscular and lean, and his ass is jaw-dropping. Like, he definitely has some well-sculpted, high and tight junk in his trunk. It makes me want to bite one of his cheeks.
Then there’s his back, long and rippled with lean muscles, leading up to broad swimmer’s shoulders.
Thankfully my eyes are at his upper portion when he turns around, about to say something. For a moment I forget I’m in a bikini and then I notice he’s kind of staring at me. God, I wish he wasn’t wearing those glasses because I would die to see his eyes. I have no idea if he likes what he sees or not but I bet he can tell that I do.
He smiles, just briefly. “Are you ready to go for a swim? I’m afraid if I don’t take them now they will plot my murder in my sleep.”
“Sure.”
He takes off his sunglasses and turns around, walking toward me to put them on the chair. And now I have a full view of his front. I try not to stare but it’s hard when it’s even more gorgeous than the back. His chest and abs, of course, are trim and well muscled in the way that an athlete’s are, complete with a dusting of trimmed chest hair and treasure trail, but it’s his damn Speedo that has all my attention. The stereotype of the Italian Stallion is not lost on this man. He’s packing heat, and a lot of it, in those tight red bottoms.
Somehow, and I don’t know how, because that banana hammock is just begging for people to stare, I manage to tear my eyes away from him just as he looks up. I can only pray that my face only feels hot and isn’t turning a beet shade of red. Blame it on the sun, blame it on the sun, I chant to myself.
I decide to lead the way, even though I don’t really know where I’m going. I head down a ramp that ends at a platform. A few people are sitting on the edge, their legs dangling off the side, while others jump in. There’s a set of stairs that leads from the platform down to the water. It’s only then that I realize he’s not the only person in this little swimming area who’s in a Speedo. He just happens to be the only man in the history of the bathing suit to make it look oh so fucking good.
I pause at the edge of the steps and then move out of the way as a heavyset woman in a swim cap comes past. She gets halfway in and then launches into a rather elegant crawl. The water does look inviting, and though it’s late afternoon, the sun is bearing down on me.
I turn around, about to ask Derio and his penis whether this is the place to go in the water, but he strides to the edge of the water and does a perfect swan dive off. With a gasp I glance over the edge and see him perfectly enter the water with nary a splash, just where the blue deepens between the rocky crags.
When he surfaces, he’s smiling, white teeth against bronzed skin against azure water. He looks like he’s straight from a damn Dolce & Gabbana ad. Behind me, the twins let out a squeal and then run down the stairs toward the water’s edge.
“Be careful!” I yell after them, wishing I knew it in Italian. Of course they don’t listen but they’re sure-footed and brave as anything and go down the stairs and into the water as fast as they can. I sigh and make my way down the steps, careful not to slip.
The twins swim over to Derio and try to climb on his shoulders, although they’re a bit too big for that. He treads water, trying to keep them above the surface before he shucks them off with a laugh. They splash and kick for the shore, climbing up on the rocks. I watch them carefully, wondering if we have a first aid kit and chastising myself for not bringing one, just in case. I might just be their teacher but I can’t not look out for them.
“Are you coming in?” Derio asks, swimming closer to the edge. He wraps his long fingers along the edge of the stairs and looks up at me. I hate the view of myself that he must have at the moment but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Leoni possono nuotare.”
“Scusi?” I ask.
“Lions can swim,” he translates, though it still doesn’t make much sense. He gestures to my head. “Your hair is like a lion’s mane. You are a lion. La Leonessa. Lions can swim, can they not?”
Lion, huh? I can live with that.
“They sure can,” I tell him proudly. I am a California baby, after all. With a deep breath, I take off the caftan and wedge it between rocks for safekeeping then head down into the water. It’s surprisingly warm, at least compared to the Nor Cal ocean, and soon I’m weightless and immersed in the clearest water I’ve ever swum in.
“Beautiful,” he says to me, swimming closer.
I can’t help smiling. “What is?”
“Everything,” he says, looking around him. Then his eyes lock on mine. “All of this.”
“It’s stunning,” I say briefly, tilting my head back to take in the sun. “It’s like living inside a painting.”
“Yes, that is what everyone says about Capri,” he comments. He swims over to the side to keep an eye on the twins, who are splashing near the steps now, and I can’t help watching the water glide over his dark skin, the look of his well-honed muscles. He moves so fluidly, gracefully, and it strikes me that he moves somewhat the same on land. I wonder what he’s like on the back of bike, racing at full speed. I bet it’s almost supernatural.
He glances at me, treading water in place for a few moments. A wet piece of hair flops onto his forehead, making him look boyish. “What do you think about Capri?”
“I love it,” I say, but it’s an automatic response. I’m not sure if I love it, per se, but I am loving parts of it. I don’t love my job—yet—but this is the setting we’re talking about. And how can I not love it after what he’s shown me today? I feel like I’m swimming in God’s pool. “It’s almost mythical.”
He nods and spits out some water. “Yes, there are many myths about Capri. You have heard of the Grotta Azzurra? Blue Grotto? That is here. You will have to go some time.”
I’m about to say something cheeky like, “Will you be the one to take me?” but then I remember that the Blue Grotto is only accessible by tiny boats, like gondolas, and that probably wouldn’t go down so well with him.
