Racing the Sun

by Karina Halle

  They were both snapping at each other in Italian, and at some point I had to say, “Hey, let’s all remember what we learned in church today,” which I assumed was something nice, of course. But the two of them just glared at me and went back to their bickering.

  After another espresso, which had Felisa shaking her head at the noise (let’s be honest, I was trying to drown them out with the machine), the two of them disappeared into his office. I had my drink and sat down on the couch with the kids as they babbled to me in Italian about something or other while I sat there saying, “Non capisco” over and over again, trying to get them to speak in English.

  Then someone from the office yelled, a door slammed, and Derio walked hurriedly out to the living room, paused before the three of us, and then asked how I was feeling.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, rather suspicious, considering all the mayhem and bad vibes.

  “No concussion?”

  “No,” I say slowly. “The cuts are healing up, and although it was nice to sleep in this morning, I feel pretty good.”

  “Good,” he says and gives me a smile. It’s the first smile I’ve seen of his in over twenty-four hours, so it startles me a bit. Sometimes I remember how damn handsome he is, and it almost makes up for the fact that he’s been a dick lately. Almost.

  I squint at him. “What do you want?”

  He looks at Alfonso and Annabella. “Would you like to go to Ischia today with Amber?” he asks slowly in English.

  Iss-sky-what?

  The twins’ faces break out into wide, shit-eating grins. “Si! Yes!” they cry out and start jumping up and down on the couch.

  “What’s Ischia?” I ask, worried.

  “It’s another island, just north of here,” he explains. I can hear the impatience in his voice. “Felisa has taken them once before and they loved it. There’s an old castle up on a fortified hill, like an island attached to the island by a long road.”

  I don’t know how I feel about this. “How far is it?”

  “Ferries leave all the time,” he says. “If you go now, you can be there for a few hours and come back on the last boat.”

  “But what do I do with them there?”

  “I just said. There is the castle—Castello Aragonese, that is. It is just a short taxi ride from the ferry. It should occupy you all day.”

  I frown at him. I know he’s trying to get me out of the house with the kids but the idea of going so far away with just me and them is a little nerve-racking. Hell, taking them into Capri town is nerve-racking.

  “You’ll be fine,” he says. Then he adds, “The children will love you for it.”

  I eye the twins. They are both staring at me with big, eager eyes. I sigh inwardly. I can’t really say no to those faces. And I can’t really say no to Derio since he’s my boss.

  I raise my chin and nod at him. “Fine. Not a problem.”

  He grins, though there is something uneasy about it. “Great, good. The next ferry leaves in an hour. Pack a bag and get down to the funicular. You can buy tickets at the marina.”

  An hour doesn’t really leave us much time. I pack my tote bag in a hurry full of things we might need for the day and the kids put on more sturdy shoes and comfortable clothes at the speed of light. We leave the villa behind us, Alfonso and Annabella tugging on my hands as we jog up Via Tragara toward the square and funicular.

  Because of the accident and because they’re just so damn excited, they’re actually easy to take care of. They’re loud—especially Alfonso—and they have a bad habit of kicking ferry seats and I have to keep telling them to keep their voices down. But they listen to what I say for the most part, and there’s zero animosity on their end, unlike usual.

  Surprisingly, the children don’t seem at all affected by the ferry crossing. There are some waves, particularly as we hit the open stretch between the islands, that bounce the hydrofoil back and forth, but they only cry out with glee as it happens. Even though I know the twins have their own demons, it’s good that they aren’t as crippled in some ways as Derio is.

  Derio. When I’m not thinking about the twins, I’m thinking about him. I want to know what he’s doing in his office. Why the secrecy? What was he doing with all of his mother’s books in the attic and why was he so angry about them? I want to know if he’s ever going to trust me completely because I feel that he doesn’t. Not that he should—he doesn’t really know me—but I am tutoring his siblings. He’s so hot and cold that it drives me nuts.

  And of course this whole moody, reclusive, damaged side to him is putting my feminine instincts into overdrive. I want him to overcome his issues, his dark demons, and of course I would foolishly hope that I could help him do that. Isn’t that what every woman wants? To heal the bad boy?

  But thinking like that doesn’t get me anywhere. It’s bad enough that I find him sexy as hell, I should stop hoping that he might feel the same way about me. Besides, he’s my boss, the one paying my salary, and I’m living under his roof with his rules. That has all the makings of something not only rightfully forbidden but also terribly messy.

  It’s too bad I have an affinity for getting messy.

  When the boat docks at the tiny Ischia terminal, we push our way through the crowds with a lot of “Permesso, permesso,” making sure we can get a taxi. There’s a bit of a line but eventually we get one with a friendly driver.

  Ischia is beautiful, maybe more mountainous than Capri but with a lot more greenery and on a bigger scale. There’s traffic and lush gardens and rustic houses and quaint hotels and cute restaurants, yet at the same time it seems less crowded than Capri. I find myself wondering if Derio would ever settle here if he could get over his fear, or where he and the twins would one day end up. Meanwhile, the cab driver tells me something about all the spas and the volcanic mud here. He seems convinced that I am German. Must be the hair.

  We’re eventually dropped off near the end of a long pedestrian cobblestone road flanked by colorful stucco buildings. I thank the man and pay him with the money for the trip that Derio gave me, grab the twins, and head down it. It’s about noon but the restaurants are still shuttered; they’re on a weird Italian schedule that ensures you never get food when you want it.

  The Castello Aragonese appears at the end of a long, stone-bordered walkway, like something out of a fairy tale. I actually have to stop where I am and take it all in. This is one of those moments when it’s all too much and your senses can’t really keep up.

  “Come, come,” Alfonso says, tugging on my arm, but I don’t move. I barely hear him.

  The castle rises out of the sea like some giant placed it there on purpose, like he was decorating the island and this was his crowning touch, an added gem. Buildings, gardens, walls, and fortresses are carved into the sides of the rock; a mythic, impenetrable kingdom. Gulls wheel in the air as tourists and locals alike walk to and from the castle, pausing to look at the achingly beautiful turquoise and ink-blue water and bright yellow fishing boats that surround the island on all sides.

  I blink and stare and breathe, trying to be in the moment. It’s nearly impossible. I know it will take time for me to feel it. Oftentimes when I’m traveling, I don’t even feel like I’ve seen the things I have until days later when it suddenly hits me. Unfortunately by then, all I have are memories and photographs, which just aren’t the same as the real thing, even if the real thing didn’t feel very real to begin with.

  “Amber,” Annabella says politely. “May we please go see the castello?”

  That finally snaps me out of it. “Very good,” I tell her, giving her a big smile. “And yes, of course.”

  As we walk toward it, Annabella shoots me a shy glance. “Were you writing?”

  I raise my brows, thinking she has her English mixed up. “Writing?”

  “You were looking at the castello. My mama, she wrote a story about a castello.”

  Oh. Oh.

  “She would write in her head? Dreaming in the day?” I ask
her.

  She nods. “Yes. Dreaming when awake. Making stories.” She taps at her head. “Up here.”

  This is the first time I’ve heard either of the twins mention either of their parents without crying. I don’t want to push too much but I want Annabella to know it’s okay to talk about them. Maybe this is what they’ve been missing all along. Certainly Derio wouldn’t indulge her since he doesn’t talk about them himself.

  “What kind of story is it?”

  She shrugs. “She only read me . . . a little bit. There was a prince and a princess. In love. She did many . . . a lot of . . . writing.”

  “Are you in love with Derio?” Alfonso suddenly asks me.

  I glance at him in surprise, my jaw unhinged. “What?”

  “You and Derio,” he says, scrunching up his nose a little. “Are you going to get married?”

  “What?” I say, even louder this time. “No. No, Alfonso, we aren’t like that. Your brother and I . . . I work for him. I am your teacher. I am not his . . . his . . .”

  “Girlfriend,” Annabella supplies.

  “Yes,” I tell her. Then shake my head. “But no. I am not his girlfriend. I am just a friend.”

  Alfonso pouts a little at that. “Oh. Okay.”

  What, he’s disappointed?

  Time for me to take this opportunity and be extra nosy. “Did you know his wife?”

  Alfonso nods. “Yes. Daniella.”

  So she has a name. “Did you like her? Was she nice?”

  He shrugs. “She was nice. She would give us candy.”

  Ah, candy. Always the way to a child’s heart. I make a note that I should start carrying some at all times.

  “She yelled,” Annabella says. “At Derio, many times.”

  “But not at you?”

  She shakes her head. “No, she didn’t say much to us.”

  “But she gave us candy,” Alfonso puts in.

  “Yes,” Annabella agrees, looking very serious. “The candy was good.”

  And I can’t help smiling because even though we’re talking about Derio’s ex-wife, who apparently yelled at him a lot, the twins just conversed with each other in English naturally, without any prompting from me. Score one for progress. Maybe I can do this teacher thing after all.

  As we enter the castle grounds and take a very tiny lift (Europe, I think, was founded on tiny little elevators) up to the top, the twins become more and more talkative. A few times I have to remind them to speak in English but they power through. Unfortunately, they ask me question after question about the castle and grounds, things I don’t know the answers to, so I start making stuff up. I tell them the monastery was run by tiny elves who were exiled from the North Pole, and that a man called Winston Churchill, who could fly on golden wings, first built the castle.

  “Who lived in this building?” Alfonso asks as we walk along a tiled patio past a tiny wooden door. The view of Ischia, all green hills and pastel buildings, looms in front of us, begging for Instagram photo after Instagram photo.

  “Dracula,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he asks, all wide-eyed and staring at the small door with trepidation.

  “Yes, Italian Dracula.”

  “That’s not true,” Annabella says, skipping over to the edge of the wall to stare at the view. “You lie. All the time.”

  “I’m writing in my head,” I tell her, and she smiles at that.

  We spend three hours roaming all over the castle grounds, hiding out in old prison cells, a weird creepy room full of toilet-type things where nuns used to let dead bodies rot, down pebbled roads that skirt the exterior of the island, past churches and vineyards and olive groves. I’m absolutely exhausted and my sandals have rubbed blisters onto my feet but I’m grateful to Derio in the end for suggesting it. I don’t think his motive was for me and the children to bond, but regardless that’s exactly what happened.

  As the sun dips low on the horizon, heading for the golden sea, we race it on the hydrofoil home. Annabella rests her head on one of my shoulders and Alfonso does the same on my other. Soon they are fast asleep, and I’m feeling a bit like the Grinch did when his heart grew by three sizes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It’s just after nine o’clock when we get back to the villa. I practically had to drag the twins for the last bit down the Via Tragara, cursing the Larosa family for living so far away from Capri town. Did they really have to be so far removed from everyone else?

  The path from the road to the front of the house isn’t lit like it usually is, and I nearly walk into a lemon tree. The house itself is darker than usual and the lights aren’t on at the front door.

  Annabella says, “A sinistra,” as I lead them to the door. It’s also locked.

  I fish around for the key inside my purse and eventually find it. I’m guessing that there’s no one home, or Derio went to bed really early. That said, Felisa should be out and about.

  A weird, tingly feeling crawls down the back of my neck. I take in a deep breath, unlock the door, and step into the house.

  I flick on the hall light. “Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding small. “We’re back, alive and well.”

  I look down at the kids as I shut the door behind us. They’re staring at me, also feeling like something is off.

  “No one is here,” says Alfonso.

  I swallow. “Well, if that’s true, that’s okay. I am here and you are here and Annabella is here and that’s all we need.” I smile at them so they don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about, it’s just dark and not the welcome we thought we’d get. “Why don’t you guys get into your pajamas and maybe Felisa will let you play your iPad games for a bit.”

  “Felisa is not here,” Annabella says. She’s standing down the hall and staring at the maid’s quarters, where Felisa sleeps. I walk to stand beside her and look.

  The door is open and Felisa’s room is completely empty. The bed is made, tight enough to bounce quarters off the sheets, but the desk, the shelves—it’s all completely bare. It’s like she was never here.

  “What the . . . ?” I step into the room. I open the closets. All her clothes are gone.

  I turn around and eye the children. “Please tell me that Felisa existed and was a real person.”

  They frown in unison.

  I step away from the closets and open drawers, all empty. “Felisa was real, right?” I repeat, feeling like I’m going crazy.

  “Yes, yes,” Alfonso says. “But she’s not here. Where did she go?”

  “Is she coming back?” Annabella asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.” She could have gone away for the night, but it doesn’t explain why every single thing is gone, even her little Catholic crosses and funny porcelain doodads that she collected. A rosary and a framed picture of Alfonso and Annabella that were on the wall are also gone.

  “I need to speak to your brother,” I tell them, grabbing their hands and leading them out into the hall. I close the door and we go into the kitchen. “Derio?” I call out. There is no answer. I look at the kids. “Why don’t you do what I said. Go get changed and then play on your iPads for a bit.”

  They stare at me, not moving, wanting to be part of uncovering the mystery of the missing nanny.

  “Go,” I say, pointing at the stairs. “I will figure this out and talk to your brother. Everything will be fine. I’m sure she’s coming back.”

  Annabella shakes her head, looking down at the floor. “No. She won’t. She once said one day she will have to leave for good. Just like mama and papa did.”

  Oh Jesus.

  “I’ll bring you candy if you go to your rooms,” I tell them as a last resort.

  Finally, they run off. I stand below and watch them climb the stairs and disappear into their rooms. I don’t really have any candy but I know there’s a tub of sorbet in the freezer that will have to do.

  I inhale deeply, trying not to panic. Just because Felisa is gone doesn’t mean something horrible has happened
. Derio has to be here, he wouldn’t just leave me alone in the house with the kids, would he? I mean, I’m not their nanny. Today was just a fun outing, not the start of something permanent.

  Before I can freak myself out any more, I go to his office and knock on the door. “Derio?” I ask. I listen but don’t hear anything. “Hello, Derio? Where is Felisa?”

  I wait. I know that Felisa had warned me to never knock twice, but fuck that noise. She’s not here right now anyway.

  I knock again, louder this time. “Derio!”

  I put my head against the door and listen. I think I can hear the tinkle of glass inside. Someone is definitely in there.

  Against all orders, I put my hand on the knob and try to turn the door. It’s locked.

  I bang on the door, trying to not alarm the kids. “Derio!” I jiggle the knob. Nothing.

  This isn’t about to deter me. I head out to the back patio and peer inside the office. It’s dark except for the green glass lamp on his desk, the kind you see in old lawyers’ offices.

  Derio is at the desk, slumped over.

  I gasp and quickly knock on the glass to try to get his attention but he isn’t moving. I try to open the French doors but they’re also locked from the inside.

  “Shit!” I swear and run off the patio and around the corner. I push my way through the brush, small palms whipping my face and stinging my sore shoulder as I burst through them. I end up by the dried-up fountain and the small courtyard at the other side of the office.

  I try the doors there and they open so quickly I almost spill into the room.

  “Derio!” I cry out, running over to him.

  His head is buried in his arms and I can see the bottle of gin on the floor beside him. I push at his arms, and though it’s like pushing stone, I’m relieved when I see him move a little. He lets out a groan.

  Now what?

  I shake him. “Derio, it’s Amber. Where is Felisa?”