Racing the Sun(11)

Silence cloaks the room; you can really feel its presence in here. Meanwhile, the sun has started to descend to the horizon, the light through the radius windows becoming a pale gold. It’s beautiful. I wish I could open the French doors and let the breeze in. I wish I could just snatch the résumé out of his hand, leave the room, leave the house, and go back on the ferry to Positano. I wish I had the money to walk away.

“So you met the twins, did you?” he asks, finally putting my résumé away and folding his hands in front of him.

I nod. “Yes, outside.”

“And how did you find them?”

“They are very cute.”

“There must be a better English word than that. Try me. I know English very well.”

“Then why aren’t you teaching them?” I blurt out. I didn’t mean to say it but it has been on my mind ever since he opened his mouth.

He tilts his head, considering me. “I have a difficult relationship with them. You see, they are my brother and sister and they are in my care. I am all the family they have left. You have parents, am I assuming correct?” I nod. He goes on. “Do you think you would learn anything if your parents tried to teach you another language?”

I shake my head and make a face. I was traveling to escape my parents. “No way.”

“Well, then that is the same case here. Alfonso and Annabella . . . already our roles are too twisted. Besides, it is easier to learn from a native English speaker. There is less chance to cheat. With you, they will have to learn English or not talk at all. I assume you are not a great speaker of Italian?”

“I know some,” I tell him. And that’s true. It’s just hard to define what some is.

“Yes, some, of course,” he says in his jackass condescending way. It rankles me and helps me ignore how pretty his eyes are. “So, Miss MacLean—”

“You can call me Amber,” I interject.

“Perhaps,” he says. Still no trace of a smile. “So, Miss MacLean, give me the right word to describe the twins. In English.”

I sigh inwardly. “Do you want the truth, a lie, or a white lie?”

For a moment he almost looks impressed. “Give me all three.”

Here goes nothing.

“From what I observed of them, Alfonso and Annabella seem very precocious.”

“That is the white lie. Though also truth.”

“They are bold and confident.”

“Bold, yes, confident, no. What is the truth?”

“They seem excitable.”

“Still, this is not what your first thought was.”

I’m not sure if he’s trying to get me to call them spoiled brats. That was one of my thoughts, but actually not the main one.

“They seem to be troubled and are lashing out in anger,” I tell him sincerely.

He nods. “Yes. That is the truth. You can see how your first choice, the word cute, wasn’t very honest.”

“They are cute, though,” I say, picturing their features and then studying their brother’s in front of me. There are some key differences—the twins have lighter hair—that make me wonder if perhaps they are step or half siblings. But that’s just another question to add to the pile.

“I suppose they are cute,” he says, as if the subject is weighing him down. For a moment he looks extremely tired but then it lifts away. “Now tell me, how do you think you would be able to teach English—something you have never done before—to these two troubled, angry children?”

I swallow. I actually don’t have a good answer to that. I feel like I’ve been totally caught unaware and I’m not sure if I can bullshit my way out of this one like I have on other job interviews.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter in my chair. “I don’t know, to be perfectly honest with you. I don’t really know the first thing about children. I know English but I’ve never taught it. The last thing I taught was how to use Excel and PowerPoint to the person who had taken over my job. Which I was fired from, by the way. I’m not even sure if I want to move to Capri to take this position, should it be offered to me, and I’m really not sure if this is the job for me, considering the children have issues, your housekeeper has issues, and I can guarantee that you have issues. No one has discussed money, or where I’m supposed to live, or even where the hell I’m supposed to sleep tonight. This house is borderline creepy and I won’t be surprised if you tell me it’s haunted. And I can’t make tiramisu worth shit.”

His eyes brighten at that. It’s almost as if he wants to smile but can’t.

“Then why are you here?” he asks slowly.