“Alfonso sleeps here,” she says and points at a door inside. “That leads to a bathroom that he and Annabella share.” We walk down the hall and look into Annabella’s room. It’s pretty much the same as Alfonso’s but she has more books and there are a few dolls sticking out of a box. Her bedspread is leopard print. Sassy.
“Where are the kids?” I ask, since they aren’t in their rooms.
She leads me to the end of the hall to two doors. She opens one of them and pokes her head in. It’s carpeted—gasp—and the kids are sitting on the floor, flipping through coloring books. They have a TV playing in the background with what seems like Italian-dubbed Dora the Explorer, and the room is full of organized chaos. Suddenly they seem like little kids, and they aren’t in their uniforms anymore either. Annabella is wearing shorts and a zebra-print top. Guess she likes the prints. Alfonso looks like a mini version of his older brother in a dark polo shirt and knee-length khaki shorts.
“Alfonso, Annabella,” Felisa addresses them. “Signorina Amber MacLean will now be your tutor. She will be living in the room next door and will help you to better your English. You must behave for her, listen to her, and do as you’re told.”
Alfonso looks upset, says something in Italian, then gestures to the room that’s to become mine. Annabella’s lip quivers and she promptly sheds big, sad tears.
Holy cheesus, what is going on?
Felisa says something sharply to them—no sympathy from this lady—and then shuts the door to their muffled cries. I’m staring at her with big eyes, my maternal instincts that I didn’t even know I had all tied up in knots.
She avoids my stare for a moment then gives me a look that says she’s more affected than she lets on. Her eyes are watering and she takes in a deep, steadying breath.
“They are still upset over their parents’ death,” she explains in a low voice.
“Well, of course they are,” I tell her. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
She nods, considering that. “You are to sleep in Signor Larosa’s old room. The one he was in before he married.”
Married? Married?!
“Married?”
She grimaces as if she’s said too much. She probably has since she barely divulges anything. “Was married. They are divorced now. Not long after the accident. But that is his story to tell, not mine.”
One story he’ll never tell since you told me to basically never talk to him, I think.
Sighing, she continues, “The children still hope that Signor Larosa will go back to his room. But now that you will stay there, it means that . . .”
“Their parents aren’t coming back,” I fill in sadly.
She shakes her head. “Alfonso seems to be the one who knows this but sometimes Annabella has a hard time. It’s been two years but she remembers them as if they were here yesterday. She knows the truth but she prefers to live in a dream world. When that dream is no more, she has problems. You will see. The doctors say she needs time.”
“It sounds like she needs therapy,” I say, crossing my arms and feeling a bit cold.
“She has someone at school she talks to,” she says. “Signor Larosa thinks that is enough.”
I frown. To be fair, Signor Larosa has only been taking care of them for two years. He’s only twenty-nine. I’m not sure how much he can know about any of this. But then again, I am not one to talk. This is a house where I should definitely keep my opinions to myself.
She opens the door to my room and we step inside. It’s bigger than I expected. The tiles are terracotta, giving it some warmth, and there’s a large, fluffy, white throw rug in the middle. The queen-size bed fits into a bit of an arched alcove in the wall, framed by fancy moldings. There’s also a love seat and coffee table right in front of a window that overlooks the front yard, with its bower of lemon trees, and the towering hill on the other side of Via Tragara. It’s almost completely dark now and the lemons glow yellow in the fading light.
I look to Felisa for permission before I open the door to my right. It leads to a nice en suite bathroom, complete with a shower and tub, marble counters, and gilded faucets.
Yup. I could live here. Oh wait. I will be living here.
“This is very nice,” I tell her. “Are you sure you don’t want this room?”
She dismisses me with a wave. “This is too much for me. My room is just fine.” She looks around and points to an ancient-looking armoire. “There should be some spare clothes in there. This is usually an additional guest room, though we don’t have them anymore. I’ll let you settle in. I have a meal to prepare.”