Racing the Sun(17)

I almost drop my fork. This is far, far more horrible than I imagined.

“Didn’t they have life jackets?”

She shook her head. “I assume there was not enough time to get them. Signor Larosa doesn’t talk about it,” she goes on, her voice softer now. “He refuses to talk about it, to anyone. But the nightmares, the screaming. I know he suffers in his dreams. He might be reliving it over and over.” She pauses, clearly moved. “He is a good man. I’ve said that before. His parents were the world to him. He would have fought to keep them alive. It must be horrible to try and save the people you love and to fail in the end.”

A tear runs down my cheek, and I’m suddenly overcome with emotion. My parents drive me absolutely nuts. My dad’s harshness, my mother’s inability to cope with her emotions without food. But I still love them to bits. I don’t know what I would do if I were in Mr. Larosa’s shoes, if I saw my parents drown before my eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Felisa chastises me, her features growing hard again. “To be in this house, you must become tough. You cannot let your emotions for the children and what happened get in the way. They deserve your sympathy but they, too, must move on. They are stronger than they think they are.”

“And what about Mr.—Signor—Larosa,” I say. “Am I not to have compassion for him?”

Her mouth quirks up into a dry smile. “Many women have compassion for him. They try to get him out of his shell, to make him feel. But they do not succeed.”

“That’s not really what I was talking about,” I quickly say. “I mean in a . . . friendly way.”

“He is your boss now, the master of the house. He is not your friend. The sooner you realize this, the better. Amber, he has not left this island in a year. He refuses to cross the sea. He has a lot of damage deep inside. Your job is to help the children learn English. It is not to solve all the problems of this house. If I can’t solve them, neither can you.”

Well, that sounded like a challenge, if I ever heard one.

“But . . .” I say feebly.

“No more,” she says with a shake of her head. “I have told you more than you should know. Eat your dinner.”

“But if they died at sea two years ago, why is it only in the last year that he hasn’t left the island? What is this other accident you spoke of? Is that when his wife left him?”

“Eat your food,” she repeats. “You have to go back tomorrow to Positano for your things. The first lesson will begin tomorrow night. You have a long day ahead of you.”

“I don’t know if I feel comfortable leaving the island now either.”

She gives me a look. “I will see you in the morning. We eat at eight thirty a.m. if you wish to join us.” And at that she turns and walks out of the kitchen. I’m grateful she left her little lantern behind so I can find my way back to the room without falling down the stairs.

I take in a deep breath, trying to wrestle with all this new information. My heart feels heavy, sinking at the thought of what they’ve all been through. I know Felisa’s advice was to toughen up, but I don’t want to if I don’t have to.

I slowly finish my food—delicious, though I don’t take any pleasure from it—and look around. Suddenly, I’m aware of how big and dark the house is. I put the dish and fork in the large sink and decide to leave the light above the stove on. I pick up the lantern and am about to head up the stairs when something just outside of the back doors catches my eye.

I carefully walk across to the breakfast nook that opens onto the back patio and look through the glass and into the darkness. The sky is clear and the crescent moon shines just enough to bathe the sea in stripes of silver light.

There’s a tall silhouette at the edge of the patio leaning against the railing and staring out into nothing. I can tell it’s Mr. Larosa. A small light burns, flickering in and out, and a puff of smoke follows. So he smokes. That doesn’t surprise me. Everyone in Italy smokes. They know the warnings and they don’t care. It’s part of their lust for life.

I watch for a few moments, wishing I could turn off the lantern so I can observe him unseen. But I don’t want to risk not being able to turn it on again, and when I look back out the window, I can see his position has changed. He’s watching me now.

I raise my hand, just enough to qualify as a wave. He doesn’t move. The cigarette burns orange red in the darkness.

I quickly lower my hand, feeling stupid, and scurry away through the house and up the stairs. I close the door to my room and breathe in deeply, actually feeling kind of angry. It was just a wave. I shouldn’t feel so rankled by it but I do. Damaged or not, it’s just plain rude not to return such a gesture.