Racing the Sun(19)
After that, Alfonso goes back to being grumpy and it’s not long before Felisa is gathering the twins together to take them to school. She tells me it won’t take her long, but if I wish I can leave as soon as Signor Larosa gets back from his ride.
“Motorcycle ride?” I ask as she ushers the children out the front door.
“Yes, he goes every morning.”
I wonder where he rides since the island isn’t very big, but she’s already closing the heavy front door on me, the kids halfway up the lemon-strewn path to the road.
I sigh and grab my purse from the bedroom before heading back downstairs. I try out the espresso machine, finding it just as simple, albeit more compact than the ones at Starbucks. Then I briefly eye the door to his office and pause. If he were to come home from his ride, I would definitely hear a motorcycle. I reach for the door but stop myself. It’s probably locked, and if it’s not there’re probably cameras or some shit set up. He may even be inside the office right now and the whole motorbike story was a ruse to see how curious and disobedient I am.
Well, I won’t give him that satisfaction. I swiftly head out the back doors by the breakfast nook and into the backyard.
It really is a shame that the area is in a bit of disarray. Unless the pool is half full for safety reasons, it really should have more water in it. The outdoor furniture needs some sprucing up and the flowers and plants need a lot of attention and care. Now that I’ll be living here, I know what I’ll be doing in my spare time: bringing the villa back to its former beauty. If the plants are pruned and thriving, then maybe everything in the house will fall in line.
I walk to the edge of the patio and carefully peek over the railing, ever conscious of my fear of heights. The slope beneath isn’t too steep and I marvel at the cacti and bright purple bougainvillea clinging to the earth among fragrant sage shrubs and wiry grass. Beyond that, the sea beckons—deep, beautiful, blue. Small boats weave between the sharp spires of the Faraglioni Rocks, possibly carrying tourists up the coast to the famous Blue Grotto, a sea cave I read about in my Italian guidebook and am dying to see for myself.
Time slips past me. With the dry air, the salty breezes, and the hot sun bursting through a few low-lying clouds, I feel as if I could stay here forever. Here, in this moment, it’s just me and this earth and this sea and this sky. There is no uncertain future to head home to, no fear—fear that I won’t be able to find a good job, that if I do find a good job I’ll be stuck in it forever, that I’ll never be able to move out of my parents’ house and live on my own, that I’ll turn into my parents. Fear that I’ll never lose those last ten pounds, that I’ll never find someone to love who will love me in return, that I’ll never really grow up.
Fear that I’ll never truly be happy.
Because what this trip has taught me so far is that the happiness I’m seeking can’t be found at home. And while it’s been hit or miss on my travels, I’m at least one step closer to it on the road. When I’m traveling, I feel like the secret to my life, to myself, to really becoming, is one step ahead. It’s in the next destination, the next town I get lost in, the next stranger I talk to. It’s always next but never here. But when I go home, back to the way things used to be, there is no next. It’s all over. The wonder and the hope are gone.
I like having hope. And I hope I find what I’m looking for before I have to leave.
“Salve.” I hear a deep voice from behind me. Somehow I resist the urge to jump out of my skin.
I whirl around to see Mr. Larosa approaching me. He’s wearing aviator shades, big black moto boots, dark jeans, and a dark gray T-shirt, with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. A cigarette hangs out of his mouth. He looks like an Italian James Dean.
I really want to stop referring to him as Mr. Larosa.
“Hi,” I say to him. “Nice morning.”
He nods. “Do you know what salve means?”
Time to quiz me on my Italian? “It’s the formal way of saying hello. I mean, ciao.”
He takes a drag from his cigarette and I can feel him watching me, even though I can’t see his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Good surprise or bad surprise?” I find myself asking. I don’t know why my mouth has a mind of its own whenever he’s around.
His own mouth twitches as if supressing a smile. “It’s just a surprise. It doesn’t have to be either, does it?”
“Just like luck,” I say.
He nods and blows smoke away from me. I watch the muscles in his neck strain as he does so. He has one lovely neck, the kind you want to suck on for a moment or two. I bet he tastes like spices.