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.