The twins seem especially excited about this when they wake up—I think it makes them feel all exotic and grown-up to experience something different. The truth is I’m taking on the extra work because I want to keep busy. I haven’t seen Derio yet and I’m afraid of what will happen when I do. What if he tells me it was all a mistake, that he shouldn’t be doing this with me, that he shouldn’t be romantically or physically involved with a woman on his payroll? What if it doesn’t mean anything to him in the stark light of day?
As it turns out, I don’t see Derio at all that morning. I ask the kids what they want to do and they tell me it’s too hot to play outside—it’s well into the high eighties—so I tell them to do what they like around the house, and if they’re bored and dying by the end of the day, I’ll take them to the free beach by Marina Grande. It’s days like these that I wish they had some good friends they could go play with, but both of them seem to be quiet loners. I know a lot of twins are like that but I think Annabella and Alfonso are even more closed off because of the accident. I make a mental note to hang around after I drop them off at school sometime and get to know the other parents. Perhaps if they knew what was going on¸ they would encourage their own kids to be more inclusive.
I laugh a little at those thoughts. I’m starting to sound an awful lot like a parent. I have to remind myself that I’m not the kids’ real nanny. Any day now we’ll find one and then I’ll be off the hook. I can go back to having a little bit of a life again, although the longer I’m a nanny, the faster I can earn the money to get home.
If I even want to go home anymore.
I sigh and then finish cleaning up the kitchen after the kids scatter throughout the house. I make myself a latte from the espresso machine and take it and an English mystery novel I found in town out onto the patio. I’m only out there for a few minutes before I start to roast and sweat pours down the back of my strapless sundress. I stare longingly at the indigo sea and the boats that ply through the intensely gorgeous waters. Every day there are more boats and less sea visible from the patio. I have to wonder how many tourists Capri can handle; it’s starting to feel at capacity. I can understand now why Derio prefers the winters here. I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to experience it myself.
Finally, I’ve had enough of the heat. I take the remains of my latte and book and go to the shady side patio outside of Derio’s office. It’s cooler here and I make myself comfortable at the small iron table next to the disused fountain. It would be beautiful if it were repainted and turned on; the charming antique, with its intricate carvings, looks too valuable to go to waste. I wonder if I can turn that into a side project of sorts.
Then I notice that the French door leading into Derio’s office is open a touch. I sit there, wondering if he’s inside—it’s hard to tell from this angle and I can only see a reflection of myself in the glass.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a black shape slinking over the sun-bleached gravel—Nero. The cat pauses at the door, tail twitching, and without a glance in my direction he goes into Derio’s office.
Oh no you don’t. If Derio’s not in there, he’s going to lose his mind. If I’m not allowed in there, the damn feral feline isn’t allowed in there either.
“Hey,” I whisper harshly to it but it’s already inside. I get out of my chair and hurry over to the door.
The office is empty. I see the cat has jumped up onto the desk.
“Get away from there!” I yell at the cat, trying to shoo him away. The cat looks at me with disdain and then jumps off, knocking over a stack of papers that were lying on the desk. They scatter across the tiles and the cat runs for the bookshelves.
I swear under my breath and am about to pick up the papers when something on the desk catches my eye. It’s a printed manuscript, about two inches thick and held together in the corner by a heavy-duty binder clip. The typewritten pages are marked up with red pencil; I can see scrawled handwriting in the margins and between the double-spaced sentences. The header says Correre il Sole—Sophie Larosa.
Don’t snoop, I tell myself, though it seems to me like Derio is editing something of his late mother’s, or at least reading something she may have edited herself.
I tear my eyes away from it, putting a stop to my curiosity, and then stoop down to pick up the papers. I try not to look at them either to protect his privacy.
But these aren’t related to his mother’s books.
They’re résumés. All in Italian. All dated within the last few weeks. I see the words bambini and bambinaia in bold letters. I flip through them and then realize there are a lot more in the trash can beside his desk.