“And how long should these English lessons go on for? How often? And if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about getting paid and my living situation.”
Her eyes briefly flit to the window and back. “I’m afraid that is for Signor Larosa to decide. I can assure you he will be fair, though he has, how you say, pinched a lot of pennies lately.” She gestures to the backyard. “The gardener was let go six months ago. The cook and housecleaner went before that. Signor Larosa is in charge of the estate but he is needing to be careful with the money that was left. The Larosas were wealthy but things cost money here. Capri is very expensive.”
“Why doesn’t he sell the house and move somewhere cheaper with the children?”
She tilts her head to the side and gives me a look that says I have no idea what I’m in for. “Because Signor Larosa has not left the island since the accident.”
He hasn’t left the island? Is this turning into an episode of Lost?
“The accident? You mean, when the parents . . .”
She shakes her head. “No, not that accident.”
Not that accident? What the fuck is going on in this crazy house?
She looks over my shoulder and straightens her spine. I turn my head to look and see the tall brooding man standing by the back door. He doesn’t look too happy. I wonder if he overheard what we’ve been talking about. I try not to look sheepish.
He raises a finger at Felisa, and without saying a word, walks back into the house.
I look at her for an explanation.
She gets out of her chair. “Come, come, he wants to meet with you now.”
I swallow hard. At my last job the interview process had been conducted by my supervisor—Larry Groberman—who wore a too-tight tie, never smiled once, and made me feel ashamed for even being alive. I survived that one and got the job after all, but I don’t think I’m going to survive this one. As I follow Felisa up the brick steps to the back door, I feel like my legs are going to give out. Holy hell, I’m nervous.
Being inside the house doesn’t help either. I’m overwhelmed as we step into a hallway that opens onto several different rooms, including a giant chef’s kitchen, living area, dining room, and eating nook—plus I can see other doors lingering in the background leading to who knows where. The bedrooms are upstairs, accessible by a giant staircase. The walls are white; the chandeliers are brass and crystal; and the floors are shiny ivory tile, sometimes with splashes of yellow and blue, sometimes with black. The sun streams in through large radius windows, with thick gold curtains drawn back with velvet rope, but even though it’s all very bright, it’s also a bit sterile. The decor should be warm but it comes off as cold, for some reason. This definitely doesn’t seem like a house for two small children. I can’t detect any signs that children even live here.
“This way,” Felisa says, taking me to the left and past the dining room to a brown wood door that looks weathered and worn. She knocks then clasps her hands at her waist. Considering Signor Larosa had walked into the house moments before, you’d think he would have left the door open or something, expecting us.
“Entri,” a commanding voice says from the other side. I take in a deep breath as Felisa opens the door. I remind myself it’s just a job, and a crazy-sounding one at that. If it doesn’t work out it’s probably for the best. And then some.
I step into a room that takes my breath away. If the rest of the house doesn’t have a soul, surely one resides in here. We’re in a library of sorts, a room of light and dark, a delicate balance between glass and wood. There are dark mahogany bookcases upon bookcases, all packed with books, broken up by floor-to-ceiling windows through which the light streams in, as well as a set of French doors that lead to the patio overlooking the pool and the sea. Another wall contains French doors that look out over a dry fountain in the middle of a small, overgrown courtyard, complete with iron chairs and table. In the middle of the room is a giant teak desk, stacked with papers, file folders, and overflowing trays. A laptop rests among the chaos. This is where Signor Larosa is sitting, ramrod straight in a leather chair.
I’m so taken with the room—it must stretch the length of a whole side of the house—that I almost dismiss Signor Larosa. I say almost because once my eyes do settle on him, they bulge right out of my head.
Signor Desiderio Larosa looks like he just rolled off the model runway in Milan and then hitchhiked his way here. I don’t even know where to begin, how to take him in. He’s handsome as hell, for one thing. He’s a got a face that makes you stare, maybe do a few double takes. His eyes are a golden brown, really clear, framed by perfectly arched black eyebrows and long eyelashes. His nose is very Italian and strong, but it suits his features. His cheekbones are high and razor sharp, his lips full and smooth, and his chin has a slight dimple in it. He’s got a ten-o’clock shadow running along his jaw, which just adds to his aura of masculinity.