11. At First Sight
Chapter 11
At First Sight
A ria Island, I had decided as soon as I stepped foot on it, was the remedy to all frigid winters. It could melt even the most hardened ice and chase away the blues. It was bright, enchanting, almost surreal in its beauty. I could hardly believe my eyes, even after arriving a few days ago by private boat, whenever I took in my surroundings for the next few months.
I never imagined a place such as this could exist in real life.
The grandeur of it came from the stacked villas in all colors that reflected the natural surroundings.
The sloped and twisting roads overrun by shepherds with their canes keeping their livestock in line, bells dinging as these well-treated animals attempted to keep up. It seemed as if the herding dogs had an Italian accent as they barked out a song of keep-a up-a !
The roadside vendors who sold their fresh fruits and produce.
The air that smelled of healing salt from the sea and zesty lemons straight from the tree. It was as if the sun warmed them and enticed their essences to perfume the air.
The cats and kittens that loafed around most of the time. It was amazing to watch one area of the island where they would go to catch fresh seafood for dinner .
And the Mediterranean Sea?
Closing my eyes, I turned my face up to the sky, allowing the sun’s heat to touch my cheeks and neck, slide over me with hot fingers, go deeper than skin, as if I were a lemon myself. I took a long, deep breath before I opened my eyes to the view from my balcony.
If I had never understood what a man felt when he saw his bride for the first time, I did then.
It was a breath-trapping, heart-stealing, vow-inducing view that gave me a slight frisson of fear at how small it made me feel, but it also gave me soul-soothing peace that I had never found before. It was as if my entire life was aligning. I could feel it down to my core.
This place gave me butterflies. That intense rush to the heart that made it seem like I was floating, rising above the world. Dopamine flooded my system.
At first sight, I had fallen in love.
The closer we had approached the shore, the wider my eyes had become. A chunk of hard stone seemed to rise out of the sea like an oddly shaped volcano, but it wasn’t a volcano, it was the island. It was a world disconnected from the rest of the world by miles and miles of sea.
Surrounding it, as far as the eyes could see, was water. The kind of water that hypnotized with its colors—teal in the shallower areas with sapphire swirls in the deeper—and made it seem like boats flew over the surface instead of bobbing on it.
And I understood why the island had been named Aria. It was so romantic. It was a resort for honeymooners without the resort. It was Elba Island, Isola Bella, Portofino, Tropea, Cefalù, Castelluccio, Costa Smeralda, Taormina, Palermo, Polignano a Mare, Capri, Porto Ercole, even more stunning Italian places I could not recall, rolled up into one. I wasn’t paying attention on the boat to how far we’d traveled out to sea, but it was far enough to be detached from anything and everything on the mainland. But all that was needed was here .
All.
That.
Was.
Needed.
Consider the power in that statement— all that was needed , and none of it had to do with what money could buy. It was as if the island was alive, and all that it was could be breathed in the air. There was a sense of security, of strength, of a protective entity watching out for the people who resided here. There was also a sense of power that I had never felt before. A power that could turn angry and stir the waters to a violent boil if it wanted to.
One feeling sent a peaceful melody through my veins, the other sent a thrill through me. I wasn’t afraid. Just respectful of its power in all forms.
For the first time, in what felt like forever, I felt inspiration give me a warm hug after a long, cold winter. Nonna always said that writing thrillers didn’t suit me. My name was as romantic as my appearance. I suppose my features and general look was soft, but I could write a murder scene with a chilling detachment. I always thought that writing thrillers was what I could do, but maybe Nonna had been right. Going in another direction was my calling, but a love story powerful enough to claim me hadn’t showed up.
The island showed up, and ideas were already swirling inside of my head.
A legendary love story could be conceived here.
Love. I sighed. Love was a great idea in theory, but on paper, it had never worked out for me. Sure, boys and men had flirted with me, but these boys and men were always missing something. Something I yearned for but couldn’t pinpoint—ever. It was just this…missing piece that never completed the puzzle. But maybe through writing a great love story, I would find the thing inside of me that made it all click . Made my heart respond just as it did to this island.
Yeah. I smiled to myself. I was a thirty-year-old virgin who had no skeletons in her closet from all the wrong guys she dated, less than a few, and I was going to attempt a love story. I told myself, though, there were worse things I could do…or not. Like never trying.
Stepping inside from the balcony of my apartment, I stopped at the mirror hanging on the wall and checked my reflection. I ran a hand down the breezy, red and white striped romper that I hoped would balloon, caressing my legs, when a warm wind blew. The hem fell right above my ankles. I had pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail, allowing some of the shorter strands of my hair to fall around my face. I had secured the pony with a red bow. I fixed a few strands and then decided I was good to go. I slipped my feet into a pair of espadrille flats, grabbed my cross-body purse, and covered my eyes with a pair of dark sunglasses.
Before I got to the front door, I veered off course and went to shut the balcony door. The gauzy curtains rustled gently with the constant breeze coming from the sea and entering through the cracked windows. Even the balcony was romantic. The foundation was made from cream-colored stone that looked ancient and strong, and the wrought-iron railing curved as if it had once been waving in the wind and had frozen in motion. Vines clung to every surface, and neon-colored flowers basked in the sun, collecting the heat so that they would almost glow at night.
Ah! Did I mention how much I loved this place?
My hand stilled on the door.
In New Orleans, I would have obsessed over locking the entire house up tight, but on this island, I decided to leave the door to the balcony cracked and the windows open. The inside of my apartment smelled so clean from all the fresh air and the citrusy sweet perfume that clung to my skin, hair, and clothes.
I stepped into a dream when I stepped outside of the apartment. The warmth of the day brought me into a hot hug, causing goosebumps to pucker my arms. The island made noises that I could wake up to for the rest of my life :
Neighbors calling to one another from the street in lyrical voices.
The jingling bells of the livestock, and the noises they made as they traveled toward their farms.
Birds chirping and singing, flitting from one place to another.
Cats and kittens hissing or meowing.
Speaking of…
A black cat with green eyes circled my legs, rubbing himself against me, his tail curled up. I leaned down and scratched behind his ear, hoping he had picked me to be his human for the rest of my stay here.
Vespas and small Italian cars that could fit on the narrow roads either zipped past or wheezed as they made it up the hill. It didn’t seem like a true struggle, but more of a complaint.
The seasonal workers all lived in a stretch of apartments on the island. A few of them were doing the same thing I was: using my free day to take in my new home and prepare for my new job. I dug in my crossbody and pulled out a set of keys and the map that had been left on my kitchen counter. The keys were for my apartment and for the Vespa and Italian car in my garage.
From what the boat captain explained to me on the ride over, the inhabitants of the island lived on it all year round, and they sold their goods to the Fausti family, who turned around and sold the items back to the family. It seemed as if the family had a money pot for places such as these—or like time shares. And when individual families, or people, came to visit, they bought the goods so the money could return to the main pot. It kept the islanders and the island going was my understanding of it, and that was good enough.
The warning Nonna had whispered in my ear about the family echoed occasionally, but I figured if I did my job and kept under the radar, I would be fine.
My apartment and garage number shared the number eleven ( undici ), and I searched until I found the garage underneath the building. The number was hand painted on the cement in front of the door, surrounded by a blue and yellow Majorca tile pattern. Inserting the key into the lock, I lifted the door as I saw another worker do. He had sped out on a blue Vespa, waving at me on his way into town.
I smiled to myself when I found my car and Vespa. The car was red and small, and the Vespa was pink. It had a long mirror sticking out like a sore arm and a wicker basket attached to the back.
Making sure no cats had run inside to escape the heat, I shut the door. I didn’t want transportation today. I wanted to walk. It felt as if I had been trapped inside of a floating bottle, peering out at the world as the tide moved me closer to shore, and finally stuck in sand, I was able to pop out of it and explore.
Instead of going downhill, I decided to go up. I wanted a better view of the water. My legs burned as I climbed the narrow sidewalk that had been created to reach the top. It even had a strip of iron to hold on to. A few times I took advantage of it, the metal hot underneath my palm, and my skin smelled like a wet penny after. The further up I ascended, it seemed like the wind whipped harder while the sun grew hotter. Using the back of my hand, I wiped sweat from my brow.
Halfway there, I stopped and dug in my crossbody, pulling out a bottle of water. I looked down and didn’t find another soul. The farmers that I’d crossed paths with had gone in another direction, crossed over the island to their section of it. Maybe tomorrow I’d go that way. See what it was all about. I’d heard from the captain that the livestock areas had more forest. He told me some people claimed it reminded them of the forest from “Snow White.”
Taking out my phone, I snapped a few pictures. The phone was useless other than the camera. Bars couldn’t reach this far out. But there were phones we were allowed to use. Maybe the island had its own cellular tower? I wasn’t sure, but I had forgotten the issued phone back at my apartment. There was a paper that went with it that listed all the numbers I would need. They even had doctors and nurses who lived on the island three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and the clinic was open twenty-four/seven. I wasn’t sure if the medical staff lived on the island permanently or rotated every so often. Pretty cool, though. If I passed out from this trek or broke my ankle going back down, I’d be good.
If anyone heard me or found me. I looked back down.
This area was dead, as far as foot traffic.
Breaking my ankle on the way back down reminded me to put the railing to use.
Shrugging, I kept going until I reached the very top. I wasn’t sure if it would take me longer to get down, since that was easier, but I was pretty sure it took me about two hours or so to reach the top. The wind whipped even harder, and the view from this high up was like a queen’s view of the world. It was so beautiful, I had to allow my eyes a moment to feast on such unreal beauty. The water below spread out for as far as the eye could see. The colors were vibrant and surreal. Common sense told me the depths of it was unmeasurable, but it looked shallow, as if I could float in its embrace while my feet touched the sand at the bottom and the watery grit ran between my toes.
The map stated that a statue of Christ was submerged underneath the water around the island. Apparently, a ship bringing it to Italy had sunk, and the statue somehow ended up finding a home below the surface. It was in a shallow area and could be reached by diving or seen from the surface. I narrowed my eyes, searching for it, and thought I spotted it. But it was hard to tell.
Black spots dotted my vision like tiny pinpricks.
My heart was overreacting in my chest.
I wasn’t sure if it was from the view, or the trek up, or the heat and the climb, but I felt…odd. Almost like I was having a panic attack, but not. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and then decided to keep moving.
My feet stopped abruptly when I came to a villa, or maybe even what would be considered an Italian mansion, at the center of the furthest point of the island. Maybe it was even a castello ? Its cream color stone spread out in front of the sea, as wide as it was tall, antique wrought iron details giving it a personality, a romantic one, and I had no doubt that from the opposite side, the views of the rocking sea below were surreal. I wondered if that part of the castello was made of glass? Humungous palms trees danced around it in the breeze. Anise, wild fennel, rosemary, and basil seemed to grow wild around the property. With the harsh winds, I could easily smell those, though I was sure there were more that I couldn’t identify with nose alone.
This had to be where the equivalent of a king in the Fausti family stayed.
“Wow,” I breathed, pulling out my phone and snapping at picture of it. I didn’t bother looking at it. I’d look over the ones I’d taken when I was back inside of my apartment. I stuck my phone back in my crossbody as I tilted to the left and to the right, wanting to see the entire thing. It took a moment for me to remember that I was free to move. I didn’t want to seem like a peeping creeper or anything, so after a few minutes, I decided to start making my way down.
By the time I would make it back to my apartment, we would be nearing the hottest time of the day, midday, and it was when the island would take a pisolino . A short nap. I’d heard it was disrespectful to disturb anyone during this time, anyway, so chilling in my apartment for a while would be acceptable. But the work schedule I was given didn’t respect these hours. We were to work, even if we were disturbed. I guessed that was the perks of a family owning an entire island. They made the rules.
I turned to leave, but my feet felt like they were glued to the ground. Maybe because my heart—the overbeating of it—was making me feel weak. I chugged the rest of my water and searched in my bag for something that contained sugar. I found a smushed peppermint at the bottom and stuck it in my mouth. Then my eyes flew up at a sound coming from the castello .
Rosaria Caffi.
Her voice.
Soft at first, melodic, it rose to a pitch that seemed to make the air tremble around my ears and cause the entire castello to shiver with it. For a second, I wondered if what I was seeing was the first initial shock of an earthquake. I could have sworn the castello visibly trembled. I watched one of the windows, wondering if the power in her voice was going to crack it.
The bitch—forgiveness for cursing a dead woman—was out to haunt me. She had followed me from the shore to this paradise. Instead of allowing the sound of her voice to chill my bloodstream, I frantically dug in my purse and found my earbuds.
Since I had downloaded my favorite songs before arriving on the island, I chose a Dean Martin tune, his voice soothing and a love letter to Italy, and drowned her out. (Side effect of hanging out with Nonna my entire life. She loved Dino, who she called Dino Martini, and imparted that love onto me.) I didn’t move for a second out of principle, letting her know that she could try to haunt me, but I wasn’t that easily frightened, but since I was feeling a little better after the sugar, I started to make my way back down to my apartment.
I only stopped to look behind me once before the steps brought me down far enough to swallow the view from above. I couldn’t wait to climb it again. I couldn’t wait to see the world from so high up again. That gorgeous castello . I wanted to see what was inside of it. I had no doubt it was going to be too beautiful for words—even for a writer.
The music in my ears seemed to give a score to the world around me, and before I realized it, I was back in front of my apartment. The thin jumpsuit clung to my body from sweat, and I removed the scarf-bow and wiped my face with it. My light olive skin was already turning darker. It seemed as if the sun had polished it, though, with its intense rays—my skin glistened.
No wonder this time was reserved for a pisolino.
My new cat was waiting for me, and in that moment, I decided I liked the word so much, I was bestowing it upon him as a name. He followed me into the apartment when I’d called him the fun word, so it was decided. It was his.
“Isn’t that right, Pisolino?” I kicked my espadrilles off, feeling a cool rush of air start to put out the fire between my toes and along my soles. “A midday nap, or chance to relax, will be fine by us.”
It seemed like the cat understood. He seemed to walk with more confidence. And when he entered the apartment, he went straight for the sofa, where he jumped up on the rim and stretched before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Maybe the last worker had adopted him too? Or maybe it was just meant to be between us?
After sliding out of the romper and using cool water to wash off, I went to the kitchen, smiling at the ceramic fruit and vegetables hanging on the wall, the hand painted picture in oil that brought a scene from the island alive—a citrus stall—and the copper pots hanging from the ceiling. I made myself a quick lunch and then undressed completely. I slid into bed, feeling the cool sheets caress my hot and achy limbs, and then reached for my crossbody purse. I scanned through the pictures I had taken at the top of the island, still in awe at how stunning the world could be. Some of the pictures looked fake, like a backdrop to a movie.
“Unbelievable,” I whispered, then yawned. My face, even though I had cleaned it, still felt like it had collected sea salt. I’d take a full shower after my nap, then head down to town to see where I’d be working.
On the next swipe, I came to the castello at the highest point of the island . My eyes devoured the beauty of it just as they had done with the pictures of nature and sea. I spotted something in the window, though. A blurred shape. I stretched the screen, zooming in. It was clearly a person. I sat up abruptly, wondering if I had caught the ghost of Rosaria Caffi in the act.
No, I told myself, just as I had on the way back to my apartment. I had decided that it was only a coincidence that her music had played. Italy was grieving the loss of its most famous songbird, and it wasn’t out of this world to believe whoever was in that castello listening to her music grieved with them.
What does that old song say? When you smile, the whole world smiles with you? Well, maybe when an entire country is grieving, it’s not uncommon to come across someone who is grieving.
Not the point at that second.
The point was that the person in the window’s frame was a man, I was sure of it. Oh man, was he looking at me while I was ogling his gorgeous digs? He probably thought I was creeping! Even though the picture was hazy, like he was a ghost himself, it was clear to see he had no shirt on. And I was positive Rosaria Caffi wasn’t built that way. Even though she seemed tall, she hadn’t had the shoulders of a linebacker.
Goosebumps rose on my arms at the thought of him watching me while I hadn’t noticed. I was sure it was just a case of him being at the window at the same time I happened to stumble upon his property, but I knew it was normal, too, to have a reaction to being watched when I didn’t realize I was.
It was like my criminal mind was merging with my romantic heart!
Slowly lowering back to the pillow, my heart overreacted again, but this time, it was teasing my mind. Even though I had climbed and walked miles earlier in the heat, it was like I was suddenly inflicted with a rush of energy.
The man in the window had inspired me.
Yes!
Inspired me.
The first line of a romance novel came to me like a strike of lightning because of him.
My phone would have to do to type it out. Later, I’d ask someone if a typewriter—truly romantic, right?!—could be found on the island.
Sighing in impatience, not wanting to lose the muse, the first words pushed my fingers to move, and I typed out a chapter title on the screen:
At First Sight
Then I typed out the first sentence of the story, the line that would direct the entire plot and give readers a taste of what they were in store for:
At first sight, she had fallen in love with a ghost.