Chapter 29
Chapter 29
“You have to tell him,” Conor orders after twenty minutes of additional searching for a dog who weighs more than I do and has the coat of a thousand alpacas. A dog who’s so big and bad at hiding, he cannot be on the premises.
Fuck.
“He wandered off somewhere,” Conor continues. The heat today is thick and suffocating. Painfully humid. We’re in the lemon grove, and he’s staring at me in that severe way of his, chin tilted in. I nearly shiver. “Maybe the eruption noises scared him. Let’s ask Eli—”
“No.”
“He’s not going to be angry at you, Maya. He’s the one who let Tiny out of his room assuming he’d come to yours, and never made sure he got there.” When he sees me bite my lip, his gaze softens. He runs a hand over my curls, pushing them back from my forehead. Have I combed my hair today? “I’ll take care of this. I don’t want you to feel bad when it’s Eli’s fault.”
“Give me one more hour.”
Conor sighs, arm dropping back to his side. “For all we know, he’s frolicking in highway traffic.”
“He wouldn’t. Tiny is not stupid.”
“Tiny is a dog.”
“Like I said—”
“I’ve seen him chase his own tail, eat his own barf, and growl at his own reflection. All in a span of ten minutes.”
“Okay, fine. His brain is pea-sized and we love him for it. But Rue has started to believe in curses, and she doesn’t have a wedding dress.”
Conor’s eyes flick down to my chest. “Maybe she can borrow your shirt?”
Shit. I’m still wearing the tripod. “And Eli’s busy trying to save his wedding from a volcanic eruption. The whole thing is falling apart. So I’d rather exhaust all avenues before I tell them that their dog, whom they love more than they love me, is missing.”
“They don’t love him more than—”
“It’s fine. I love him more than them, too. Hey, maybe they can help?” I point at the three bored-looking boys currently smoking cigarettes in the back of the villa. The grandsons, who must be on a break from being hounded by Lucrezia. “They’re always around. They may have seen him?”
Conor isn’t optimistic, but he indulges me. “Hi,” I say when we approach them.
The oldest, who must be around my age, glances at my legs and forgets to look away until Conor says something that has him muttering a low, “Scusa.”
They chat in Italian for a bit. Conor asks about a cane who’s molto grande (I’ll never order another latte without hearing his voice) and all the boys shake their heads. But right as my heart sinks into my stomach, Leg Boy takes out his phone to make a call. He then relays it to Conor, pointing in the direction of the beach.
“What did he say?”
“His cousin works as a bagnino on the public beach next to ours.”
“A what?”
“A lifeguard. He said that he saw a big mutt running on the shore a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh my god. Really? Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you. Conor, ask him for his phone number. I’m going to send him all the pictures of my legs his little heart desires— hey .” I tug at my wrist, but Conor is already dragging me away. “Hang on. We’re going in the wrong direction, the beach is—”
“We can’t just go to the beach and yell his name, Maya.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s miles long, and we have no idea where, or if, Tiny stopped.” He’s leading me toward something that looks like a shed, semi-hidden behind a few cypresses. His grip on my wrist slackens, and I…
I must be having an interesting day, because I let my hand slide down and close around his.
He must be having an interesting day, too. Because he allows it, and twines his fingers with mine.
My heart ricochets against my rib cage. “What’s the alternative? We still need to go to the beach.”
He opens the barn door. The inside is shaded, cool, scented with sawdust and oil.
“Is that a Vespa?” I gasp.
“Lambretta,” he corrects, easily mounting the motor scooter, which is painted the same blue as the sea. “Get on the back of the seat.”
“What?”
“There are tracks running parallel to the shore. This will be faster.”
I want to ask if he’s joking, but I know the answer. “This is very like that Audrey Hepburn movie whose name I forgot, but—”
“ Roman Holiday .” He shakes his head and mutters something about damn young people .
“Okay, Grandpa. First of all, that movie was shot in the fifties or sixties, so don’t act like you stood in line to see its midnight screening on opening day. Secondly”—I step into him with my most intimidating scowl—“can you even drive it?”
Instead of replying, he looks around. “Put on that helmet.”
“This?” It’s a round, giant monstrosity, covered in the Italian flag. When I stick my head inside, it feels no less heavy than societal expectations. “Why do I have to put it on?”
He casts a level look in my direction. “Because if we end up in an accident, I’d rather die than survive you.”
My heart stops. Doesn’t restart for whole seconds. “That is…”
“What?”
“Just, a little blunt? And macabre. And very weird to say.”
“I am blunt. And very fucking weird.”
An odd, pleasant heat spreads through my chest. “Maybe you should try not to be?”
He frowns. “I’m going to ask again: Can you try to not be trouble? Just for a couple of hours?”
As it turns out, under optimal circumstances, I am, in fact, able to restrain myself. Holding on tight to Conor’s waist, breeze cooling my tacky skin, I can be quiet and focused. I have no clue whether Conor has the necessary license to drive the scooter, but he knows what he’s doing, and after the first couple of minutes of winding roads, I’m reasonably sure that Rue and Eli won’t have to read their vows on top of our closed caskets.
We progress slowly, keeping an eye on the mostly unoccupied coastline, scanning it for a large, curly, slobbering mass whose color is much too similar to the rocky bits of the shore for my taste. The sky is increasingly dark and ashy, whether because of the weather or the volcano, I’m not sure. Still, it must have dissuaded most visitors from leaving the house.
About ten minutes into our search, we drive past Isola Bella. It’s striking even against the gunmetal sky. The waves around it seem to have turned a deeper blue-green, and the high tide fully submerges the sandbar. I stare, wondering what would happen if someone were to remain stuck on the island after the rise of the water levels—
“There!” I scream. “Conor, do you see him?”
He must, because he stops abruptly. “How the fuck did he get there?” Tiny is on the shore of Isola Bella.
“It must have been earlier, when the isthmus was visible. And now he can’t come back.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, taking off the helmet and running toward the island. Conor yells at me to wait, but I simply can’t .
“Tiny,” I call. “Hey, you spit monster! I’m here, baby! I got you!”
The moment Tiny realizes that I’ve come for him, he barks twice, then once more. His tail wags like a lasso, and he runs up and down the shore of the island, looking for a place to cross. Bless his heart, he’s never been a good swimmer.
“It’s okay,” I yell. “You’re still the best boy!”
“Is he, though?” Conor asks from my side. “The best boy got himself stranded.”
“I said best, not smartest. And tides are hard to understand even for scientists.” I start taking off my clothes.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What do you think?” I slide my shoes off. “I’m swimming to my beautiful, dumb dog.”
“In a couple of hours, the tide—”
“He’s probably terrified and thinks that we’ve forsaken him. Do you think I’d leave him alone for even ten minutes?” I drop my top on the sand.
Conor’s lips twitch, but he starts taking off his sandals. “Can I point out that you’re not wearing a swimsuit?”
I glance down at myself. Sure enough, that’s a bralette. The white lace is going to do great when the time comes to disguise my nipples. “There’s no one around. And it’s nothing that I wouldn’t show you, anyway.”
Our eyes lock, and I’m worried about Tiny, impatient, but I smile.
So does he.
There is a moment—a moment when his T-shirt peels off his abs and chest, when I hook my thumbs under my shorts and pull them down, a moment that’s so painfully familiar, it almost feels like a cliché.
Two people who like each other, standing in front of each other, peeling off layers.
Two lovers scrambling to get undressed because they need to touch , to feel, now.
A helping hand, undoing a tie, sliding a zipper open.
It is a cliché. And it fills me with more yearning than I thought I was capable of.
I stop, dizzy.
Conor’s movements slow to a crawl.
“It’s a mindfuck, isn’t it?” he says, low.
“What is?”
“You. This. What could…” What could be. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s thinking it. If only I weren’t so young. If only he weren’t messed up. If only it could work out.
It can , I want to scream. It will . But he’s down to his shorts, and already saying, “I’m going first. Make sure you stay close.”
“Why?”
“So I can drown you, of course.”
I laugh.
“It should only be a few feet deep, but if there’s a weird current just tap me and—”
“I can swim, Conor.”
“I know. Twenty freestyle, twenty backstroke, ten breaststroke.”
I stare, confused. Then realize what he’s referring to is my morning routine. For the last couple of days. He counted every lap.
I press my trembling lips together. “Did you set an alarm to creep on me?”
“I just wake up. It’s like my body knows where you are, at any given moment.” He smiles, a little wistful. His finger starts on my collarbone, traces my shoulder, descends down the little bulge of my biceps.
I shiver.
“Stay close,” he repeats.
And then he wades in.
It’s a quick swim. Save for a brief stretch right in the central part of the sandbar, it barely qualifies. In no more than a couple of minutes we’re on the island, and Tiny…
Tiny, who’s really trying my patience, barks several times, then disappears behind a dry-stone wall.
“Tiny, wait!” But he doesn’t. “Well, shit.”
The island is something out of a movie, made of large rocks stacked upon each other, winding vertically toward a historic house. Lush and resilient, the trees grow everywhere: on top of and between the boulders, across the uneven stone paths, down the cliff’s slopes, inside hidden alcoves. My travel guide had a few pages about the history of the place, and I know that in the nineteenth century, a conservationist fell in love with it and decided to build a small villa in its center. She didn’t just preserve the vegetation that was already on the island, but also planted nonnative species.
Maybe that’s why it looks just a little out of place, and much less civilized than the rest of the Ionian coast. The spots we’ve visited so far, the restaurants and landmarks, and even Villa Fedra, with its neatly terraced lawns and well-kept groves, are orderly and sophisticated. Isola Bella, on the other hand, is a colorful, tangled jungle, a nature reserve bursting with shrubs and succulents and exotic flowers that could never be found beyond the confines of the sandbar. The island is now owned by the Sicilian government, but even with constant upkeep, everything feels overgrown and a little too cramped. It’s like the flora refuses to stop spreading just to give us mere mortals access to its wonders.
Isola Bella is a pleasure garden, and it cannot be contained.
“God, I missed this place,” Conor says, hushed despite the fact that we’re alone. He had the excellent sense to carry my flip-flops and his Birkenstocks. The rocks on the soil are sharp. Without them, our feet would be torn to shreds.
“Is it possible that it’s not open to visitors?” I was under the impression that we’d be able to walk deep into the island, but I spot a door carved inside the rock, and a ticketing office sign. Pink and purple bougainvillea grow all around its door. Unfortunately, we cannot reach it. Because it’s past a closed iron gate.
Somehow, so is Tiny.
“I think the whole area might be. Most people get here via the cable car,” Conor says, pointing behind us at the gondolas parked all the way up the hill. “Today they don’t seem to be running.”
“Because of the volcano?” Mount Etna’s column of smoke and fire is clearly visible from where we stand. Occasionally, it even growls.
“That, or because it’s supposed to storm.”
“Shit.” I eye the gate. It’s shorter than me, and climbing it would be a piece of cake, if it weren’t for those sharp pikes at the top. “Do you think we can—”
Conor’s hands are already around my waist, lifting me over the iron bars. I briefly see myself impaled on one or more of the pikes, rivulets of blood mixing to little chunks of bowels as they trickle out of me. I prepare to scream, cry, perhaps throw up on Conor. Before I get a chance, though, he deposits me on the other side, and joins me with a simple, sleek jump.
I take a few deep breaths and watch him wipe his hands clean against his shorts, trying not to stare. This—being here, alone, with him. The illicitness of trespassing private property. The fact that we’re both close to naked. All of it together, it’s…a lot. “Color me impressed by your athleticism, old man.”
His look is withering. “When my geriatric joints require surgery, I’ll make sure to bill your insurance.”
“I’m still on Eli’s, who is on Harkness’s.” I realize something. “Which means that you pay for my birth control. Isn’t that fascinating?”
He grunts, noncommittal. Murmurs something about the superiority of universal healthcare.
I adjust the twisted strap of my bralette and add, “You’re welcome to start taking advantage of your money’s worth any day.”
It takes a lot longer than it should, but I can spot the exact moment my meaning sinks in. He is too… bare , to hide the way his every muscle winds tight.
“Maya.”
“Yeah?”
He shakes his head roughly. “You cannot say that to me.”
“Really?” I tilt my head. Dimple up at him. “Is there a law, or something?” I don’t wait for an answer before turning around. “Tiny! Tiny? Come here, baby!”
It’s starting to drizzle. We follow beaten tracks, climb over a couple of increasingly slick rocks, and it soon becomes apparent that Tiny is having way too much fun being chased by us. I call him, but he never listens to me. Eli may be his boss, but I’m his peer, and any demand I might make of him is little more than a polite suggestion. “Tiny, will you please come?”
He doesn’t. We venture toward the center of the island, swatting away bugs, and the rain grows heavier. Conor walks ahead of me, constantly looking back to make sure I haven’t slipped and cracked my skull on a jagged piece of rock. I roll my eyes every time, but when I trip over an exposed root, he catches me with a hand over my rib cage, and his eyebrow arches .
When we emerge from a grove of palms, I realize that we must have crossed the entire island, and are much closer to the water than I thought. Thick raindrops soak my hair and Tiny’s fur. He’s never been a huge fan of water, but he idles near an indentation in the rock wall, barking in its direction.
“It’s an entrance,” Conor says. “To a cave. An artificial cave. See how steps were carved in the stone?”
Tiny, who usually rolls down the stairs because he’s too lazy to walk, darts downward with the agility of a mountain goat, and we hurry after him. Despite the gloom of the day, the visibility inside the cave is surprisingly good, with light filtering in from an opening down below. “Is this some kind of…”
“Grotto,” Conor says once we reach the bottom. He points at the other end of the cave, where the stone arches. “Ships sail in that way, then dock over here.”
“And tourists climb up the steps to visit the island.” I nod. “You can see the coast from here. That’s Villa Fedra.”
Tiny barks again, this time at an alcove in the wall. Conor and I exchange a glance, and he says, for what better be the last damn time, “Stay behind me.”
He pets Tiny with a mumbled “Bad boy” that holds zero discipline and lots of affection. Then frowns as he leans forward for a better look. “Maya?”
“Yeah?”
He shakes his head. “Have to take it back.”
“Hmm?”
“What I said about Tiny. He’s actually a goddamn genius.”
Tiny puffs up with pride. “Why?”
“Because he wasn’t running. He led us here on purpose.”