He must have been working on a farm. His dark hair had been tousled and sweat-dampened, and his white T-shirt and jeans had been streaked with earth. He had been carrying a large burlap bag on his back, filled with greens and vegetables. But it had been his eyes that had galvanized her. Ebony eyes that had sent a shiver coursing through her veins. Eyes like river stones gleaming in the sun. And even with a coating of dust on his face, Neve had been able to make out his chiseled features, straight nose and sensual curve of his lips.
Suddenly flustered, Neve had shifted her gaze and in mere seconds, had taken in his tanned arms—his biceps bulging from holding the burlap bag—and his well-fitting, straight-leg jeans. He is not a boy, she remembered thinking. She had guessed him to be in his early twenties. And she had been eighteen... For a few moments she had felt a strange weakness overcome her and had wondered if she was about to pass out.
And then he had stopped. She had felt him staring at her and had looked up. Is he going to say something? she had wondered. Their eyes had locked. And then he had given a slight nod and, readjusting his bag, had kept walking. The following day Neve had watched him from behind the wooden shutters, too shy to suddenly appear on the balcony. But when he had slowed down and looked up toward her balcony, her heart had fluttered. He had been hoping to see her.
* * *
Neve realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush. And then other memories of that summer eight years ago came tumbling out. The way he had started going by the villa several times a day, not just to and from his farm job, but also later in the evening. He had made evening trips to and from the bakery, the Pasticceria Michelina. Sometimes he had walked; other times he had rumbled by on a motor scooter. Neve had felt herself falling under the spell of the Southern ways, the age-old custom of locking gazes, communicating with eyes only, a slow dance of intuition and anticipation. Her heart had thrummed all evening and night after that first encounter, and over the next few days she had found she could concentrate on little else.
Her mother, Lois, had caught the exchange once. He had been walking by after his work on the farm, and Lois had come into Neve’s room and walked toward the balcony at the same moment that he had paused to look up and smile at Neve, who had taken to sitting out on the balcony with a book every afternoon. Neve had returned the smile, and then had become aware of her mother’s presence.
“What are you doing?” her mother had asked. “You don’t pay attention to farmhands, Neve. That could get you into real trouble.”
Neve had flushed, embarrassed to have been discovered flirting and even more embarrassed to think that he had heard or understood. But when she had looked back toward him, he had walked on and was almost out of sight. She had glanced at her mother, whose frown had deepened.
“I’ve read stories about how some men in the South used to kidnap young ladies, take them up to a mountain cave and compromise their honor so their family would have no choice but to let them get married.”
“Mom! Really? Are we talking about the same century?” Neve couldn’t believe what she had just heard. “I wasn’t doing anything other than smiling back. And I didn’t get the feeling he wanted to marry me,” she had added flippantly. “I don’t think you have to worry about him carrying me off.”
Her mother’s cheeks had reddened. “Neve, you are not to give him or anyone like him any attention. You’re in Italy, remember. Men are more...passionate here. You came here a virgin. I don’t want you to fall for the first Romeo that pays attention to you and let him—”
“Mom! Oh, my God!” Neve had jumped up, her face flaming. “Just stop! Give me some credit, would you?”
She had barricaded herself in her private bathroom, ignoring her mother’s calls and halfhearted attempts to apologize. She had come out after her mother had gone, and wiping her tear-streaked eyes, she had walked to the balcony...
* * *
For the next few days Neve had been too busy with her school obligations to think much about the ad. When an email from a Mrs. Lucia Michele arrived, informing her that she was one of the applicants who could proceed to be interviewed, Neve’s heart had done a leap. She had thought it was a long shot, as there must have been hundreds of applicants, if not more, and her pulse had quickened at the thought that she might actually stand a chance of being hired.
Mrs. Michele’s email had informed Neve of the interview details. It would be conducted by her. The employer would be watching the interview privately. Due to the sensitive nature regarding the child, she had been instructed to keep the employer’s identity confidential until the chosen applicant actually arrived in person in Southern Italy.
And now here Neve was, communicating with Signora Lucia Michele, who was asking her in halting English about her philosophy of discipline. Neve felt a little self-conscious doing a Skype interview while her prospective employer watched from his computer.
Neve paused for a moment, wondering what stance “the boss” expected her to take. She looked beyond the woman, almost expecting that he—why she thought it would be a he, she didn’t know—would appear, and took a deep breath. She could only answer truthfully.
“I believe that consistency is essential in discipline,” she replied, her voice steady. “The child must know what you expect, and as a kindergarten teacher, I tell my children right at the beginning that I expect to be treated kindly, with respect, and that I will be treating them in the same manner. I make sure they know right away that A, their parents have trusted them to my care because I will keep them safe and take good care of them, and B, they will learn and have fun with me.”
She couldn’t help smiling, thinking of her school kids as they looked at her with wide eyes on the first day of school. “Those are the two main things they need to know. And then, day by day, they will learn how to interact, how to solve problems, how to be a good leader.” She looked straight at the camera. “And they will learn about consequences when they do something inappropriate. I believe in positive discipline and fairness, and flexibility when it is required...without laying a hand on the child.”
Signora Michele gave a curt nod. “And I see you have...ah...some esperienza with children who have suffered—how do you say?—oh, yes—loss?”
Neve tried to control her eyes from misting. Yes, she had experience, she replied, and bit her lip. She told the signora about the courses she had taken to help understand what children who had lost a parent through death or separation or divorce were going through. “You can’t assume that every child who enters your classroom has had a happy, cheerful childhood,” she said wistfully. “If only...” She blinked and thought of a frail-looking girl called Tessa, who had lost her mother to cancer a month before starting kindergarten.
Don’t cry, she told herself. Hold it together.
And then Signora Michele turned slightly and touched her ear. Neve spotted the hearing device that was obviously the means of communication between her and the employer.
She nodded and turned back to Neve, her face expressionless. “Thank you for your time, Signorina Wilder. You will be contacted with an answer within a day or two. There are still a few other applicants to consider... Grazie.”
Neve nodded and gave her a small smile before the woman left. She looked again right into the camera at the top of her screen, knowing the employer would be watching until the last moment. Neve stared briefly, then nodded, her eyes never faltering.
“Grazie,” she addressed the unseen employer before shutting down her laptop.
* * *
Davide Cortese’s pulse leaped. If he had entertained the smallest doubt when she had first appeared on his laptop screen in his study, after mere seconds he could no longer deny it. The interview had lasted twenty minutes or so between his assistant and the applicant, but it had taken him only