Once this is done I will book your flights and send you an email with itinerary details. On July second you will be met at Lamezia Airport and a driver will bring you to your employer’s residence.
Cordially,
Lucia Michele
Neve blinked, stunned. She had the job! She read the email again. She couldn’t exactly call it a warm letter; it was very matter-of-fact and to the point. There was no commentary on her qualifications, the interview itself or anything else. The employer had obviously been satisfied with her detailed CV and with how she had responded in the interview.
Neve thought about everything she needed to do in the next two weeks. Less than two weeks, actually. Finalize report cards. File. Clean up her classroom. Pack. No, shop first. She needed some light dresses and new shorts. And definitely a couple of new swimsuits. Her favorite one, a fuchsia one-piece, had faded from the chlorine at the local swimming pool. And not that she’d have much time to herself, but the ad did say there would be one day off. Well, she would most certainly be frequenting the nearest beach on that day.
Neve thought about the little girl she would soon meet. Bianca. Such a lovely name. What had occurred in Bianca’s young life to cause her such distress? Why was she living with her uncle? Dozens of questions swarmed in Neve’s mind... She would get the answers soon enough.
She opted for an early night after a quick shower. The school was having their end-of-year play the following day, and she needed to store up her energy for the scheduled activities that included her class of twenty-four kindergarten students. There would be fun and laughter, but Neve was prepared for the possible tears and other behaviors that some of her five-year-olds might display after a few hours in the sun.
Yawning, she changed into a light blue baby doll and snuggled under her covers. She thought about Bianca’s uncle. It was hard to get any kind of impression of him from his assistant’s email. Did he have a wife, and if so, she must be working, or else wouldn’t she be taking care of Bianca? Stop, she told herself. She’d know more when she got Mrs. Michele’s next email.
Neve felt her eyelids getting heavier. What if Bianca’s uncle is single? And the sudden thought: What if that guy from across the street is still in Valdoro? He may very well have moved to work in a bigger city up north, like Rome or Milan, as many of the Southerners tended to do. But if he was still in Valdoro, would she recognize him? He’d be maybe twenty-eight or so, and he’d probably be married with a couple of kids... Or maybe not... The picture of him she had kept in her mind had faded and blurred a little, but even so, she felt her pulse quicken.
And the image of his intense black eyes was the last thing she saw before she drifted into sleep.
* * *
Davide shut down his laptop. He left his study and strode to his bedroom. He opened the shutters and stood for a while, gazing at the twinkling lights dotting the countryside, and the indigo streak beyond—the Ionian Sea. It had been another scorching day; the locals had said it was the hottest summer in history. A smile curved his lips. For as long as he could remember, Valdoro’s residents had said the same thing every summer. And the people in neighboring hamlets and towns were no different.
He almost felt like driving down the mountain to have a swim in the refreshing depths of the sea. But Bianca was sleeping and Lucia had gone home. They had decided to carry out the interview in early afternoon Vancouver time, which was nine hours behind Italian time.
Davide peeled off his shirt and pants and tossed them over a chair. There was hardly a breeze, and the night air had dropped a dozen degrees, but it was still too warm. He didn’t have to worry about his neighbors seeing him, though. Last year he had purchased this house on a steep mountain on the outskirts of Valdoro, a few kilometers away. There were no neighbors to look across from their windows or balconies to his.
He smiled wryly. It wasn’t actually a house; it was an eighteenth-century castle that had been built by the Baron of Valdoro. Fortified castles had been built inland on impossibly high mountains throughout Calabria, and their lords or barons had employed the locals to work the land of their vast properties, or latifundi, as they had been known. The last descendant of the Baron of Valdoro had died childless a hundred or so years earlier, and the land around his castle had long been abandoned. Although the castle was within the boundaries of Valdoro, it had not been maintained; the town simply hadn’t had the financial means to restore it.
Three years ago, when Davide’s first novel had been awarded Italy’s prestigious literary award—the Premio Strega—followed by international sales and a film and miniseries option that made him a multimillionaire in months, he had spent the first year swirling from interview to interview, in between countless literary readings and festivals all over Italy. His face had been on the cover of practically every newspaper and magazine.
He had been one of the youngest recipients of the Strega. His hometown had attracted tourists, which had boosted the economy and profile of Valdoro, pleasing both the town officials and the residents alike. Davide was given the ceremonial key to Valdoro, and he had celebrated with his uncle and neighbors in a day of festivities culminating in a spectacular show of fireworks.
He still couldn’t believe that the words he had penned about a family during the unification of Italy in 1861 had garnered such fanfare. It had been compared in scope to Il Gattopardo, the famous novel written by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa. Davide had studied The Leopard in high school, had been riveted by its rich complexity, propelling him to pursue further studies in history and literature.
He had made a promise to himself the summer Neve Wilder had visited Valdoro with her mother. And that was to let Neve’s harsh words on the note she sent him burn into his soul until he had accomplished one goal, and that was to elevate himself to the point where she, or anybody else, could not look down on him.
That meant continuing to further his education and to make something of himself. His uncle had lived very humbly as a priest, and had stretched himself to the limit to provide for him. Davide had been very appreciative, but he had realized that he had to push himself to go beyond his or his uncle’s normal expectations.
In between his studies and work on the farm, Davide had taken to writing. Late at night and before dawn, he had let his knowledge of history, his culture and his imagination combine and transform into the fictional story of the daughter of a Bourbon lord, who had become captivated with the ideals of General Giuseppe Garibaldi in his quest to oust the Spanish Bourbon regime and unify the South with the rest of Italy. The girl had fallen in love with one of Garibaldi’s soldiers during the revolution and successful ousting of the Bourbons, and had abandoned her family and relinquished her status to elope with him in the mysterious Aspromonte mountain range in Calabria.
Writing this story had been bittersweet, and his hand had sometimes trembled with emotion as he created the scenes between the two lovers. His protagonist, Serena, had turned out to be an Italian version of Neve, dark-haired but with the same fair skin and blue-green eyes that were not often seen in the South.
Davide had made Serena everything he had fantasized about Neve before she had crushed his illusions...and Vittorio was the name he had called the man who had captured her heart.
Davide gave a harsh laugh. What a fool he had been eight years ago. A romantic fool.
After first catching sight of Neve on that balcony, he had used every excuse possible to walk by. He had had asked his friend Agostino, whose mother had been working as a housekeeper at the Villa Morgana, to keep him informed of any excursions Neve’s family was planning, and Davide would innocently show up around that time. Just to catch sight of Neve.
When he had had the good fortune of first spotting her on the balcony, he had dared to hold his gaze for longer than a casual glance. And to his delight, after gazing away shyly, she had returned it. But then, with each subsequent walk-by, she had attempted a quirky smile, her face flushing like a ripe peach.
After a