A Place in the Sun(16)

I know it seems so callous to think of his situation as anything but heartbreaking. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel for him or that I didn’t understand everything he’d suffered through with Allie. God, untimely death is the saddest thing of all time. Unfortunately, I’d experienced it firsthand. I’d lost my father when I was a young girl and my eldest brother a few years later. Heart failure and a car crash. Both sudden. Both devastating. Two deaths in a family of five had nearly crippled us. My mother fell into life as a widow. My brother, Fred, took over the family title and all the responsibilities that came with running the estate, and I settled into the only role I knew: the court jester, the clown, the only bit of light in our family during those tough few years. I was there through my mother’s heartache; I’d endured the dates and the silly setups because it took my mother’s mind off the real troubles of her life to see me get tarted up for an evening out. I’d joked and I’d forced her smiles through all the hard times because she needed to be reminded that life marches on even when we desperately wish it wouldn’t.

A few years back, my brother had met Andie, the love of his life. They had three children now and my mother doted on them whenever she got the chance. With so many good things going for our family, I finally felt as though I could pack away my jester hat. They didn’t need me anymore, which was why I didn’t feel bad up and leaving London for an adventure of my own.

And then as fate would have it, upon my first day in Vernazza…WHAM. I met Gianluca. The widower.

See?

What tragic luck.



…



The next morning, I lazed in bed, thinking over the story of Allie. It should have made it easy to subdue my silly crush on Gianluca. Normal women would run for the hills, but it only intrigued me more. I’d never had a man love me like that. In some grim way, the depth of his despair over losing another woman became an advertisement for the quality of his love. I felt guilty for thinking that, but not guilty enough to stop.

Oh god, I needed to get out of my head and definitely stop thinking about Gianluca. After all, the bloke thought I was named Gigi! Ha. I’d file the papers to change my name before correcting him.

I pushed off my covers and decided on a whim that I’d head to Monterosso al Mare for the day. The sun was already high in the sky, warming everything it touched. I strung on a red bikini and tossed my beach supplies into a straw bag: sun cream, my floppy hat, and my worn paperback. I tugged on a loose cover-up and slipped into sandals before locking up my room and flying down the stairs.

Chiara wasn’t manning the desk, so I headed out to the station. I hadn’t been back on a train since the first day I arrived. Monterosso al Mare was the northernmost village in Cinque Terre and only one stop over, so fortunately, the five-minute journey didn’t cause my small breakfast to make an encore appearance.

I stepped off the platform and followed the string of tourists heading toward the sea. Unlike Vernazza, Monterosso had a proper beach that stretched on for a few miles. It was early, but the beach was starting to fill fast. I paid to reserve an umbrella and chair in the first row and plopped myself there, lathering on sun cream as I watched a group of children run into the surf, squealing as waves crashed against their legs and running back onto the pebbled beach as fast as possible.

I let my cream soak in and then I stood and slipped off my sandals, walking with careful steps toward the water. The soft sand turned to pebbles once I approached the water’s edge, and though none of them were sharp enough to cut me, it hurt to put too much pressure on them at once. I eased into the surf, hissing as the cold water lapped up over my legs and thighs. With a final resolute breath, I pinched my nose and dove under the water.

My brother had taught me proper swimming technique when I was young, and I thanked him for it as I kicked farther from shore. The Ligurian sea was pure bliss: cold turquoise water beneath sunny skies. I flipped onto my back, closed my eyes, and let the waves drift me where they wished. After a few minutes, I’d flop back over and swim closer to the buoys, repeating the process until my fingers were pruned and my cheeks were warm from the sun.

When I swam back to shore, my things were right where I’d left them beneath the umbrella. I sprayed a bit of after-sun on my hair, lathered up more cream, and set off toward Monterosso for a snack. It wasn’t quite lunchtime, but my small breakfast had burned quickly in my swim. Like Vernazza, Monterosso had a few small shops wedged between restaurants and hotels. I begrudgingly walked past the gelateria and instead went into a small grocer.

“Le fragole sono succose,” said the girl behind the counter, pointing to the small basket of strawberries I’d nabbed as soon as I’d walked in. “Juicy.”

She hadn’t been kidding. I carried the strawberries back to my beach chair and ate them leaning over the sand. I’d never tasted fruit so fresh in my life. It wasn’t like the produce I could pick up in the shops around London. The strawberries were soft and tender, so full of flavor I couldn’t help but moan with pleasure every time I bit into one. Had anyone been sitting near me, they’d have assumed I had a bit of a berry fetish, and well, maybe I did. I didn’t stop until I’d eaten every last one, and then, full of sugary sweetness, I waded back into the sea, using the cold water to wash the juice off my chin and fingers.

By the time I rode the train back to Vernazza, I was sated. Even with the sun cream on, I had a nice tan going on my arms and legs. My hair was wavy and wild, and my skin was still sticky from the sea and sand and strawberries. (I’d caved and gone back for a second basket.)