When We Believed in Mermaids(31)

“What makes them Sicilian?”

“Ricotta instead of cream inside. So good.”

A tall, tidy woman with a shiny fall of copper hair stands at the open-air hostess stand, getting things ready for the day. As I approach, she gives me a bright smile. “We’re not quite ready to serve, but I’d be happy to take your name.”

“No, thank you. I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?” Her hands still on the napkins she’s folding.

I hold up the phone with my sister’s face. “Have you seen this woman?”

Her face smooths. “Yes. She’s a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen her for a while.”

A bolt of shock runs through my body, like lightning. She’s alive. “Do you happen to know her name?” She cocks her head, and I realize too late that it’s odd that I have her picture but don’t know her name. “I know her as Josie, but I think her real name is something else.”

“Hmm.” Her face shutters slightly, and if she does know the name, she’s not saying it. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Okay.” I tuck the phone in my pocket, pushing down both disappointment and relief. “Can you tell me if there was anything happening around here the night of the nightclub fire? Like an event or a concert or something?”

Her lips go pale. “Was she in the fire?”

“No, no. Sorry. I just wondered what else might have been going on.”

She glances at Javier, and something I can’t quite read crosses her face—admiration, recognition, startlement. Her spine straightens even more. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Thank you.” I glance up at Javier and nod once. “Let’s go sightseeing.”

“Sure?” He touches the small of my back as we depart, and I see him nod at the woman.

We head for the wharf. “Was that like your father’s restaurant?” he asks.

“It has some things in common. The cannoli dessert, the fresh mozzarella, pasta with squid ink, and there’s something”—I look over my shoulder—“about the way it looks. I think if my sister knew about it, she would probably like it.”

He nods and doesn’t press me for more information. It’s only a couple of blocks to the wharf, and we duck into the comparative coolness of the building. “What would you like to do?” Javier asks as we stand, side by side, looking up at the offerings.

I’m deeply relieved to have something besides my sister to focus on. None of the names has any meaning to me, and I half shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Shall we do everything?”

Recklessly, I say, “Why not?”

He pays for the tickets, so I buy us some coffees in paper cups and a couple of pastries from a vendor. Settling on a white bench in the ferry building, I sip a flat white and nibble an apple Danish, watching Javier make a tidy diorama with a napkin spread wide on the bench, his coffee at one side, his pastry in the middle. After the morning swim and walk, I’m starving, and I watch people milling around talking to each other, the irritated kids hauled by their parents, tourists from everywhere. A line of people dressed in good hiking gear are lining up to board for an island volcano. The boat bobs gently.

“I love ferries,” I say.

“Why?” He’s hung his sunglasses from the placket of his shirt and admires the flaky edges of his pastry. A finger of sunlight makes a shadow fan of his eyelashes across his cheekbone, exaggerating their length. He takes a lusty bite.

“I don’t know,” I admit, and think about it, naming the images as they pop up in my mind. “The stairs. Those tidy rows of chairs. The open air on sunny days.” I sip my coffee. “It’s just being on the water, really. I always like that. In my family, we always say we can’t sleep if we can’t hear the ocean.”

“It is a soothing sound,” he agrees. “I like ferries because you climb in, and the boat takes you where you’re going. No bothering with maps and cars. You can read.”

“I thought all men liked driving.”

An expressive shrug. Not so much, it says, but what can you do? “It’s a modern necessity, but it brings no pleasure most of the time.”

I incline my head, trying to guess what he drives. “Huh. I would have imagined you flying down some twisty road in a convertible.”

A very small grin lifts one side of his mouth. “Romantic.”

“Sexy.” I hold his gaze. “Like one of those sixties movies of the guy navigating the coast of Monaco.”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I would disappoint you.”

I lean back. “So what do you drive?”

“Volvo.” A small translucent square of sugar falls on his thumb. “How about you? Or shall I guess?”

“You won’t get it.”

“Mm.” He plucks the sugar from his hand and tucks it in his mouth, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know American cars so well. A Mini?”

I laugh. “No, but they are cute. I drive a Jeep.”

“A Jeep? Like an SUV?”

“Not exactly. I need room to take my surfboard to the beach, so—” I scan the horizon. “It’s practical.”

“Ah. Surfing.” He looks a bit perplexed.