“No,” I say, a little breathless. “I know.”
“Not that I don’t—” He stops himself again, and something unreadable flickers across his face.
For a moment we stare at each other, breathing hard, hair plastered to our heads, arms moving automatically and rhythmically through the water.
“So,” says Dutch at last, as though changing the subject. “Want to have another go?”
“Sure!” I say, although I can’t concentrate properly, because, was that…? Did we nearly…?
He swims away, toward a metal ladder set into the rock, and I follow, my mind churning. I clamber up the ladder, and then we both start climbing back up the path to the ledge. It’s a narrow track, and as we round the cramped corners, his wet skin brushes against mine. One minute we’re in the shade; the next, the sunshine is beating ferociously down on us. Neither of us speaks, although we’re both breathing heavily. Is that because of the heat or the climb or because…?
Oh God. I can’t stand this. I need to nudge things along. As we emerge onto a broad, sunlit stretch of rock, I come to a halt. Dutch turns and pauses questioningly, his eyes crinkled up against the sun. My heart is hammering, but what the hell? I jumped into the sea; I can do this.
“I’m allowed one personal question, right?” I say bluntly.
“Oh.” He seems taken aback. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Fine. Shoot. What do you want to know?”
“OK. Just now, in the sea, it felt like—” I break off. “It felt like we might— But—” Again, I stop myself. “Anyway. That’s my question.”
Dutch looks baffled.
“What’s your question, exactly?” he says after a moment. “Nothing you’ve said is a question.”
Oh, right. He has a point.
“My question is, just now, in the water, I felt we might be going in a certain…direction.” I force myself to meet his gaze full-on. “And I’m interested in…in where?”
There’s an answering glint in his dark eyes and my stomach clenches. That’s his answer. Right there. That expression. And the slow smile spreading over his face.
“Maybe I don’t know how to answer,” Dutch says after a pause. “I don’t have all the words like you writers do.”
As he steps toward me, he’s blatantly running his gaze over my swimsuit. (OK, not the swimsuit.) I take a matching step toward him so we’re only inches apart, my face tilted upward.
“You know what they say,” I say softly. “Show, not tell.”
I don’t know what I’m inviting. A chaste, romantic kiss, maybe. Like Chester and Clara shared before he boarded the hay wagon. But as Dutch’s lips meet mine, all ideas of being chaste fly out of the window. I don’t want chaste, I want him. This mouth. This faint roughness of stubble against my skin. All of him. Right now.
He’s deepening the kiss, expertly, intently, his hands at the straps of my swimsuit as though any minute he’ll yank it down. He tastes salty and manlike. Somehow our bodies have become melded together, damp skin against damp skin, with the sun blazing down on our heads and backs. He’s already hardening, I’m already melting, if we weren’t in public…
I hear someone laughing nearby—at us? But I’m too lost in sensation to move my head. It’s fine. We’re allowed to kiss in public. This is Italy, home of passion. They invented sex. And I can’t stop. My craving is limitless.
“Ciao, bella!” A screechy whistle makes me jump, and I glance round. It’s the teenagers, all clustered to watch us, about five feet away. Drat. They are laughing at us. And now they’re all wolf-whistling. We should stop. We’re probably in fact breaking a bylaw or something.
With an almighty effort, I wrench myself away from Dutch and stare up at him, breathing hard. I’m not sure I can speak, and he looks pretty dazed himself.
The teenagers are still catcalling us, and I try to block them out. Probably we shouldn’t have had our first sexual encounter in a public space with a jeering audience. But, then, everything’s easy in hindsight.
“So,” I manage at last.
“Uh-huh.” Dutch smiles again.
I know I’m supposed to have all the words, but I can’t even frame a sentence right now. I’m still too transfixed.
“I’m allowed a personal question too.” Dutch’s low voice takes me by surprise. “Right?”
One hand is roaming beneath the seam of my swimsuit while the other caresses my ear. His touch is somehow soft and firm at the same time. He knows what he’s doing, crosses my mind, and for a moment I savor this delicious thought. Then I realize he’s waiting for me to reply.
“Uh, yes.” I come to. “Yes. I guess.”
What does he want to ask?
I wait for Dutch to speak—but he’s silent for a few moments, his eyes gleaming as though with secret thoughts. “Good,” he says, and touches my nose gently. “Might save mine up for later on.”
* * *
—
That afternoon, I feel as though I’ve unleashed a fearless genie inside me. We rock-jump again and again, yelling and waving at each other, midair. We splash and swim and kiss in the sunshine, mouths salty with the sea. Then, when we’re exhausted, we head off the main beach into the shade of a nearby olive tree and spread our towels on the ground. The sun is dancing through the branches and I close my eyes, loving the feel of it on my face.
“I think Italian sun is different,” I say dreamily. “They fob us off in England. They keep the good sun in a cupboard because they think we’ll get spoiled if we have it too much. Then they let it out but only for twenty-four hours. And never when we expect it.”
Dutch laughs. “No wonder the British are obsessed by the weather.”
While we’re talking, he’s idly constructing a tower from the big, smooth pebbles that lie scattered around. As I watch, he places a large, fairly ambitious pebble on top and the whole thing falls down—whereupon he laughs and begins again. When he pauses, I add my own pebble to the stack, and he glances up with a grin.
“How many do you think we can stack? I say eight.”
“I say ten,” I counter at once, reaching for another pebble.
For a while we’re silent, concentrating on the task. But at last we have a teetering pile of ten stones. Dutch reaches his hand out to high-five me, but impulsively I shake my head.
“One more! Let’s make it eleven.”
“Eleven!” Dutch raises his eyebrows teasingly. “I like your style. Go on, then.”
As I reach for another pebble, I suddenly feel ridiculously nervous. I know it’s only a game, but we made this pebble stack together, and I really don’t want to knock the whole thing down when I could have settled at ten. In fact, I’m not sure why I even wanted to add another pebble. I guess it’s that voice inside me, constantly asking, What else could I be doing?
Tentatively, I place the new pebble on top and withdraw my hand—and it stays put!
“Result!” Dutch lifts his hand again, and this time we do high-five and I feel absurdly elated at our joint achievement.
“This takes me back to my childhood,” says Dutch lazily, lying back down on his towel. “I love architecture, design, that kind of thing. Guess it began with building sandcastles on the beach.”
“I used to love building sandcastles on the beach!” I say eagerly. “And I love design too. I collect interesting furniture. It’s, like, a hobby of mine.”
“Furniture?” Dutch lifts his head with interest. “What kind? Because I’m—”
“Wait!” I cut him off with a horrified gasp. “Sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. We’re not supposed to reveal our hobbies.”
“Too late.” He chuckles.
I’ve also just hinted that I live in England, it occurs to me. Honestly, I’m rubbish at this.
“I’m not necessarily from
England, by the way,” I say quickly. “I might have been double bluffing. Maybe I don’t even have a permanent abode.”
“Aria.” Dutch shakes his head incredulously. “Do we need to stick to the rules?”
“Yes! We need to try, at least. Only one personal question each, and you still haven’t asked yours. But here’s an idea,” I add in sudden inspiration. “Let’s talk about the future. When you’re ninety, what will you be doing? Give me a snapshot.”
“OK.” Dutch nods and thinks for a moment. “I’ll be looking back over a full life. I hope I’ll be content. In the sunshine somewhere. The good sunshine,” he clarifies with a quick grin. “And I’ll be with friends, old and new.”
He sounds so sincere, I feel a little pull at my heartstrings. He could have said so many other things. He could have said, “I’ll be on my yacht with my fifth wife.” That’s what Russell would have said. In fact, now I recall, that’s what Russell did say.
“That sounds perfect,” I say in heartfelt tones. “And…same. Good sunshine, friends around me. Plus I’ll be eating ice cream.”
“Oh, so will I,” says Dutch at once. “For sure. The only reason I came on an Italian holiday is because of the ice cream.”
“What flavor?” I demand.
“Is that tomorrow’s personal question?” counters Dutch, and I laugh.
“No! I’m not wasting a personal question on that. Forget it. I don’t need to know.”
“Shame.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Then you’ll never know how much I love nocciola.”
“That is a shame.” I nod. “And you’ll never know how much I love stracciatella.”
I lie back down on my towel, too, and Dutch’s hand idly strays over to take mine. Our fingers enmesh and I can feel his thumb circling my palm, and then he’s pulling me all the way over to his towel and finding my mouth with his.
“You taste better than nocciola ice cream,” he murmurs in my ear.
“You don’t really mean that,” I murmur back, and Dutch seems to think.
“OK, tied,” he allows. “Tied with nocciola ice cream. And you beat mango sorbet.”
“I beat mango sorbet?” I open my eyes wide in mock-amazement. “Wow. I don’t even know what to say. That’s a compliment I’ll never forget.”
And of course I’m joking…but at the same time I’m speaking the truth. I’ll never forget this charmed, intoxicating, sunlit day.
As afternoon turns to early evening, we finally stir. We’ve been lying, kissing, dozing, and idly chatting all afternoon. As I get up, my limbs are stiff and my legs are patterned with the imprint of twigs, but I can’t stop smiling dreamily.
We gather our things and head back toward the car and, as we do so, pass some teenagers playing a game of football on a stretch of scrubby land. The ball suddenly veers toward us, hitting Dutch on the head. He catches it, smiles, then heads it back into the game.
“Signor!” In a stream of Italian, one of the teenagers invites him to join in. Dutch pauses for a moment, then says to me, “Two minutes.”
As he joins the game, he instantly becomes utterly absorbed in it, and I watch, fascinated by seeing him in a different setting.
He seems to understand what the teenagers are yelling, even though they’re speaking Italian. (I guess they’re all communicating in the international language of “football.”) When one of the players slams into him with an aggressive tackle, Dutch brushes off his apology with an easygoing nod. He has a natural authority, too, I notice. The kids are deferring to him, even while they’re challenging him. Everything is another clue to who he is. Everything is another insight.
At that moment Dutch glances over at me and says, “I have to go now, guys, thanks for the game.”
The teenagers start exhorting him to stay (even I can translate that), but Dutch lifts a hand in smiling farewell and comes to rejoin me. “Well played!” I say, whereupon he laughs, takes my hand, and we turn our steps toward the car.
As we drive away with the evening sun still baking through the windscreen, I look back, trying to imprint this precious place on my memory, until we’ve turned the corner and are speeding along a main road.
“I wish we could have brought the pebble tower with us,” I say wistfully, and Dutch laughs again.
“I’m serious!” I say. “It would have been an amazing souvenir of the holiday.”
“You would have carried those eleven heavy stones back to the car?”
“Yes.”
“And all the way back home on the plane?”
“Of course!”
“And how would you have remembered what order they were piled up in?”
I pause, because I hadn’t quite thought that through. “I would have had a system,” I say at last with dignity. “And then every time I’d seen the pebbles back at home, I would have remembered—”
I break off abruptly, because if I’m not careful, I’ll say too much. I’ll open my heart too wide; I’ll scare him off.
I would have remembered the most amazing man I’ve ever met.
I would have remembered the most perfect day of my life.
I would have remembered heaven.
“It would have been nice,” I say at last, in lighter tones. “That’s all.”
* * *
—
As we arrive back in town, I still feel heady, as though I’m in a dream. A blue-skied, filmlike dream, spiked with adrenaline and lust and sunshine. I’m lolling against the hot plastic seat of the car, sipping an ice-cold Orangina we picked up en route. My hair is mussed up, my skin is salty, and I can still feel the imprint of Dutch’s mouth on mine.
I know there’s a delicious free supper waiting for us at the monastery, but when Dutch says, “Shall we grab some pizza?” I nod. I don’t want to share him with anyone. I don’t want to have to explain anything or make small talk. Farida is right, it distracts from the main event, which right now is Dutch.
Dutch parks the car in a deserted quarter of the town, with shadowed squares and stark streets lined with studded wooden doors.
“Found a pizza vendor yesterday,” he tells me as he leads me along. “It’s not a restaurant, it’s just a guy in a booth….Is that OK?”
“Great. Perfect!” I squeeze his hand and we round the corner into a smaller backstreet, even less well lit.
We take a few steps along the street. Ten, maybe. And then, in an instant, everything changes. From nowhere, two teenagers appear in our path. Skinny and tanned, like the guys Dutch was playing football with, but not like them, because they’re sullen and pushing at Dutch and saying aggressive things in Italian. Are they drunk? High? What do they want?
I’m trying to rationalize what I’m seeing, so my brain takes forever to realize the truth—this is a situation. An actual situation. In the space of three seconds, my heart goes from calm to pumping in fright. Dutch is trying to lead me past the boys; he’s trying to be amicable, but they won’t— They’re angry— Why? I can’t even— What—
And now—no, no, please, God, no—one of them has reached into his jacket and I see the heart-stopping metal flash of a knife.
Time stands still. A knife. A knife. We’re going to be stabbed, right here, right now, in this backstreet, and I can’t even move. I can’t make a sound. I’m frozen in utter terror, like a mummified, petrified creature from the Ice Age—
Wait, what? What is that? What’s happening right now?
Before my eyes, Dutch is wrenching the arm of the guy with the knife and twisting it in some efficient practiced maneuver, and somehow he’s got hold of the knife. How did he do that? How?
All the time he’s shouting, “Run, run!” and suddenly I realize he means me. He wants me to go.
But before I can run, the teenagers do. They sprint away, up the street, around the corner, and I sag against Dutch in sho
ck. It’s only about thirty seconds since we rounded the corner, but I feel as though the world has stopped and started again. Dutch is breathing very hard but simply says, “Are you OK?” then adds, “We should get to the car. They might get some stupid ideas about coming back.”
“How…how did you do that?” I stutter as we move along the street, and Dutch shoots me a look of surprise.
“What?”
“Get that knife off them!”
“Learned,” says Dutch with a shrug. “Everyone should learn. You should learn. It’s basic safety. I live in a big city—” He breaks off. “Right. Sorry. No personal details.”
“I don’t think that matters right now,” I say with a laugh that is perilously near to a sob.
“Aria!” Dutch looks stricken and stops to pull me close. “It’s OK,” he says in a low voice. “It’s over.”
“I know,” I say against his firm chest. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m overreacting.”
“You’re not,” says Dutch firmly. “Anyone would be shaken up. But I think we should keep walking,” he adds, holding my hand tighter as we move on. “Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”
His voice soothes my jangled nerves and strengthens my trembling legs. As we walk, he starts reading out all the road signs in deliberately bad pronunciation, making me laugh. And by the time we’re in the car, driving back along the coast road, munching pizza from a different vendor, it’s almost as though the whole thing never happened. Except that every time I look at him, my heart melts even more.
He saved my life. He’s hot and he loves dogs and we jumped off rocks together and he saved my life.
We drop the car at the hire garage, then walk the hundred feet or so back to the monastery, letting ourselves in through the massive wooden door. The entrance courtyard is empty and I pause, looking around its tranquil candlelit cloister. It’s like another world from the one we’ve been in. Swallows are wheeling against the indigo sky, and I can smell verbena in the air.
“Quite an afternoon,” says Dutch with a wry laugh. “You came here for a peaceful writing retreat and instead you’ve had an adrenaline roller coaster. Is your heart still thumping?”