Authors: Lisa Desrochers
“W
H
AT?”
I
’M SO
shocked by her words that I don’t even move to shake her hand off.
“Alessandro is in love with you.”
“No . . . I mean . . .” I’m so rattled I can barely form a coherent thought. “We’re just friends.”
“I can’t help him. He only feels guilt when he sees me.”
“I’m . . . he . . .” My head is spinning. What am I supposed to say?
“You can help him see,” she tells me, and finally there’s some animation to her features. Her brow furrows, and her eyes take on a desperate sheen.
“See what? What does he need to see?”
“He’s doing this for me—for his family. Not for himself.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What’s he doing for his family?”
“Lexie?” I start at the sound of Alessandro’s voice on the stairs, but his mother’s only reaction is to drop her hand from my arm. He splits a wary glance between us. “Is everything all right?”
I nod and look back at his mother. “We’re fine.”
He mounts the last stair in a T-shirt and sweatpants and watches his mother disappear back through her door, then comes to where I am and rubs his warm hands up and down my upper arms. “Are you okay? What did she say?”
I shake my head. “She wasn’t really making any sense.”
He bites the corner of his lower lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry if she scared you.”
“No. It’s okay.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me, which he’s probably getting from the fact I’m shaking a little. He pulls me into his arms and rests his chin on the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”
We stand here until my shaking slows, then he takes my hands in his. “I just came up to tell you breakfast is ready. Are you hungry?”
After what just happened, no. But I can’t tell him that. “Yeah. It smells amazing.”
He leads me down the stairs, and the smell gets stronger—yeast and something sweet. “If you think those currant croissants are good, get ready to hold on to your taste buds.”
Alessandro’s mom doesn’t come down for breakfast, so Alessandro and I eat with his grandparents. He translates as Mémé grills me on my family. When she’s satisfied I’ve eaten enough and divulged all my family secrets, she lets us up from the table.
Alessandro walks with me to the stairs. “As soon as we’re ready, we should go. There’s a lot of island to see.”
“Great. Just let me change.” I scamper up the stairs, moving quickly past his mother’s door, up the spiral stairs to my room, then dig through my bag for the sweater and jeans I’d packed. I slip them on and pull my hair back, then rub a little foundation on, blend in some blush, and brush on mascara. The whole production takes less than ten minutes. On my way back down, I run past his mom’s door again and find him waiting in the hall in a pair of jeans and a dark blue hoodie. He looks like half the guys on Notre Dame campus . . . except much hotter.
“We have one stop on our way up the hill,” Alessandro tells me as he ushers me to the front door.
Mémé follows behind us, talking in rapid-fire French. I smile and wave because I’ve discovered that makes her happy.
“Where are we stopping?” I ask as we hop into a small brown sedan in the driveway.
“Father Costa asked me to stop by when I was on the island.”
“Oh.”
Alessandro navigates down the winding drive to the narrow road and takes a left up the hill. Houses become more frequent as we weave over the switchbacks of the hill until we come to an actual town. “This is the town of Cardiglione,” he tells me, slowing as the streets become busier. We wind through town, past markets and cafés, and he rolls to a stop in front of a white church. He steps out of the car, and when I don’t move, he holds his hand out to me. “The Father will want to meet you.”
“Why?” I ask, getting out.
He gives me the skeptic’s eye. “He’s a friend. You’re a friend. He’ll want to know you.”
I follow him up the walk to a small house beside the church, and he knocks. We wait for a moment, but when there is no answer, he turns for the church. “He’s probably readying for Mass.” He lays a hand on my back and ushers me to the front of the church, but we’re not even through the door when someone calls out, “Alessandro!”
He smiles and turns as a slender, older man with white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a bit of a hunched posture under his cassock skips across the sidewalk toward us.
“Alessandro! C’est votre dernier voyage avant le grand jour!”
“It is,” Alessandro answers. “Father Costa, I’d like for you to meet my good friend, Lexie Banks.”
Father Costa takes my hand in both of his. “Ah! Lexie!” he says with strong French accent. “Alessandro has told me of the work you have done with the children.”
I smile. “I really love it. It’s been an amazing opportunity.” I glance at Alessandro. “It’s probably the thing I will miss most and remember longest when I leave Italy.”
“It is a worthwhile mission and one that Alessandro has taken to heart. Children are our most treasured resource.”
Alessandro is beaming at me. “Lexie is a natural with the children. Her love pours out in her work, and it’s contagious.”
There’s a long pause as I flounder for some response to that. Finally, Father Costa breaks the silence. “When will you be returning home?” he asks, and there’s a slight edge to his voice that wasn’t there a second ago. His eyes move warily between Alessandro and me.
“Um . . . I’m not quite sure yet. I’m hoping for an internship at Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, and if I get it, I’ll be in Rome until August. Otherwise, I go home in May.”
He nods, then shifts his attention to Alessandro, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. “I will be in Rome for your ordination in six weeks’ time.”
Alessandro lays his hand on the Father’s shoulder so their arms are crossed. “I’m happy you’ll be there.”
“This is a big day for you—what you’ve been preparing for since you were a young man.” Father Costa’s eyes shift to me, then back to Alessandro. “Of course, I will be there for you, as I always have been. If there’s anything you need from me, counsel or support, you need only ask.”
Alessandro nods, then pulls Father Costa into a hug, kissing both cheeks. “Thank you Father. I’ve always relied on your guidance.” He lets go of the priest and clasps my hand. “À bientôt.”
We walk back to the car and climb in, and I can feel Father Costa’s eyes on my back.
“I don’t think he likes me.”
Alessandro looks at me as he turns the key. “Why would you think that?”
I shrug. “Just a feeling.”
He pulls onto the road, and we wind away from the church. “I’m sure you couldn’t be more wrong.”
I watch the scenery as we crawl up the mountain, switching back at sharp angles. Frequently, vast stretches of ocean can be seen off to one side or the other. I’m staring at it out my side window as we crest a hill, and all of a sudden I’m being throw into my seat belt as Alessandro slams on the brakes. When I look out the windshield, there is a herd of . . . something in the road.
“What are they?” I ask.
“U muvrinu. Something like your mountain goats,” he answers.
“Will they move . . . ?” I look warily out the windshield at them. “. . . Or attack?”
He breathes a laugh. “They’ll move eventually.” He revs the engine a little as he inches forward, and they start to scatter, but they’re taking their time about it.
“Does this happen a lot?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I haven’t seen them in the road like this.” He smiles at me. “They’re showing off for you.”
Eventually, they do move. It’s about fifteen minutes later that we’re able to pass, and by that time, there are two other cars waiting behind us.
“What I love about Corsica,” Alessandro says as we break free, “is that much of it is like this. Unspoiled.”
Just ahead, I can see snowcapped mountains. “It’s beautiful.”
He nods. “It truly is. People come from all over the world to see it, and yet, so many of the communities are poor. I feel like this is someplace I could make a difference. Coming here saved my life. I’d like to have the opportunity to give something back.”
I’m staring at him. I can’t help it. “Do you think they’ll let you come back?”
“It’s still being decided.”
For a long time, we wind through trees and mountains and come to where the snow is plowed back from the road.
“Can we get out?” I ask him.
He glances at me. “If you want.” He pulls over into the turnout, and as soon as I open the door, I realize my sweater isn’t quite enough.
“Brr! It’s cold up here.”
A corner of his mouth curls into a smile. “Thus the snow.”
I make a face at him and go over to the low snowbank at the side of the road, curling my fingers into the snow. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m being wrapped in warm cotton. I look at Alessandro, standing next to me in a snug-fitting black T-shirt. He tucks his hoodie tight around me.
“You’re going to freeze!” I say.
“Maybe.”
I wrap the ends of his hoodie around his waist, so we’re both bundled underneath it, and he presses his body against mine. I can feel the cut of his abs, the lines of his pecs through his thin shirt, and I have the sudden urge to slide my hands under and feel them, skin on skin. I restrain myself, but I do press my cheek into his chest. “Thank you for bringing me up here.”
“You haven’t seen the best yet. We still have a way to go before dark, so, whenever you’re ready . . .”
“It is pretty cold here.”
He nods, his chin pressing into the top of my head.
“Okay, enough snow. Let’s go.”
I pull his hoodie off my shoulders and hand it back. He slips it on, and that fabulous body disappears behind too many layers of brushed cotton. We climb in, and he pulls back onto the road.
“So, where are we going?”
“L’Île-Rousse.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see,” he says, flicking me a glance as he drives.
It’s late afternoon when we wind out of the mountains and into a small costal town. Alessandro navigates the place like he’s been here before, and we end up in a sand parking lot across a crumbling road from a shack on the beach. The smell of salt and seaweed seeps into the car even before I open the door.
“Where are we?” I ask as we get out and walk toward the shack.
“L’Île-Rousse.”
“Okay, but . . . where are we?”
“This,” he says, pointing at the beach, “is the north end of the island. About a 150 kilometers that way is mainland France.”
I look out over the endless water. “I wish I had time to see more. I’d love to go to France.”
He flicks me a glance and twitches a smile. “You
are
in France.” He opens the door and gestures me through ahead of him.
The shack, it turns out, is a very small and nearly abandoned restaurant. The smell of salt from the sea mingles with cigarette smoke and frying food. Behind a decrepit wooded bar that takes up the entire back wall, a bartender gestures with a tip of his enormous head that we should seat ourselves. Alessandro directs me past the only other patrons, two guys sitting at the bar arguing loudly in French, to a small table for two near the windows over the beach.
“This is . . . interesting,” I say, looking around at the weather-beaten wood walls and salt-stained wooden floor.
“My favorite restaurant,” he answers.
The bartender comes over and says something in French, and Alessandro picks up a laminated piece of paper off the table and says something back in French. The bartender stalks back to the bar, and a few minutes later returns with a bottle of red wine and two smudged glasses.
Alessandro looks at me as the bartender pours. “I should have asked if you like seafood.”
“I love it.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Do you mind if I order for you? There are some excellent choices.”
“If it saves me having to read a French menu, then I’m all over that.”
He smiles and looks up at the bartender, reeling off a list of things.
“So, you’re fluent in Italian and French. Did you ever take classes, or was that just from living here?” I ask once he’s gone.
Alessandro sips his wine before answering. “I didn’t learn French until I came to live here as a teen, but Italian is my first language. We lived in Italy when I was young, and even after we moved to New York, my father spoke only Italian to us.”
“He was Italian?”
He nods. “By heritage. His parents moved to New York before he was born, but he grew up speaking Italian in the home.”
“So . . . if he’s an American from New York, how did you live in Italy when you were young?”
He sets his glass down and runs a finger over the rim. “My father was an Army cook. My parents met when he was stationed at the US air base in Aviano.” He looks up at me. “In Italy, not too far from Florence.”
I nod.
“He came to Corsica on leave with some friends and happened to stumble into the restaurant where my mother cooked.” A wistful smile curves his lips. “The story goes, they got in a huge fight when my father sent something back because it wasn’t prepared correctly, and two months later, they were married. Lorenzo and I were born in Italy. I was six, and he was seven when my father left the military and took his family back to New York.”
“That’s some love story.”
He bobs a small nod. “My parents
were
in love. Deeply in love.”
“I can’t even imagine what it would have been like to lose him that way.”
His eyes lower to his wineglass, and he watches his finger trace the rim. “She’s never been the same.”
“You said you’re still American, right?”
He nods.
“Could you have changed when you moved here? Become a French citizen?”
“I could have. For a long time, I thought I would.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His jaw tightens. “Because my citizenship reminds me of my path, my purpose. My father was American. What happened to him . . . the reason he died, it was because of that. He’s the reason I ended up where I am—he and my mother.”
I’ve been trying to make sense of what his mother said to me before we left and what he just said strikes something in that process. “Does your mom want you to become a priest?”