The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (4 page)

I threw myself in the shower, washing off the grime, and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. That was deliberate—David hated seeing me in jeans, but today, right now, I wanted to feel like me—just for a few, precious hours.

I pulled out of the driveway and drove, too fast, down the road and past the hospital. From the corner of my eye, I recognized the figure walking away from me. I almost drove on, but something made me stop.

I leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

“Hi. You need a ride somewhere?”

Sebastian’s face lit up.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He climbed in, folding his long legs into my compact Pinto, and grinned. I waited for him to give me directions, but he just leaned back in his seat and smiled.

“So, where can I take you?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just needed to get out of the house—you know, get some space. Mom is … well, Mom.”

“Oh, okay.”

I felt awkward. I wouldn’t have offered him a ride if I’d imagined he was just out for a walk.

“Did you finish your work?”

I really didn’t want to be responsible for him neglecting his studies twice in one day.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, I was going to go downtown. You want to come?”

Part of me hoped he wouldn’t; things were already awkward enough.

“Sure, that’d be great, Caroline.”

There was a short pause while I thought of something to say. We’d chatted so easily this morning in the garage, but now I felt awkward. Maybe it was the memory of his intense gaze, the way his body had pressed against mine as he’d reached for the drinking glasses. I shook my head to clear it.

“How is the studying going?”

He shrugged, as if bored of that topic.

“Not a problem. On practice tests, I’ve scored high. It’s all good.”

“What AP classes are you doing?”

He glanced sideways at me. “Math, English Lit … and Italian.”

“Oh, well … that’s good.”

I knew I ought to ask why those particular subjects—except I could guess, one of them at least.

“I want to do an Associate of Arts degree. It’s only two years.”

“So I understand,” I said, briskly.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead turned to gaze out of the window.

“Why don’t you put the radio on?” I said, hoping it would provide a suitable diversion.

“Okay,” he said evenly.

It’s ridiculous that this 18-year-old boy is more at ease than I am. Come on, Venzi, pull yourself together.
Even after 11 years of marriage, there were times when Caroline Wilson was still Carolina, feisty daughter of the immigrant Marco Venzi.

The radio hissed and crackled until Sebastian found a reasonably clear signal—Blue Grass. His choice surprised me—from Verdi to this? It made me smile.

“You like Doc Watson?”

“I like all kinds of music.”

I parked in a lot on Harbor Drive and we wandered up the hill to Little Italy, talking about music and food. I remembered this area from when I’d lived here before. There was a Mercarto every Saturday, and I looked forward to being able to buy Italian specialty oils and vegetables that weren’t stocked in regular stores.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” Sebastian said, sounding hopeful.

Mmm. Good Italian coffee.
“Oh, a real espresso. Yes, that would be lovely.”

Too much enthusiasm. Don’t encourage him—no mixed signals.

But the day was too beautiful to be half-hearted, and I found myself delighted with all the pretty cafés, gelateria, and ristorantes.

We stopped at a tiny coffee shop just off India Street. The owner’s wife came out to serve us and was ecstatic when I spoke to her in Italian. She kissed me on both cheeks and summoned the rest of her family to come out and meet me. Sebastian looked overwhelmed, then offered a few careful Italian phrases and was engulfed in the bosom of the family. I couldn’t help laughing—their exuberance reminded me so much of my father.

They rattled out Italian like peanuts, with such speed and vigor, each talking over one another, that I struggled to catch everything they said. Sebastian probably only caught one word in fifty, but he sat there grinning, only wincing when the owner’s mother, a little, round nonna of about eighty, grabbed him with both hands and kissed him repeatedly.

Then they all pulled up chairs and surrounded our small table, which soon overflowed with affection. Someone fetched half-a-dozen espresso cups and I sipped happily at the thick, bitter coffee. I was amused to see that Sebastian added several spoonfuls of sugar before he found the rich brew palatable.

Eventually some more patrons arrived and the family scattered, returning to their various roles of cook, cleaner, chef and bottle-washer.

“Whoa! That was something else,” said Sebastian, as we were left to our own devices.

“Wonderful, wasn’t it?”

“They kind of reminded me of your dad.”

I sighed and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair.

“Yes, crazy—just like Papa.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

Then he laid his hand on mine and I felt his gentle touch. My eyes flew open in surprise and I jerked my hand away.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his cheeks heating.

“No, that was rude of me. I was just…”

Tension returned and to my horror, I found my hands were shaking. I fumbled in my wallet for some money and placed the bills on the table under an abandoned coffee cup.

“I’ve got money,” he said, awkwardly.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” I muttered. “I have to get back now.”

Sebastian stood in silence, then followed me back onto the main street.

“Aspetti, signore!”

The coffee shop owner had followed us and was waving the notes I’d left on the table.

I stared, bewildered as he forced the bills into Sebastian’s hand.

“No, please. You and your beautiful wife must come again. You are like family. Please!”

Refusing to keep the money, he kissed us both and trotted away smiling.

Sebastian’s bemusement turned into a broad grin as he passed the money to me. “For you, signora. Beautiful wife, huh? Well, he was half right.”

It was my turn to flush, but I tried to laugh it off. “Free coffee always tastes the best.”

“Yeah! We should definitely do this again.”

I couldn’t return his puppyish enthusiasm; I simply smiled weakly.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I only got about one word in every sentence. I thought my Italian was better than that. Hell, I’ve been studying it for four years. Maybe you could teach me; I mean, just some Italian conversation practice. That would be awesome!”

My automatic response was a big NO, but I didn’t get the chance.

“Hey, Seb. What’s up?”

Sebastian’s face froze.

“What do you want, Jack?”

“Who’s your cute friend?”

A look of anger and deep dislike crossed Sebastian’s face.

“Ah, come on, dude! I’m just saying.”

I was pretty certain Jack was one of the surf rats that I’d seen with Sebastian the day before. He was slightly older than Sebastian and his friends, with dark hair and dark, feral eyes; I disliked him from the first sentence he spoke.

“Caroline Wilson,” I said, hoping to defuse the sudden tension.

“Howdy,
Mrs.
Wilson,” he said slyly, his eyes swiveling from my wedding rings to my cleavage.

We both looked at Sebastian, who seemed very ill at ease.

“Well, it was nice bumping into you again, Sebastian. Do you want a ride back to the Base or perhaps you’d prefer to stay with your
friend
.”

I waited less than a second before I fixed an insincere smile to my face.

“See you around then. Ciao.”

And I walked away.

I was furious with myself. Why had I pretended we’d just bumped into each other? It had all been perfectly innocent, so why lie?

And then I remembered the touch of his hand on mine and my ridiculous over-reaction.

Oh, this was not good, not good at all.

My temper was free-wheeling by the time I got back to the car. I was angry with Sebastian, with myself, with the loathsome Jack: stupid, pathetic little shit. He’d made me feel … guilty, and I hadn’t done anything. I was used to David making me feel guilty, but this was insufferable.

I wound down the windows before I got in, to let the heat escape, feeling some release of pent-up energy in the trivial task.

When I heard footsteps behind me, I didn’t need to turn to see who it was.

“Caroline, I’m sorry, I…” his words trailed off.

“What? What!”

The words came out more forcefully than I’d meant. He stared at me, wounded. I badly wanted to kick something.

I took a deep breath, and reminded myself it wasn’t his fault.

“Do you want a ride back?”

He nodded, still looking hurt.

I drove in a quiet rage. After a few minutes, I felt calm enough to risk a glance at Sebastian; he was gazing out of the window.

Eventually, he broke the heavy silence.

“I’m sorry about Jack and what he said.” There was a brief pause, then he added, “The guy’s an asshole.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing some of the tension and irritation from my body in one long breath.

“Yes, he is, but don’t worry about it.”

He looked at me hopefully. “So, will you help me with my Italian? We could…”

“Sebastian, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t.”

We sat mutely for several more minutes before he said softly, “I had fun today.”

So did I
.

But I didn’t reply.

I dropped Sebastian off near his house and drove home, feeling irritated and petulant.

I stomped around, finding places for the final pieces of detritus from our marriage; items that didn’t seem to fit were unceremoniously shoved into a closet in the guest room, metaphorically as well as literally.

Out of some guilty urge, I fixed David his favorite meal: lasagna and green salad, with a heavy dessert of apple pie and ice cream that he’d have to eat alone. I sat on the porch facing out into the yard and stared moodily at the yellowing grass. It needed watering; another chore. It was one of those days when I wished I’d taken up smoking years ago just to have something meaningful to do with my hands—and a purpose for being outside.

What was it about that boy?
He really got under my skin. It had been simple when he was a child, and I’d enjoyed his uncomplicated company. Things had certainly changed.
I’d enjoyed his company today, until Jack showed up.
The thought was unwelcome.

When I heard David’s Camaro outside, I pushed all thoughts of Sebastian Hunter from my mind.

“Mmm … something smells good.”

“Lasagna and apple pie.”

David looked pleased. “It was the right decision coming out here again, Caroline.”

If you say so
.

“So what did you do with your day?”

“Puttered, mostly. Finished putting things away. I thought I might see if I could get some work—maybe writing; I’d like to use my degree. There’s a cool, local newspaper,
City Bea t
… maybe I…”

“Good girl. Well done.”

And that was the end of the conversation about me. Instead, I listened to a blow-by-blow description of his day at the hospital. Despite his snide comment about making life and death decisions while I played the little woman, most of
his
work was with orthopedic medicine.

After the meal, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.