A Place in the Sun Read online

  “Sir,” I said, turning to the distinguished-looking man sitting in 11C. His seat was opposite mine, facing the right direction. It was a small move, but it would ensure I didn’t spew up the granola bar I’d stuffed down my throat on the way over from my hotel.

  He tilted his head up, a bit annoyed to be pulled out of his crossword.

  I offered him a massive, pleading smile. “Is there any way I could convince you to swap seats with me? I get motion sickness on trains and I—”

  He shook his head before I’d even finished.

  “This is my assigned seat.”

  “Of course, and I’m assigned to 11A.”

  I pointed between the two seats as if trying to convince him of how small the distance was. He’d just have to pop up, rotate that impressively large bottom of his, and plop back down across the gap. Easy peasy.

  “Then 11A is where I suggest you sit.”

  On that note, he held up his crossword to cover his face.

  I moved on to my next target: the woman sitting in 11D, but unfortunately, she was snoozing against the window, a bit of drool already rolling down her chin. I could have forced her awake and asked her to swap seats, but it seemed like bad form.

  I tried one last glance around the train, displaying the most desperately tragic face I could muster, but everyone turned away, avoided eye contact, or offered up a blatant shake of their head.

  Fine.

  I sat down in 11A, dropped my backpack between my feet, and yanked out the supplies I carried with me whenever I traveled: chewing gum, ginger candy, peppermints, and Dramamine. I began to fortify myself for my impending doom, but it was no use.

  By the time we’d chugged away from the station in Rome, dizziness had taken hold of my head and wouldn’t let go. I squeezed my eyes closed, willing the sensation to pass, but it only grew worse. I managed to make it to the toilet before throwing up the first time, but the second time, I made sure to look right in 11C’s eyes as I hurled into the paper bag. See? See what you’ve done to me?

  Fortunately for me—and everyone else assigned to my car—I had a forward-facing seat for the next leg of the journey, from Pisa to La Spezia, but it didn’t matter. By that point, my head was swimming and my stomach was rejecting everything I put in it. I considered stopping in La Spezia for the night, but it was still early afternoon and I’d intended on making it all the way to Vernazza before calling it quits for the day. I wanted to crash, but a bigger part of me just wanted to get the journey over with. I wanted a hotel room. I wanted a proper shower and a bed to collapse into.

  Unfortunately, I’d underestimated how difficult the final leg of my journey would be. It was a short train journey between La Spezia and Vernazza, but the regional train was small and all the seats were full by the time I lugged my suitcases onboard. I was forced to stand, packed like a sardine, in the small compartment between two cars. My body was crushed against the side door, facing out. I desperately willed my nausea to pass; I’d used my last sick bag on the train to La Spezia and I really didn’t want to traumatize the family of five laughing behind me.

  The small train sped along the coast of Italy, through long, dark tunnels cut through rock. I caught my own reflection in the door’s window and cringed. My brown eyes, usually bright and lively, had heavy circles beneath them. Strands of my long chestnut brown hair were coated with sweat and stuck to my cheeks. All color had faded from my face and the bit of throw-up crusted below my bottom lip served as the pièce de résistance to my entire haggard appearance.

  I nearly caved then. It would have been so easy to call Freddie and beg him to come collect me, but in the blink of an eye the tunnel broke open and my vision was filled with an expanse of turquoise water.

  It was blue in every direction, different hues painted across the landscape as far as my eyes could see. A cloudless sky met crystal clear waters. Angry waves crashed against the shore, spilling white sea foam over massive granite rocks that had tumbled down from the mountains over the centuries. I pressed my hands to the glass, leaned forward, and gasped, nearly lost in the beauty of it, right before another bout of motion sickness overtook me.

  Oh bloody hell.

  “Mom! The crazy lady just threw up on me!”

  I PULLED MY baseball cap off my head and wiped my forehead on my shirtsleeve. It was dirty, just like my forehead was dirty, but it seemed better than nothing. I’d been out on the water all morning and had a boat full of fish to deliver to Massimo. He’d smile when he saw the sea bass; it was the biggest one I’d caught in weeks. He’d coat it in olive oil, bury it in a mound of sea salt, and bake it for some lucky tourist in his restaurant. I’d have envied them if I didn’t have half a dozen fish to keep for myself.

  I cranked my motor up another notch, slicing across the sea on my way back home. The waves were choppy, sloshing water up over the sides of my small fishing boat. I could feel the winds changing; I’d felt them all morning, playing with the currents and riling the sea. I’d almost skipped the trip out on the water, but I’d compromised instead, staying close to the shore in case things went south.

  As Vernazza’s tiny harbor came into view on the horizon, I let out a breath I’d been holding all morning, grateful to the sea for delivering me back home in one piece. The painted village stretched closer and I maneuvered my boat around the granite breakers. Of all five Cinque Terre villages, Vernazza boasted the largest true harbor. Even still, it could only fit a couple dozen fishing boats at once, nothing more.

  My cousin was waiting for me on the breaker, smiling at the lot I’d brought back for him.

  “Buongiorno, cugino?”

  I threw him the line. “Molto buono.”

  It was Saturday and the village was already bustling, alive with chatter. Life in Vernazza was centered around the restaurants in the heart of the village. Five of them dotted the perimeter of the square, carving out space of their own with wide-brimmed umbrellas. Tourists gathered underneath them, enjoying their lunches with enough wine and bread to last them well into the evening. Massimo and I worked together to unload the fish into a small cart. He’d roll it up to his restaurant—not one of the lucky five located on the square—and I’d head back up to my house and shower off the stench of fish and foam.

  “Watch it!” I said, scolding the group of children running around the harbor, daring one another to jump into the water. It was safe to swim there; the water was calm thanks to the large partial seawall the village had built a decade earlier to shield itself from the power of the ocean.

  The boys weren’t tourists. I’d watched them grow up for the last few years.

  “And stay out of my boat, or tomorrow I’ll use you as shark bait!” I shouted over my shoulder before they’d run too far. I knew from their giggles it had been years since they’d taken my threats seriously. It didn’t matter; I had the boat’s key, so they couldn’t get into too much trouble.

  “They call you the village grump, y’know,” Massimo said, nudging my shoulder.

  I smiled, despite myself. “Good.”

  The title fit.

  “Have any plans tonight? Appuntamento romantico?”

  I let go of the cart, no longer in the mood to help him push it up the square. “Enjoy your fish, Massimo.”

  He groaned. “Aw, c’mon. S’only a joke! One of these days the answer will be yes, and I want to be the first to know!”

  I’d have flipped him off if there weren’t so many children milling around. Instead, I walked away.

  “Hey! Help me with this cart!”

  I turned around to tell him off, but a sight over his right shoulder caught my attention instead. A woman had just stepped into the square from one of the side streets. She looked like most tourists did upon their arrival to Vernazza—a little frazzled and tired from lugging their suitcases on the train for so many hours—but there was something off about her. She paused and squeezed her eyes closed, leaning against the building behind her. For a moment I thought she just needed to
catch her breath, but then I watched in slow motion as she tottered on her feet and, as if all her bones had been zapped from her body, collapsed to the ground.

  “Shit!”

  I ran for her, sidestepping chairs and tables and tourists.

  “Move!”

  A woman huffed as I collided with her shoulder. I threw an apology over my shoulder but kept running. No one else had seen the woman faint. There was too much going on in the square.

  By the time I reached her, she was laid out on the ground, her brown hair covering her face. Her backpack had protected her head from the stone, but she hadn’t regained consciousness yet. Massimo was right behind me by the time I reached her.

  “What happened? What do we do?” Massimo asked, wiping his hand down his face.

  I stepped forward and put my cheek right over her nose. When I felt her breath hit my skin, I exhaled.

  “Well, she’s breathing.”

  “And her pulse?” he asked.

  I brushed some strands of brown hair off her neck and pressed my fingers to the soft skin below her chin. It was steady.

  “What the hell happened to her?”

  I swallowed down my panic and shook my head. I had no clue.

  A small crowd had gathered around her by then.

  “É morta?!”

  “I don’t think she’s breathing!”

  It wouldn’t be long before the entire square had gathered to ogle her.

  “She’s probably just dehydrated. Let’s take her in there,” I said, pointing to the building behind us. It was a lucky break, her passing out right in front of the building our family had owned for as long as anyone could remember. My grandmother had operated it as a bed and breakfast. Now it was abandoned, but it was out of the sun and the view of tourists, and we could call the doctor once we were inside.

  Massimo unlocked the door, using one of the keys on his jingling chain.

  We carried her in together, careful to keep her head steady as we pushed boxes and cobwebs out of the way. There was a bed in the bottom bedroom, one the manager had used when the bed and breakfast was still open. I shook out the bedding, checking for bugs, and watched as dust flew into the air. It wasn’t clean, but it was better than putting her down on the wood floor.

  Massimo and I maneuvered her onto the bed and stepped away, giving her space. She looked like hell. Her hair was matted around her face, sweaty and stuck to her cheeks. Her skin was sickly pale.

  “I’m going to go grab her stuff before someone nabs it,” Massimo said, darting out of the room and back out onto the street.

  I knew I needed to move, to go find a doctor and help figure out what was wrong with her, but my feet were rooted in place. It’d been five years since I’d seen a woman lying on a sick bed, but the memories came flooding back all at once.

  “Luca, come help with this bag!”

  Massimo’s voice snapped me out of my memories. I spun away from the bed and ran out to help him gather her things. The amount of luggage she’d carried with her could have filled four wardrobes. Massimo lugged the suitcase inside and I grabbed her backpack, which weighed more than she did.

  “No wonder she passed out,” Massimo laughed, groaning with the weight of the suitcase.

  We were outside her room, dropping her things against the wall when I heard a rustling on the bed followed by an exasperated English accent.

  “Oh my Liam Neeson. I’ve been taken!”

  I’D SEEN MOVIES; I knew this was just what the gritty underbelly of the European sex trade must look like. I’d woken up disoriented in a dusty room. Very little light passed through the boarded-up windows and the stench of mildew hung in the air.

  I’d known it was bound to happen eventually. My mother had given me great bone structure, and growing up with naff brothers had forced me to cultivate a fantastic (and apparently, highly abductable) personality. I supposed that even with the smell of sick clinging to me, my raw sexual aura had shone through, and now rogue sheikhs and warlords were in the other room trying to outbid one another for me. To save myself, I’d need to somehow dampen my agreeable nature during auction.

  Voices sounded out in the hallway, hushed tones I strained to hear. I tried to sit up and then groaned at the effort. They’d likely already put something in my system, possibly via poison dart on the train. I wasn’t tied down or anything, so they’d have taken chemical precautions to ensure I didn’t run away.

  When two men rushed into the room, I pushed myself back against the wall and held my hands out to stop them from getting any closer.

  “I don’t know how much you’ve paid for this—millions, I’m sure—but my family is very wealthy, and they’ll double it for my freedom.”

  It was true: my family was from old English money, the kind that seems to grow no matter how much you spend.

  The two traffickers glanced between each other, confused, and I sighed. Of course, they wouldn’t understand English well.

  I leaned closer and spoke very slowly with dramatic gestures. “You haaaavvve to let meee gooooooo.”

  The shorter one propped his hands on his hips and turned to his friend. “What is she going on about? And why is she speaking as though we’re mentally ill?”

  I clapped, excited. “Oh good, you speak English! That should make the whole ransoming bit much easier. Shouldn’t you two be busy cutting letters out of magazines?”

  The taller bloke in the baseball cap bit down to conceal a smile. “She thinks we’ve kidnapped her, Massimo.”

  Massimo blanched and whipped his head back to me. “No! No, you passed out in the square outside. In Vernazza. We carried you in here because everyone was gawking and…”

  It took a bit more information before the pieces of my day started to settle back into place. The sick feeling on the train, how lightheaded I’d felt as I’d tried to maneuver my way down to the village square. At some point I’d blacked out, and now I was there, in a dusty room with two Italian men. Now that I was fairly confident they weren’t sex traffickers, I let myself mull over their features. They were very handsome, especially the taller one. I didn’t know his name yet, but I kept slipping quick glances his way as Massimo chattered on about my passing out and how I could have died, yada yada. He lingered in the door of the room, happy to let Massimo take the lead, but I wanted him to step closer and introduce himself, peel the cap off his head so I could see his face properly. From what I could see beneath it, he was beautiful. Golden from the Italian sun. Tall and muscled beneath his rolled long-sleeve shirt and jeans. I scanned higher, up to his defined jaw. He was studying me just as intently as I was studying him, and instead of looking away when our eyes locked beneath the brim of his cap, I smiled.

  I was in Italy to find love, after all. How convenient that this romantic-looking man, out of every man in the village, had been the one to rescue me.

  “Are you feeling okay now? Should I call the doctor?” Massimo asked, stepping in front of his friend and cutting off our intense staring contest. I nearly shifted my head around him, but he was being kind and I didn’t want to snub my nose at his hospitality.

  “Honestly, I think I just need a few hours of sleep. I’ve had a rough day and I’m still a bit dizzy from travel.”

  Massimo nodded. “Right, well—”

  “What is this place?” I cut in, glancing around the room. Sure, it was dusty, but the bones of the room were nice. The window, though boarded up, was large, and beneath the layer of dirt, I could just barely make out pastel yellow paint on the walls. It reminded me of sunflowers.

  I’d wanted the tall one to answer, but Massimo replied first. “It’s an old bed and breakfast. Our grandmother took care of it when she was alive.”

  I grinned. “Perfect. I’d like to rent a room here, please.”

  The man leaning against the door jamb laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the place isn’t exactly operational.”

  His voice shook me. There were layers of depth there, a proper English acc
ent at its base with a rich Italian layer up top. I suspected he’d spent a good deal of time both in England and Italy.

  Massimo turned back and addressed his friend in rapid-fire Italian. I ached to cut in and ask him to translate, but I held my tongue until they were finished.

  Finally, he glanced back to me and clapped his hands as if the situation was settled. “There’s a place across the square. They should have a room available.”

  I nodded, though a part of me wanted to struggle, to insist on staying in the dark room. There was something wonderful about it, the history of its walls, the mysteries that filled the boxes stacked in the corner.

  “Are you okay to walk?” Massimo asked with a worried expression.

  Truthfully, I still felt terrible, but I didn’t want to take up any more of their time. I’d force my dizziness aside and let them lead me across the square. As soon as I made it to my room, I could crash.

  With the promise of sleep on the horizon, I leaned forward and dropped my feet to the ground, testing the waters. I still felt ill, but not nearly as close to passing out as I had earlier. I put my weight into my feet and was about to stand from the bed when the man from the doorway stepped forward and gripped my forearm to steady me.

  I stilled for the briefest of moments, shocked by his touch. It was warm and unwavering. He wasn’t worried that he’d overstepped his bounds, not like English blokes would have been, teetering in their boots with shaky, nervous voices. This man had rushed forward to help me with a pragmatism that showed he wasn’t just a gentleman when told to be.

  “Steady,” he said, helping lead me through the doorway of the room. He reached for my backpack with his other hand and slung it over his shoulder like it was filled with cotton candy. Massimo reached for my suitcase, turned down my offer of help, and then the three of us headed back out the door toward the square. I glanced behind me one last time, saying goodbye to the old, abandoned bed and breakfast before Massimo locked the door behind us.

  “I’m Georgie by the way,” I said, chancing a quick glance up to the man whose grip was still around my forearm.