shrine. And if it were a girl playing, would a bunch of boys be sitting around her? Or would they be trying to grab the guitar from her so they could show off themselves?
That’s not fair, though. Evan isn’t showing off; he’s genuinely enjoying himself. His head ducked over the guitar, his lips moving as he tries out lyrics under his breath, he’s completely unaffected, I can tell; like his sister, he’s very open and outgoing, but unlike Paige, he doesn’t crave attention.
He’s so nice
, I think.
Why can’t I like Evan? Why can’t I feel as excited when I see Evan as I do when I see Luca? It would make my life so much easier!
As if sensing my thoughts, Evan raises his head and looks directly at me, his blue eyes clear and candid. The blond eyelashes glint in the sunshine, tiny gold threads, and his tanned skin creases into fans of equally tiny white lines as he smiles at me.
I like Evan a lot, I realize. And as he bends his head once more, his thick fair hair close to his scalp, I wonder what it would feel like to run my hand over it, whether it would be bristly under my palm, or unexpectedly soft and silky.…
I feel a shiver running down my back, as if someone trickled a few slow, icy drops of water down the beads of my spine, running between my shoulder blades. I wriggle a little; the sensation’s unexpectedly pleasant. I’m still staring at Evan’s bent head, and suddenly I connect the two things.
Oh. Maybe I could like Evan that way after all
.
I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I haven’t seen the flash of sunlight on metal that means a car is coming up the winding drive, working its way around the switchback bends. I don’t notice the other girls stir, sit up, because a car approaching at this time of day is very likely to contain precious cargo: i.e., at least one boy.
Up this steep hill, without our own transport, and a long, sweaty walk to the village, we’ve quickly got attuned to the rhythms of Villa Barbiano, the times that people come and go. The post lady drops off the mail between twelve and one—we’ve learned not to get excited at the sight of her white Panda chugging up the hill. Catia goes down to the village early, to do the marketing, but after that her jeep stays in its ivy-covered shelter and doesn’t go out unless she’s taking us on an excursion or, occasionally, leaving us in the evening for dinner with a friend. So, in the afternoon, a car might be Elisa, Catia’s unpleasant, skinny daughter, which would be a definite negative.
Or it might be Leonardo. And Leonardo almost always means Andrea, too; they’re like a two-for-one offer.
I only hear the car when the wheels spin loudly, whisking up the gravel of the parking area, set on a terrace below the pool. That means it’s definitely a boy: only boys drive like that, announcing their arrival with a whirl of loose stone on rubber. And the swift, imperative series of honks that follow confirm it. Catia would be furious if Elisa disturbed the afternoon peace by pounding the car horn like that, but her son gets away with much more. Catia may be American,but she’s fully adapted to the Italian way of parenting, where boys seem to be pampered to an almost limitless extent.
Like Luca with his mother, the principessa
, I reflect.
She fawns on him as if he were already the prince he’ll be when he inherits from his father
.
Then, because I’m not thinking about Luca, I determinedly push that idea away and look up to the terrace of the villa, where a distraction is being offered in the shape of Elisa. She’s leaning over the stone balcony like a modern Juliet, all streaked hair and dangling gold earrings, a huge pair of sunglasses obscuring most of the upper part of her face, her lips pouting as she blows a theatrical kiss to the parking lot, then raises one thin arm to wave, gold bracelets clinking so loudly we can hear them over the soft strumming of Evan’s guitar and the chattering of the crickets.
So it’s
That’s not fair, though. Evan isn’t showing off; he’s genuinely enjoying himself. His head ducked over the guitar, his lips moving as he tries out lyrics under his breath, he’s completely unaffected, I can tell; like his sister, he’s very open and outgoing, but unlike Paige, he doesn’t crave attention.
He’s so nice
, I think.
Why can’t I like Evan? Why can’t I feel as excited when I see Evan as I do when I see Luca? It would make my life so much easier!
As if sensing my thoughts, Evan raises his head and looks directly at me, his blue eyes clear and candid. The blond eyelashes glint in the sunshine, tiny gold threads, and his tanned skin creases into fans of equally tiny white lines as he smiles at me.
I like Evan a lot, I realize. And as he bends his head once more, his thick fair hair close to his scalp, I wonder what it would feel like to run my hand over it, whether it would be bristly under my palm, or unexpectedly soft and silky.…
I feel a shiver running down my back, as if someone trickled a few slow, icy drops of water down the beads of my spine, running between my shoulder blades. I wriggle a little; the sensation’s unexpectedly pleasant. I’m still staring at Evan’s bent head, and suddenly I connect the two things.
Oh. Maybe I could like Evan that way after all
.
I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I haven’t seen the flash of sunlight on metal that means a car is coming up the winding drive, working its way around the switchback bends. I don’t notice the other girls stir, sit up, because a car approaching at this time of day is very likely to contain precious cargo: i.e., at least one boy.
Up this steep hill, without our own transport, and a long, sweaty walk to the village, we’ve quickly got attuned to the rhythms of Villa Barbiano, the times that people come and go. The post lady drops off the mail between twelve and one—we’ve learned not to get excited at the sight of her white Panda chugging up the hill. Catia goes down to the village early, to do the marketing, but after that her jeep stays in its ivy-covered shelter and doesn’t go out unless she’s taking us on an excursion or, occasionally, leaving us in the evening for dinner with a friend. So, in the afternoon, a car might be Elisa, Catia’s unpleasant, skinny daughter, which would be a definite negative.
Or it might be Leonardo. And Leonardo almost always means Andrea, too; they’re like a two-for-one offer.
I only hear the car when the wheels spin loudly, whisking up the gravel of the parking area, set on a terrace below the pool. That means it’s definitely a boy: only boys drive like that, announcing their arrival with a whirl of loose stone on rubber. And the swift, imperative series of honks that follow confirm it. Catia would be furious if Elisa disturbed the afternoon peace by pounding the car horn like that, but her son gets away with much more. Catia may be American,but she’s fully adapted to the Italian way of parenting, where boys seem to be pampered to an almost limitless extent.
Like Luca with his mother, the principessa
, I reflect.
She fawns on him as if he were already the prince he’ll be when he inherits from his father
.
Then, because I’m not thinking about Luca, I determinedly push that idea away and look up to the terrace of the villa, where a distraction is being offered in the shape of Elisa. She’s leaning over the stone balcony like a modern Juliet, all streaked hair and dangling gold earrings, a huge pair of sunglasses obscuring most of the upper part of her face, her lips pouting as she blows a theatrical kiss to the parking lot, then raises one thin arm to wave, gold bracelets clinking so loudly we can hear them over the soft strumming of Evan’s guitar and the chattering of the crickets.
So it’s
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