The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners by Luanne Rice Page A

sleep now, and we’ll call you in the morning?”
    “Listen,” Lucy said. “I’m not really tired. What I’ll do is lie down right now, get some shut-eye, and call you there in one hour.”
    “Lucy, tomorrow.”
    “No,” she said stubbornly. “I’m calling you back in one hour. I need to, okay?”
    “Okay I love you,” I said.
    “I love you,” Lucy said.
    That’s how we always said goodbye. Now it was Lucy’s night and my morning. We kissed each other through the phone line, hung up. I stood on the terrace, staring down at the rocks. The sun inched around the mountain, casting bright yellow light, and suddenly I saw more clearly. It was that young man from yesterday, the one I’d seen talking to Max.
    He was scouring the rocks, just above the waves’ reach, intent on searching the rocks and wrack and tidal pools. I watched as he’d find what he was looking for, pick it up, and throw it into the water. This happened over and over. I couldn’t see what he was throwing, but I swear it looked like starfish.
    I tore into the walled garden, through the pine trees, and down the steep stairs that led to the rock beach, compelled to see what he was doing, but I knew I had to be back in an hour. For Lucy’s call.
    I hoped my mother would be too.

Four

    M ornings were good. Yesterday Rafe had told his grandfather that he slept late, but that wasn’t true. He just hadn’t been up for a discussion about Pell, why he hadn’t wanted to go pick her up. His grandfather wanted so badly for him to do well, to have a nice, normal nineteen-year-old life. He was trying to show Rafe that he’d moved on, moved past, so Rafe would too.
    Rafe had been doing his best. Since arriving on Capri, he lived in the boathouse, instead of up in the villa. If he had to be on the island at all, it was better that he not spend time in the flat shadows of his worst moments. Besides, the boathouse was good. No heat, no electricity. A hard cot. But windows open to the sky, and the constant sound and feel of waves.
    He walked along the rocks, staring down. He and his dad used to take tide walks. Right now the tide was far out, as low as it ever got. Above the tide line, he found a tiny octopus hiding in an abandoned cockleshell. Its skin was already drying out. He carried it to the water’s edge, lowered it down, watched the cephalopod jet away. Then back to the top of the rocks, where the suffering was greatest.
    There, a starfish stranded on a rock that wouldn’t be underwater again until the new moon. He peeled it off, winged it as far as he could into the deep water. He wondered whether any of this was worth it; the things he saved would die eventually anyway.
    “Way to be negative,” he said out loud to himself. It was called stinking thinking, and no one did it better.
    At rehab they told him he had choices. Every thought he had, every act he took, was leading him either toward or away from relapse. He’d thought he was doing well, getting up early, meditating, working on his college admissions package, trying to be disciplined, but seeing Arturo yesterday was messing him up. The desire for chemical relief had come flooding back along with the negativity. He spotted another doomed starfish, held it in his hand, and prepared to throw.
    “Buongiorno.”
    He recognized the voice from yesterday. Stopping mid-throw, he turned and saw Pell Davis.
    “Good morning,” he said.
    “You speak English,” she said. “Does everyone on Capri? I haven’t met an Italian yet.”
    “You’re in expat central. Didn’t your mother tell you?”
    “You know my mother?”
    He nodded. Did this mean Lyra hadn’t warned her about him? “Yeah,” he said. “I’m Rafaele Gardiner. Max’s grandson.”
    “Pell Davis,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. I know Max is English, but you sound American.”
    “Born in London, grew up in New York. My father’s job …” he said, and shrugged.
    “Ah,” she said, as if she understood overseas