“That feels good. Thanks.”
“Any time.”
“How have we gotten to this point, Mark? Like strangers.”
“It’s my fault. All of it.”
“No, I—”
“No, wait. Listen.” Mark stops massaging and hooks his fingers behind his neck, bringing his elbows together. “I’m not good at this sort of thing, and this is really hard, so please just listen, all right?”
“You’re scaring me.” Catherine withdraws her legs from Mark’s lap and sits up straighter.
“Cath, you know you mean the world to me, and I would never do anything on purpose to hurt you. But I have. Not because I wanted to hurt you, but because I was stupid. Stupid and childish.”
“What is this about?”
“I have seen Nico.”
Her eyes awaken with what he recognizes as a mixture of joy and relief. “I knew you would. When?”
“That day weeks ago, in the studio. When I looked right at him? Well, I did see him. And the next time too.”
“Are you—are you saying you lied to me?”
“It wasn’t so much a lie. Or maybe, I guess, it was. But I did it without thinking. As a joke.”
“A joke?” Catherine speaks as if the word is unfamiliar, perhaps not English.
“It seemed kind of funny. You know, all those times I’d missed him before. By a hair sometimes. When I did see him, almost before I knew I was doing it, I said I didn’t. I guess you’d say on a whim.”
Catherine stands. She wraps her arms around herself as if to ward off sudden cold, shakes her head no, and appears to be speaking to herself. “A joke. On a whim.”
“I let it go too far. Way too far. But I didn’t know how to stop.”
“And you tried to make me think I was having some kind of breakdown as a joke too? What is wrong with you?” She goes to the window.
Mark joins Catherine, hands in his pockets. He avoids looking out, fearing Nico will be there. “I can’t even explain it to myself. I behaved like an idiot. I mean, I wanted to fix it, and I kept making it worse. It was embarrassingly juvenile. And I am truly, truly sorry.” He puts his hand on her arm, but she jerks away.
“I don’t believe it.” Her voice is angry, bitter.
“I don’t blame you, but honestly, I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“No, no. I mean I don’t believe that you saw Nico. You must think I’m an idiot. It makes no sense.”
“Catherine, please—”
“You know what I think? I think you finally comprehend—I finally got it through to you—that I want to stay here and take care of Nico. You’re trying to make me feel there’s nothing special about him. Or my relationship to him. To make me feel foolish. So I’ll pack up and go back to New York with you and forget the whole thing. Well, it won’t work.”
Mark pulls out a kitchen chair and sits on it backward, facing Catherine, who has gone to the sink for a glass of water. “I am telling you the truth. I saw Nico in your studio both those times.” He’s amazed by how calm he sounds, because he feels the anger threatening to bubble up and spill out into the room like a river.
“I don’t accept that. Why should I? Either you were lying then or you’re lying now, and there was no reason for you to lie then. Understand this, Mark. I am amazingly lucky that Nico has come back to our time, to me. And I intend to adopt him.”
Mark gets up with such force that the chair tumbles sideways. “What are you doing, Catherine? Have you stopped to look at what you’re doing to us with these bizarre ideas? Nico is an ordinary child. Some local kid with a family of his own. You have to stop thinking of him as a ghost or a child we can adopt. Or both—that’s the craziest thought of all—that he’s a ghost, and we have some kind of ‘calling’ to adopt him and right the wrongs of the bloody Phoenicians. I’ve never heard anything so absurd.”
“Your mind is closed, Mark. I can’t talk to you if all I get back is preconceived notions.”
Mark had come into this conversation knowing he had no real right to be angry, and determined to control his temper. He’s the one in the wrong. He’s the one who moments ago hit her with this shameful confession. Willing himself to hold it together, recognizing this as a crucial moment, he faces Catherine, hands on top of his head like a suspect about to be frisked. “Catherine, love, I’m sorrier than I know how to say. I did an awful thing to you. All the talk in the world won’t change that.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“Look.” He places a hand softly on each side of Catherine’s arms and is grateful when she does not pull away, although she remains rigid, her face unyielding. “Let me repeat what you said to me a few weeks ago. Don’t say anything right now. Think it over. Think it over and remember—I’m still Mark, just Mark who made a really stupid mistake.”
She wants to believe this ghost story, that’s all. She’ll see the reality after she’s had some time to think alone. Surely she’ll come to her senses then.
TWENTY-NINE
Catherine
As Catherine walks out to Giulia’s car, she rummages through her purse for her wallet. This time, she’d like to be sure she has it before she gets to the market. Although no one had seemed upset last time. She’d left that day, groceries in hand, and waved off with a reassurance that she should pay next time. She could get used to living this way. She locates the wallet and closes her purse, surprised when she looks up to see Mark’s car parked in its usual spot. She thought Mark had left to do research of some kind in the Marsala library.
Looking back toward the main house, Catherine spots Mark and Giulia in the distance. They stand close together, engaged in conversation, and she winces at the thought that perhaps Giulia knows they are having problems. Could she have overheard sharp words between them? Does she want reassurance that everything is still all right—that they aren’t planning to up and leave in the middle of the night? Or maybe she’s concerned that they’re the kind of people who throw things or damage furniture when they get angry. But it seems more likely that Giulia would have brought such questions up with Catherine.
Unless—maybe Mark is warning Giulia that Catherine needs special handling, that she thinks she’s friends with a ghost. After all, he went behind her back before, telling Giulia she “wasn’t feeling well” and needed looking in on. Who knows what he’d said then? But no. All of it is silly. There hasn’t been anything loud or nasty here for Giulia to overhear, and Mark has no reason to want Giulia thinking Catherine is a little off. That would embarrass him. A flaky wife does not fit in well with Mark’s self-image. Probably, he had a question for Giulia about using the library, that’s all.
They seem to be finishing up, so Catherine slips into the car and drives off, hoping she’s escaped unseen. When she reaches the little market, she pulls sharply into the last open space on the street, jamming two wheels up onto the narrow walk. She steps out of the car and sizes up its perch—somewhat impertinent and worthy of a local. She’s still congratulating herself on a job well done when she hears someone calling her name.
Catherine turns to see Sandra sitting alone at the café a few doors down from the market. Sandra is waving Catherine over, so she pockets her shopping list and joins her at the tiny, round table.
“Have time for a coffee?” Sandra pulls her espresso cup closer to make room. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
Funny, but to Catherine it feels as if she sees Sandra most of the times she’s in town, although she enjoys her company. “I can’t stay too long, but sure.” Catherine signals to the waiter, who nods once and sets off for the espresso machine.
“I have the day free. Kenneth has the kids, and I’m here to do a little thinking.”
Catherine laughs. “You
mean this street is quieter than your house?”
“Not exactly. But none of the noise here has my name on it, if you know what I mean.” Sandra looks down and fiddles with her cup. “I am jealous of you and that studio of yours, though. So peaceful and quiet.” She looks up at Catherine with her unnerving smile. “No one out there but you.” Is it Catherine’s imagination, or is Sandra gauging her reaction?
“It is a great space.” Catherine watches Sandra’s face for any change of expression, but none is obvious. “I feel lucky we found it.”
“I feel lucky I found you. I think we’re kindred spirits, you know? If only you were staying—moving here. I think we could work together. And—oh, I don’t know, I play this little game in my head where you and Mark have a couple of kids, and we take care of them for you and you watch ours, and we’re all great friends.”
Deciding to avoid most of what Sandra has brought up, Catherine says, “Work together? How so?” She stirs sugar into her espresso as if this is an activity that precludes any eye contact.
“Well, I had an idea for a series of children’s books, and I’ve been discussing it with a college friend who works for an educational publisher. He’s really excited about it. And they have a relationship with some major museums, so that would help, you know?”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Museums?”
“The idea is to take maybe eight famous paintings and do a book on each. But instead of the usual photographs of the work—although we’d have photos too—I want to show the works come to life. With drawings. Drawings I can’t make—and that’s where you could come in. In my fantasy, anyway. I want kids to see paintings and maybe even statues as real—through beautiful drawings. You know, Mona Lisa walking down the street. In her kitchen. Brushing her hair before bed. Figures from Vermeer, Holbein, Van Gogh, Degas—I want to tell stories about those wonderful people they created. I think it would encourage kids to look at art in a new way.”
“That is an amazing idea. I’m not sure I’m the one—”
“The project is only in its infancy now. And who knows—it might never happen. But, when I think about it, I can’t help thinking how great it would be to work with you.”
“You know, you could do a lot with classical statues too. Mythological figures.” Catherine laughs. “A Day in the Life of Mercury.” She sighs. “I hope you get this off the ground. I know a couple of people I could put you in touch with. For the illustrations. It makes me a little jealous because it sounds like fun, but I don’t think Mark and I will be here all that much longer.”
“Oh, don’t say that! It makes me too sad.” Sandra smiles and squeezes Catherine’s hand. “Let’s not think about it. I mean, things change. A year ago, would you have ever pictured yourself right here, right now, having this conversation?”
Catherine tenses, again wondering—could Sandra mean more than she’s saying? “For sure, no.”
“See? Really. You just never know what life has in store, do you?”
THIRTY
Mark
Showered, shaved, and in his best suit, Mark still feels like death warmed over as he approaches Paola’s desk in the Palermo office. If he can just get through the morning, just buy a little time, he can pull himself together.
“I hate to bother you with this,” he says, looking as warm and friendly as he can muster, “but would you mind canceling all my appointments starting tomorrow and through next week? I’ve been down with a really nasty flu or something, and I need some time to recuperate.”
“Of course.” Paola narrows her eyes. She scrutinizes his face until what seems like a burst of embarrassment causes her to look away. What has made her so uncomfortable—her own open staring or the fear and disarray she sees in him?
“If you have my mail, I’ll take it into the conference room, and when I’m done with any replies, I’ll head out of here and let the good Sicilian sunshine work its magic.” He smiles, an ordinary guy who’s under the weather.
He sits and sorts through his mail, looking for the envelope from Seth. He opens it, scans the letter—pretty much the same old thing, every couple of weeks like clockwork—folds it, and places it in his pocket. After he reads the rest of his mail and jots a few notes of reply, he brings all but Seth’s letter out to Paola. “If you wouldn’t mind taking care of these—file the letters and mail the replies?”
“Right away,” she says. She hesitates. “Signor Lindquist? If I might?”
“Yes?”
“You look like you still do not feel very good. What we do in my villaggio—we take an egg—not cooked—and put it on the floor next to the bed. For one week. It will take in all the badness and sickness in the room. Then after one week, you take the egg outside, far from the house, and you dig a hole. Hatch the egg—this is the right word—hatch?”
“I think you mean crack? Crack open?”
“Yes, yes. Crack it. It will smell very terrible from all the bad things it has taken away from the room. You bury this egg in the hole.” She shrugs, as if nothing could be simpler “This should cure the illness.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.” Mark can’t think of a thing to say about this.
“You are welcome. It will make you better, unless—” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Unless someone has put on you the malocchio—the evil eye. You can tell if you have received this curse in a very easy way. Fill a small bowl with water and drop into it three drops—three exactly—of olive oil. If the oil comes together to make a shape of an eye, then you know you have this problem, and someone in the villaggio can help you with the way to fight it. But meantime, please take this as a little gift.” She opens her drawer and takes out a small box. She lifts the cover to show Mark a corna on a chain, before handing the box to Mark. “This will make sure you do not get a new evil eye put on you.”
“Oh. I’ve read about these. Thanks. Thanks again.” He fears he might have overdone his attempt to appear gracious. It’s possible that he came across as having a sincere interest in this stuff, and that could come back to bite him. Who knows what Paola will come up with next time he’s here?
As Mark gets into his car, he tosses the box into the backseat. He takes Seth’s letter from his pocket, unlocks the glove box, and puts the letter into a manila envelope along with all the others. Saving them might be pointless, although it’s possible he’ll need to show them to Catherine for some reason in the future. Probably not, but at least they’re safe here, and he can always get rid of them later.
Mark leans back in the seat, aware of the box in the back. He turns and retrieves it, opening it for a more careful look. The delicacy of the extended fingers, complete with minuscule nails, and the detail of the rest of the hand are impressive, as if it had been important to get this right. He laughs to himself—maybe the evil eye won’t stay away if the hand isn’t convincing enough. The chain is long and heavy. This must be designed for a man to wear, hidden down under his shirt. Does Paola have a drawer full of different versions? Suitable for every man, woman, and child she might find to be in need of protection?
Mark coils the necklace back into its cotton bed and replaces the box top. He’ll never wear it, but he can’t throw it away either. Unlocking the glove compartment, he places the box next to the envelope of Seth’s letters. Reluctant to start back, knowing he has to face Catherine and the impossible situation he’s created, Mark once again leans back in his seat. He watches a caterpillar lower itself on a thin filament of silk from a tree branch overhead onto the windshield of the car. Feet on the glass, it meanders first in one direction, then another. “I feel your pain, buddy. On the outside, looking in—that’s how this island makes me feel. But maybe we’re both better off that way.” He shakes his head. A receptionist who’s a part-time witch, eggs on the floor, oil on water, and a magical necklace. He just can’t get ou
t of Sicily fast enough.
Mark arranges some flowers in a jar and tidies up the kitchen before he goes into the bedroom to change. An unfortunate by-product of his preparing the menu Giulia suggested—Pesto Trapanese, broccoli di rabe, and blood-orange salad—is a psychedelic array of green and orange splotches on his shirt. That won’t do. This evening has to be perfect. The quiet around here for the last two days has not been good. If they don’t connect, Catherine might continue to withdraw. A surprise dinner with wine and candlelight—it’s a cliché, but it can’t hurt.
Back in the kitchen, Mark listens for Catherine’s car. He’s not sure why she went into town today, but she said she’d be back by seven, and she’s always been punctual, at least before she decided to “go Italian.” Shortly after seven, he hears the sound of tires and the slam of a car door. The evening is still bright and beautiful, ideal for dinner alfresco. When she comes in the door, he smiles at her look of surprise.
“Hello. I am Mark, and I will be your chef, waiter, busboy, and dinner companion for this evening.” He bows from the waist. “Smell good in here?”
She puts her packages on the kitchen counter. “Smells wonderful.” She sounds cautious. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“I hope you don’t mind eating a little early. I thought it would be fun to dine outside—notice it’s ‘dining’ when I cook—while the sun is up.” He hopes his attempt at being light is the right approach. “And we can linger. And talk. It’s all set up on the side patio.”
“Let me go get cleaned up a bit, and I’ll come out.”
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