Love Is The Beginning (Valerie Dearborn)

  Love is...

  The Beginning

  by

  Caroline Hanson

  Also by Caroline Hanson:

  Bewitching the Werewolf

  Love is Darkness

  Love is Fear

  Copyright Carrie Avila 2012

  Published by Host of the Hills Publishing

  This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.

  Jesolo, Italy 2000

  Jack walked out of his parent’s hotel, the bright sun making him squint. Absently, he watched his feet, careful of the cobbled walkway even though he'd been down this street every day of his life. This was his favorite time of day—late afternoon when the sun was high overhead, and all the stone around him was baking, sending heat back into the streets. It was kind of like living in an oven.

  He looked at the lira in his hand and contemplated the serious problem of which ice cream he would get today. One scoop stracciatella, for sure. That took care of chocolate and vanilla, but maybe something fruity too. Strawberry, pistachio, mango? He'd wait. See all the options. He didn't want to rush into anything.

  Jack was still undecided when he entered the shop, but he liked having this debate with himself and fantasizing about all the positive choices. The shop was hot and cramped. A small and thoroughly inadequate fan shifted the air around the room, political radio on in the background. Vicente came out from the back, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Jack got his ice cream quickly, sweat slipping down from his neck and into his shirt.

  Pistachio.

  He always chose pistachio.

  He liked to think he might get something different, but when the choice was upon him, he always stayed loyal to pistachio.

  Jack continued his walk, finding the beach that was at the end of a long winding street. He finished his ice cream in one big bite, the cone poking him in the side of his cheek painfully, and took off his shoes and socks to walk on the scorching sand. When he was close to the water's edge, he disrobed quickly, watching the still water, the sea almost too warm on such hot summer days.

  He’d been told that the water was cold in other places like Germany and England. He'd never been anywhere, so he didn't know for sure what that would be like, but it sounded awful. Jack turned onto his back and swam, closing his eyes against the blinding sun.

  He put his feet on the sandy bottom, the water rising only up to his chest. He looked back at the shore and thought about oceans that were a dark, bottomless blue-black color with crashing waves. His feet wouldn't be able to touch the bottom there. He shivered. Dismissing the thought, he turned over, floating, until it was time to go home.

  That night, his mama made pasta with tomatoes, olives and beef. His mouth watered as he watched her put the food on his plate. His papa saw his covetous look and laughed. “Jackie, I see you looking at that food! How long will it take for his plate to be empty tonight, Mama? Two minutes or three.” His mother hushed his father and threw him a fond glance.

  His father continued in a mock-serious voice, “I want to know where all this food goes. No one can eat so much food and not be a giant. One of these days he will shoot up to the sky.” He made expansive gestures as he talked, thrusting his hand into the air to demonstrate how quickly and how high his son would grow. He was Italian. It was his heritage to gesture emphatically, and later in life when Jack thought about his parents, that was what he'd remember—how happy they both had been, and how much they had looked forward to the future and the man he might become.

  Jack ate on autopilot, food magically vanishing, while his parents talked about the guests that would arrive tomorrow. His mama was drinking a glass of wine and watching her family eat, a faintly proud expression on her face as the food was devoured. Then she frowned.

  “I don't understand why they won't eat. What will these people do, drinking only wine with no food? You know what will happen?” Here, there was a dramatic pause as she looked at her little family. Jack knew what she was going to say. “It will be a terrible ruckus.”

  She loved the word ‘ruckus’. Even though it was an English word and his parents didn't speak English very well, this was one word his mother loved. His father dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand, chewing furiously. Jack knew his father's attitude towards his mother: “Indulge her—she'll talk and talk, and then run herself down like a toy top,” he always said. “Watch her spin and then stand still.”

  “Hush Maria, they have booked every room and are paying for food, even if they don't eat it. That should cover the cost of a drunken ruckus.”

  His mother sighed heavily in disagreement. To Jack, his mother was a whirling dervish with her flapping hands, voice rising and falling in quick staccato rhythms as she worried over every possible problem. Jack's father let her talk, eating steadily and looking at Jack with a smile in his eyes. The look said, 'Women, what can you do?'

  Jack saw that look, and it made him calm in a way he didn’t understand. A child's calm, where the world is as big as your parent’s house, and the only disasters and problems are caused by the changing emotions of one's elders. As long as they were happy, the world was perfect.

  And they were just about always happy.

  The next day was similar to the one before. He cleaned, had some ice cream, and went back to the beach, lamenting how long summer vacation was. When Jack came home at sundown, the lobby was filled with people.

  Some held newspapers, while others drank coffee. The men wore expensive suits, and he saw more than a few pocket watches, which seemed unusual. The women were dressed a little oddly as well, as though they had raided an expensive costume shop: gowns that required corsets, some with feathers in their hair, even a flapper skirt. Maybe they were actors, he thought.

  One of the women turned and looked at him, her hazel eyes boring into him until he jerked his gaze away and looked at the floor instead. She was a striking woman with sharp features on a heart-shaped face. But just thinking about her made him afraid.

  His heart sped up and several guests turned to look at him, their heads swiveling towards him in sharp coordination. They stared at him unblinkingly, with no expression upon their faces, and Jack had the crazy idea that they had heard his heartbeat speed up.

  Ducking his head, he walked quickly but quietly through the lobby, sure that he felt the woman's hazel eyes locked on his back.

  When he reached his apartment, he leaned back against the door in relief, his hand absently rubbing at his neck. It was as if there was a hand hovering for a moment above his skin, the sensation tingly and unpleasant.

  Jack went to his room and closed the door, creating another barrier between himself and the strange guests in the lobby. He could see the entryway in his mind, those few moments on a loop in his brain. Why did he keep thinking of it? What was it that had spooked him? If he identified the problem it would go away. He took a deep breath, wanting to be practical. They were tourists like any other group that came to stay, nothing to worry about, right?

  Jack walked to his dresser and impulsively put on his rosary.

  Stillness. That was what had seemed wrong. The men read the newspapers, but they didn't fidget. The pages never trembled or got snapped straight. It had been so quiet, as quiet as an empty room, instead of one filled with people. And the women had sat bolt upright, as though their bones were made of solid steel. It was like being in a wax museum where the mannequins spoke to each other. Even the coffee cups hadn't clinked as they were returned to their saucers.

  He sho
ok his head, trying to shake out his feelings of unease. He was being silly, he thought, even as his fingers traipsed down the beads of his rosary in a self-soothing manner. Then his mother came to the door carrying clean sheets for him to put into the linen closet upstairs.

  When Jack opened the upstairs closet door, the floral smell of soap rolled out to meet him. The little bars that got put in the guest rooms always made his nose twitch when he was in this little room. The scent was overpowering, cloying. He was wondering if he might sneeze when he heard a footstep behind him. A girl, near to his own age of thirteen, was inside the closet, looking around at the full shelves of supplies.

  “Hey, you can't be back here!” he said in English, guessing that she spoke it. After all, she didn’t look Italian. “This is a private area. No. Guests. Allowed.” She looked him up and down, apparently unimpressed with his stern words. When she spied the pillow mints she shot him a sidelong glance, then quickly reached in the basket and scooped out a handful, before running down the hallway.

  Jack ran after her. When she realized he was chasing her, she started to laugh. Jack chased her down the hallway until the corridor dead-ended. The girl stopped, unwrapped a mint, and popped it into her mouth. She had very fine blond hair and a startlingly pale face. She almost looked unwell, and he decided she must be from somewhere cold.

  “What's your name?” he asked.

  “Ella.”

  “Are you staying at the hotel, Ella?” Jack realized that was a stupid question.

  “Yes, we just got here a couple of hours ago.” She hadn't looked up at him once, intent on the candy in her hands. She put another mint into her mouth, and he heard her crunch through it.

  “Oh. My parents own the hotel.” Ella still didn't look up, but he saw her brows rise a fraction in feigned interest. Should he say something about the mint stealing? Did he really care? More curious than anything, he spoke to her again. “Where are you from?” His eyes took in her somber dress and tights. It was summer—her long sleeves must be hot.

  “Guess.” She unwrapped another piece, put it in her mouth, and finally met his gaze.

  “I don't know. You don't dress like an American or look like an Italian. Your accent is...I don't know.” Jack shrugged, slightly wrong-footed. “That's why I asked. I've met people from everywhere. People come in, and I can tell where they are from.” He said this proudly and crossed his scrawny arms across his chest.

  “Except for me, huh? That's because I'm not from anywhere. I travel all over the world. People don't come to me, I get to go to them.” Ella gave him a nasty little smile.

  He felt confronted and irked. Was she mocking him for not traveling? “Well, everyone is from somewhere. When you aren’t traveling, where do you live?”

  She gave a superior smile. “Okay, I tell you,” she said, her accent thick. “I was in Slovenia until I was six, and then in Geneva until I was eight, and I have been with Marion ever since.”

  Jack was shocked. “You call your mother ‘Marion’?” He could only imagine what his mother would say if he called her by her first name. It wouldn't be good.

  She shook her head. “She's not my mother. She's... everything. More than one word like 'mama' or 'friend' could describe, so I call her ‘Marion’.”

  Jack thought that was weird. “Well, my family is ‘mama’ and ‘papa’. That's enough for them”

  Ella shrugged, and then put the last piece of candy in her mouth. She put all the wrappers in one hand and held them out to him, waiting for him to take them. Obligingly, he put out his hand and took them from her, then chastised himself. What was he, a slave?

  She raised her arm to push the hair from her forehead, and he saw a purple mark on her wrist. Unthinkingly, he grabbed her arm and pushed up the sleeve. She had a bite mark with two puncture holes on her wrist. His grip must have hurt because she made a pained noise and tried to pull away. He gentled his hold.

  “What happened?” He let her go and looked up at her face, searching for other signs of injury. She looked fine. He thought about how she'd run so quickly down the corridor. She couldn't be too hurt if she could move so quickly, but the wound looked horrible.

  She sighed as if bored. Which was weird too, Jack decided. He'd be bragging to everyone he knew about how he got such a gruesome mark.

  “A dog bit me,” she said. “We were in Germany before this, and I went walking in a forest. I was looking for banana slugs, and a dog bit me. I don't want to talk about it.” Her eyes never wavered from his.

  Jack tried to change the subject. “Slugs?” He was a little repelled.

  “Huge ones. If you squish them from one side, they explode and make a horrible mess. It's really, really gross!”

  “Yeah. That sounds...really gross.” Jack wanted to leave now. She was...peculiar.

  “Do you have slugs here?” she asked him slyly.

  “No, not really.” And if we did, I don't think I'd tell you, he thought.

  Ella threw her arms out wide and slapped them back to her sides in the world's largest shrug. His eyes flew back to her wrist and then the other one. Another purple bruise marred her delicate flesh. A dog didn't bite her on both wrists. Jack wanted away from her and was going to say goodbye, but she spoke first. “It's dinnertime. Marion wants me back now.” She turned and ran down the hallway, opening the door to room twelve, and shutting the door hard; the lock twisting loudly.

  Unsettled, he went to find his parents. They were in the kitchen as usual. His mother was making dinner and stabbing at the food with a wooden spoon, stirring angrily, “Only dinner for five!” she said, disgust in her voice. “There are thirty people here and only five of them eating!”

  All five meals would be delivered to their rooms as well, a situation that he knew his mother took as a personal affront. Food was to be eaten in the kitchen or dining room, not hoarded in a bedroom. She thought the alternative was barbaric.

  His papa gave his mama a kiss. She leaned into him while he told her that with the amount of money they were paying to stay, if they wanted him to dance as entertainment while they ate, he'd do it. His father did a funny dance in the kitchen, and he and his mama laughed at how ridiculous he looked. She was still muttering about their rudeness when Jack grabbed the meals and took them upstairs.

  The first meal went to room six. He knocked and a tall, pale man with long, golden hair opened the door. He was startlingly attractive, and it made Jack think these people were actors after all. Inside the dark room, he could see a woman draped on a chair. She wore only a negligee, so he looked away quickly. Her legs had been spread, the white satin of the gown placed to cover her between her sprawled legs. Almost against his will, he looked back and saw the woman in the chair smiling at him, her expression amused and mocking. The tray was taken and the door shut before he'd finished blushing.

  Then Jack went to room sixteen, where a stiff-backed woman opened the door, wiping her near-translucent hand across her mouth, greeny-blue veins shifting under her skin. A pale hand reached out and took the tray quickly and smoothly. How could she move so fast and not spill? That was a neat trick.

  No one opened the doors of the other rooms when he knocked, forcing him to leave the trays in the hallway. Even Ella's room. He'd hoped and feared that the girl would open the door. He didn't want to see her or her friend/mother/Marion. Guiltily, he wondered if he should have talked to his parents before delivering the meals about the marks he'd seen on Ella.

  Jack found his father in his office totaling up the accounts. If his father wasn't in the kitchen, he could always be found with the money. He told his papa about Ella and her bites, and he listened gravely. If she'd been bitten by a dog, how come both her wrists had marks? Giving him a pat on the shoulder, his papa told him to go to his room for the night, his expression grim.

  Jack didn't argue, but went to his tiny room and lay down on his bed. He woke up in the middle of the night to hear his father shouting. A loud, but cool, female voice responded, undercuttin
g his father's words.

  Marion.

  Another voice interjected, speaking quickly and placatingly in Italian. Jack thought the voice sounded like his Uncle Vito, the police chief. Suddenly anxious that his father had called the police chief because of what he'd said, he strained to listen, sitting up and staring at the ceiling as though that might make the voices clearer. It was useless; he couldn't hear the words, but the crying was unmistakable. The slug girl was crying in big desperate gasps, her high cries penetrating the walls.

  Jack wanted to leave his room and see what was happening, but fear kept him in bed. The voices died down, and the crying stopped abruptly. Jack waited and listened, then heard the door of his family's apartment shut. He slept badly the rest of the night, and when he woke up in the morning, he felt groggy; his hand aching from clutching his rosary.

  He kept the rosary on under his clothes, even though he felt a little self-conscious wearing it. His parents were having coffee in the kitchen, and when his mama noticed the rosary under his shirt, she made a comment about her good son, giving him a kiss on the head as she spooned eggs onto his plate.

  “Papa, what happened?”

  His father looked at him with interest. “When?”

  “Last night, when the police came. I heard Ella crying.”

  “There were no police last night.” A pause. “Who was crying?”

  “The girl who had the marks on her wrists. I heard all the shouting, and Uncle Vito was here too. It was a big ruckus.” He shot a glance to his mother, looking for support. She stared back at him blankly.

  His father leaned over and put his hand on Jack's arm, concern on his face. He had a thick head of hair and a permanent five o' clock shadow. When he was worried, like now, his bushy brows were pulled together like two overly-friendly caterpillars.

  “No, son. No police. Nothing happened last night. Did you dream it? Who has marks on their wrist?” Dark eyes roamed over him, looking for injuries.