Love Is The Beginning (Valerie Dearborn)

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 shook 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!”