Me:Beggars can’t be choosers.
Him, eyebrow raised:Oh, but we can. It’s something we learn in Lord School.
Me:I’m too tired for this.
There had been too many revelations today. Too many emotional ups and downs.
I needed sleep.
I fumbled through the luggage, digging out Jack’s tablet. I set the tablet on the coffee table and propped it up on its stand, unlocking the screen for him.
“Thank you,” he said. The tablet had voice activation and would enable him to watch television and continue to research the D’Angelo archive.
“You’re welcome. I’m off to bed and a very long sleep. That is, unless the building is on fire or a meteor hits the city.”
It was a testament to my exhaustion that I passed right by aSleeping Beautydream catcher without a single comment.
“I’ll be here, Chiara. Sleep well.” Jack’s warm voice followed me down the hall, carrying comfort with it.
I changed into some pajamas and managed to brush my teeth before collapsing face first onto a Princess Elsa bedspread.
I blame Riomaggiore and all the cutesy kiddy-kitsch for the dream that followed. Though it wasn’t so much a dream as a memory.
I was ten-years-old, sitting next to my dad as we drove along the Amalfi Coast. Just me and him. A daddy/daughter autumn getaway, he said. He even let me sit in the front passenger seat.
“I don’t know if you’ll ever be big enough to ride up here,mia passerotta,” he said. “So we’ll just have to bend that rule.”
Babbo never let my size hinder my ability to accomplish things.
I felt so grown-up. The wind was in my hair from the open window, miles and miles of blue ocean stretching before me.
The Amalfi Coast was a white-washed version of the Cinque Terre. Instead of buildings plastered in every color of sunset, houses along Amalfi were all painted shades of white. They stacked up the towering slopes like Lego blocks, a winter scape nestled between green hills and blue Mediterranean sea.
I was in my Mulan phase because she was just like me—dark hair, dark eyes, petite, lots of spunk, determined to hold her own in a man’s world. I desperately wanted to move to China to begin my life as a warrior princess.
My dad took me to Amalfi instead.
We sang songs from theMulansoundtrack and stopped for gelato in Praiano. We wandered across the cathedral piazza, me clutching my little cup of ice cream. Leaning against the stone railing overlooking the sea, I ate my chocolatenocciolagelato far too fast. Babbo didn’t care. He simply handed me his half-eaten strawberry and pistachio to devour.
“Look at the seagulls there.” He pointed toward the birds hovering over the water. “They’re searching for something to steal.”
“No, they’re not, Babbo,” I giggled, watching the birds swoop up and down. Seagulls didn’t flock like sparrows or meadowlarks. They had more individuality. “They’re telling us to be careful. Dark times are coming, but there will be happiness and light after the storm has passed.”
I had been superstitious even then.
Babbo had certainly noted it. He had stared at me for a long time, eyes suddenly pensive.
“When did you become so wise,mia passerotta?” he asked.
I giggled again, shoulders shrugging in careless indifference. I had learned to shrug like that after watching my friend, Mary-Charlotte Rossington, do it over and over when she talked with the sixth graders. Mastering a world-weary shrug seemed an important stepping-stone into teenagerhood.
Of course, my giggling laugh kinda killed the whole effect.
But I didn’t care.
A little brown sparrow suddenly darted down from the cathedral tower above, landing on the railing beside us and pecking at tiny crumbs.
Babbo smiled at the bird and then turned his head to me. His dark eyes lit with love and warmth, sun rimming his head in golden light.
