By The Sea Chapter 2

The captain’s voice broke through Anna’s thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin our descent into Palermo shortly. Please fasten your seat belts.”

Anna straightened, tugging the strap of her purse across her shoulder, and pressed her forehead to the window. The clouds parted, and her breath caught.

Below stretched an ocean of blue, flecked with sunlight. The water lapped against rugged cliffs softened by olive groves. Villages with terracotta roofs spilled down the hillsides, narrow streets threading between them.

Foreign yet somehow familiar. A slight ache rose in her chest as if her blood recognized what her eyes had never seen.

The plane tilted, circling lower. Anna brushed the edge of the letter. It seemed impossible that a single sheet of paper had brought her this far, yet it was the only proof she had — Sophia had lived, loved, and left behind more than silence. Somewhere, a child had survived, at least she hoped — a child connected to her life as well.

When the wheels struck the runway, applause rippled through the cabin. Anna blinked hard and inhaled sharply. Whatever she had come in search of was about to begin.

*****

The airport was a blur of voices and announcements. An overhead screen scrolled arrivals in flickering green letters. Tourists clutched maps and paper brochures. Anna joined the customs line, passport, and the blue-and-white immigration card she’d filled out mid-flight in hand.

At the desk, the officer flipped through her passport. “Tourist?”

“Yes.” A bit sharp but not intended. She swallowed and smiled. “Yes.”

The stamp thudded down. He waved her through.

Beyond customs, the baggage hall was filled with carts and shouts coming from every direction. Suitcases thumped onto the carousel. Anna waited until her scuffed navy case rolled past, the faded green ribbon tied to the handle catching her eye — Elizabeth’s ribbon, left there on purpose. She pulled the case free and headed for the exit.

*****

Outside, the heat pressed close, edged with exhaust and the faint tang of the sea. Taxi drivers held up paper signs, names scrawled thick in marker.

“Dove va?” a driver asked, then switched easily to English. “Where are you going?”

Anna handed him the slip with the address on it. La Casa sul Mare.

“Ah, sì.” He loaded her suitcase into the trunk. Laura Pausini’s voice rose thinly from the radio as he pulled into traffic. “That place has stories. Old ones.”

“What kind of stories?” Anna asked.

He shrugged, one hand loose on the wheel. “In Sicily, every stone has a story. Some good, some bad. That house —” He tapped the steering wheel, smile fading. “It remembers.”

Anna sat back and watched the city slip into the countryside — lemon trees bright against dark soil, vineyards in neat rows, the sea flashing between cliffs. Children kicked a battered soccer ball down a lane. Women shook out sheets from balconies. Voices carried, and life moved.

They passed a crumbling stone arch. “Monastery,” the driver said. “Germans used it in the war. People say the walls still remember their presence. Some say they still hear the sound of their boots."

The letter and thoughts of the past filled Anna's thoughts. She didn’t know where to start, but maybe the island would show her.

*****

The cab turned onto a narrow lane shaded by bougainvillea. Its crimson blooms spilling over the stone. At the end of the road, the sea opened wide, its waves beating steadily against the rocks. A pale stucco house with green shutters stood close to the cliff. A weathered sign swung above the door: La Casa sul Mare.

Before Anna could knock, the door swung wide. A woman stepped out, gray hair pinned neatly, dark eyes bright with welcome. Without hesitation, she opened her arms and drew Anna into a full embrace, kissing the air near each cheek. She smelled faintly of lavender water and baked bread.

“You must be Anna,” she said warmly, her accent lilting. “I am Rosa. Welcome, my dear. Welcome to La Casa sul Mare.”

The sudden affection startled Anna, then steadied her. The hug was so like her grandmother’s — solid, certain — that for a moment she felt Elizabeth by her side.

“Come in, come in,” Rosa urged, guiding her across the threshold.

Cool tile met Anna’s soles in the foyer. Coffee and salt air drifted through open windows. Somewhere a door clicked, a pot simmered, a chair scraped — house sounds, lived-in and comfortable.

“Your room,” Rosa said, taking the suitcase handle so they could guide it together up the stairs. “Rest a little. Dinner at seven in the courtyard. We eat as a family.”

Upstairs, Rosa opened a simple room with shuttered windows. “If you need anything, call down,” she said, squeezing Anna’s hand. “I fuss. That is my nature.”

When Rosa left, Anna crossed to the window and unlatched the doors. A small balcony stood just wide enough for two feet and a breath of air. She stepped out.

Below, the courtyard spread in squares of shade and sun. Beyond it, a narrow strip of garden ran along the wall—herbs in low beds, tomatoes staked, a fig tree casting broken light. A man stood near the rosemary, turning the soil with a hand fork. Sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms strong, he paused to wipe his brow with the back of his wrist.

Anna couldn’t see his face at first. He set the tool down and straightened, testing his lower back with both hands. When he glanced up toward the house, sunlight caught his features. He was younger than she expected—thirty, maybe—and there was a quietness in the way he looked at things, like he was used to making do with what was in front of him.

For a second, she thought his eyes had found her. Heat rose in her cheeks. She drew back a half step, not hiding, just uncertain. He bent again to his work, none the wiser, and the small ordinary rhythm of it—turn, shake, pat—calmed her more than sleep would have.

Anna closed the shutters to a sliver and exhaled. The letter in her purse rustled when she set the bag on the chair. She washed her face, changed her blouse, and stood a moment at the mirror until the stranger in it began to look like herself again.

*****

By the time she came down, the courtyard had come alive. Lanterns hung from wires, throwing soft light across a long table set beneath the vines. The air carried the scent of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and warm bread. Voices overlapped — Italian and English, easy and bright.

Rosa clapped her hands. “Here she is — our newest guest.”

A dozen faces turned toward Anna, smiling with curiosity. She slid into an empty seat. A plate of antipasti appeared — olives, prosciutto, and wedges of cheese.

“Wine?”

Anna looked up. The man from the garden stood beside her with a bottle. Up close, his features were more striking than they’d seemed from above — his eyes were a deep brown and his smile was warm.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, offering her glass.

He poured carefully. “I’m Luca,” he said. “My mother runs the inn. And you are —?”

“Anna.”

His smile tilted, hesitant but inviting. “Welcome, Anna.”

“Luca, you forgot me,” a lilting voice chimed.

A young woman leaned across the table, dark hair glossy, lips a bold red. She tapped her glass with a manicured nail, her look sliding over Anna before returning to him.

Luca filled her glass without comment.

“I’m Isabella,” the woman said to Anna, light and smooth. “The neighbor. You’ll see me often.”

Anna offered a polite smile. Isabella’s hand rested on Luca’s sleeve a beat longer than necessary.

Dishes moved down the table — pasta bright with tomato and basil, baskets of bread, roasted chicken with rosemary. Laughter rose and fell. Anna ate, listened, and let the noise of other people’s lives steady her. Every so often, she felt Luca’s glance touch her like a quick check-in — are you all right? — and found herself answering with a slight nod, which she hoped read as yes.

Later, glasses lifted in a shared toast. Anna looked toward the dark line of the sea beyond the wall. Did you sit like this, too, Sophia? Did you and my grandmother laugh over a table like this before everything changed? The thought landed and stayed.

Rosa reached to refill Anna’s glass and squeezed her shoulder. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you walk to the market. And after that, you must visit the Church of Santa Lucia. There is a small garden behind it. People go there to think and pray.”

Anna nodded. “That sounds good.”

As the guests drifted to their rooms, Luca gathered plates. Isabella lingered, saying something low that made him smile out of courtesy more than amusement. When he turned, he found Anna watching, and he lifted the stack of dishes a little, as if to say, 'Work first, everything else after.' She smiled back. It felt easy.

In her room, Anna set her purse on the chair and opened the shutters an inch. The courtyard lights clicked off one by one. Only the sea kept moving. She sat on the bed and slid the letter from her bag, not to read it — she knew the line that mattered — but to feel its edges and tell herself that tomorrow she would start.

She folded it again and lay back. The house settled. Somewhere below, a door latched. She closed her eyes and pictured the garden — the small square of earth, the fig, the man turning the soil — and let that simple picture carry her to sleep.