By The Sea Chap 13

Anna set the receiver back in its cradle and stood a moment, listening to the house breathe. Late light stretched across the courtyard, the hour when voices softened and shutters clicked. When she stepped outside, Luca was waiting by the gate with two paper cups from the café around the corner.

“A gift,” he said, offering one.

Anna smiled. “For me? Why?”

“Just because.”

She took it, the lid warm against her palm. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” He tipped his head toward the lane. “Walk?”

They crossed to the harbor and sat on the low wall, watching the boats bump their moorings. No crowd—just water and a gull that refused to share the rail.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“She finished the journal,” Anna said. “She wants to meet my mom. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

“That sounds good.”

“I called my mom.”

“And?”

“She didn’t hang up.” Anna’s mouth tilted. “She listened.”

A boy walked along the promenade with a paper tray of fried dough sugared like snow. Luca waved him over, paid, and tore a piece in half. They ate over the water, laughing when the sugar clung to their fingers.

“Food like this should only be eaten in the dark,” he said, licking a thumb. “So no one can see the mess.”

Anna brushed sugar from her cheek. “When storms woke me as a child, my grandmother would sing or tell stories until I fell asleep. She’d bring me sweet things when life felt heavy. I believed nothing could touch us then.”

“She sounds like someone worth remembering,” Luca said.

“She was.” The ache rose; she smiled anyway.

He reached without thinking and wiped the last fleck of sugar from her jaw. The touch lingered one heartbeat longer than necessary. She didn’t pull back.

They walked home as the square hummed behind them. At the gate, he stopped. “I know you’ll go home soon,” he said. “But will you come back?”

“I promised Sister Teresa I would.” Her voice caught. “And I want to.”

Relief softened his face. He leaned in and kissed her, warm and sure, not hurried. When he drew back, he whispered, “So you don’t forget me.”

Anna’s breath shook. “I couldn’t.”

She carried the shape of his smile with her into the night.

*****

Morning broke clear. Before the town had fully woken, Anna and Rosa walked to Santa Lucia. At the gate, Rosa touched Anna’s sleeve. “I’ll wait by the roses.”

Sister Beatrice met them just inside. “She asked if you were coming,” she said, pleased by the answer she already knew. “She waits in the garden.”

Teresa sat on the bench near the fountain, the carved bird cradled in her hands. She rose when Anna entered, then hesitated like someone not quite sure of what was expected.

“Buongiorno,” Anna said softly.

“Buongiorno,” Teresa echoed, and then—unexpectedly—she smiled. “I slept,” she said, a little surprised at herself. “I’m not afraid of what lies ahead.”

“That’s good,” Anna said, feeling the truth of it warm her chest.

Teresa glanced at the far beds where geraniums flared red. “I prayed another foolish prayer last night,” she admitted. “That when your mother comes, my legs will carry me, and my voice will not fail.”

“Your legs will carry you,” Anna said. “And if your voice stutters, she’ll hear you anyway.”

Teresa looked down at the bird. “I should keep this,” she said, “but I want to give you something to bind us.” From the pocket of her habit, she drew a narrow ribbon, faded blue. “It tied the journal—kept our mother’s words together. Let it keep us together until you return.”

Anna’s throat tightened as she took it. “I’ll wear it on my wrist,” she said. “Until we’re back.”

Teresa’s eyes shone. “Tell your mother—” She steadied herself. “Tell Maggie I will stand at the gate when she comes. And if I forget how to speak, tell her I have been waiting all my life, and that I am grateful to her mother and to your grandmother, and to you.”

“I’ll tell her,” Anna said. “Everything.”

They stood for a moment listening to the fountain. Teresa lifted her hand, palm outward in blessing. “May the Lord keep you between here and there,” she said. “May He make straight the path over the water.”

“Amen,” Anna whispered.

The bells tolled and Sister Beatrice appeared, not intruding, simply waiting. Teresa nodded to Anna, then to the Sister, and raised her arms. Anna didn’t hesitate. She stepped into them and they hugged, holding on to a promise that she would return.

At the gate, Anna turned once more and waved goodbye. Teresa raised the carved bird slightly, like a promise held up to the light.

*****

Rosa had coffee waiting in the kitchen. “Well?” she asked, though her eyes already knew.

“She told me she slept,” Anna said, touching the ribbon at her wrist. “She isn’t afraid.”

“Good,” Rosa said, approving this small miracle. She opened a drawer, took out a postcard of Santa Lucia, and wrote the address on the back in neat script. “For your mother,” she said, tucking it into Anna’s hand. “So she sees the place before she sees the place.”

“Thank you.”

Luca came in from the courtyard with a delivery list clipped to a board. He saw the ribbon at Anna’s wrist and the suitcase waiting by the door. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Let me call you a taxi in the morning,” he said. “Deliveries start early for me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said. He stepped closer; the laundry line lifted and settled in the courtyard breeze. A neighbor called his name about two zucchini; he answered with a chin lift, eyes never leaving hers. “I’ll try to make it to the airport. If I’m late, I’ll come straight to the gate.”

“Either way, I’ll see you,” Anna said.

He searched her face. “I don’t want this to end because there’s water between us.”

“It won’t,” she said. “Unless we let it.”

He nodded, like signing his name to a pact. He leaned in and kissed her once, nothing rushed.

They ate something light that evening—tomatoes with salt, bread with oil, and a handful of olives. No one tried to pad the quiet. After the dishes, Anna went upstairs, sat on the edge of the bed, and wrote one line in her notebook: Tomorrow I go home. With or without Mother, I promise to return.

She turned off the lamp. The house settled—the fans hummed, someone tossed a footfall in the courtyard, a chair moved in the kitchen. She let it all be what it was.

*****

The next morning moved quickly. Rosa checked the suitcase zip, pressed a small medal into Anna’s palm, and hugged her so tight it made her laugh.

“For luck,” Rosa said. “For the border between here and there.”

“I’ll bring her back,” Anna said into Rosa’s shoulder. “I will.”

“We’ll be ready.”

A shadow crossed the threshold. Isabella stood there, hair smooth, smile neat. She grinned and called out, "Buongiorno! The day is glorious." She hugged Rosa and gave Anna a nod. "Luca says he won't make it here to see you off," she said lightly. "He told me to say arrivederci — e buon viaggio. He wishes you safe travels."

Anna frowned before she could smooth it away. “You saw Luca?”

“At the coffee shop,” Isabella said, settling a hand on her hip. “He bought me a cappuccino and a pastry. It was our routine. Before you came.” She lifted two fingers in a small wave. “Ciao, Americano.”

Rosa stepped closer and took up the suitcase handle, drawing it beside the door. “Pay no mind to that woman,” she said, quiet but firm. “She is not the one for my son.”

Isabella’s smile thinned. She turned and left without another word.

*****

The taxi idled in the lane. Anna blinked—same driver as the day she arrived. He tipped his cap and lifted her suitcase into the trunk.

“Signorina,” he said warmly. “Back to the airport?”

She nodded and slid into the back seat. The door shut with a soft thud. As they pulled away, Anna kept her gaze on the courtyard gate, as if the right person might appear if she looked hard enough. No one did.

She tried to swallow, but Isabella’s words lodged like a stone. It was our routine. Before you came. The first tear surprised her. Then another. She turned her face toward the window, willing herself to breathe—slow, careful.

In the rearview, the driver’s eyes were kind but not prying. He gave her three quiet streets and then asked, almost conversationally, “Did you enjoy your visit, Signorina?”

Anna pressed the medal in her pocket. Her voice wavered. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Much more than I could have imagined.”

He nodded, as if that answer had a shape he recognized. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

She watched the town pass in familiar pieces—shutters propped with spoons, geraniums spilling fire from balconies, the cat draped over a scooter seat. Tears kept coming, but softer now. “I did,” she said. “And more.”

“Bene,” he said. “Sometimes Sicily gives exactly what is needed, and sometimes she adds something you did not know to ask for.”

Anna let out a breath that trembled and steadied. She unfolded the postcard in her lap, ran her thumb over Rosa’s neat script. “Someone tried to make me doubt it, just now.”

The driver’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “There is always someone,” he said. “But also—there is always you.” He tapped the steering wheel. “What you know inside. Keep that.”

They climbed the road along the harbor. Sun glazed the water. The driver glanced at her gently. “Will you return soon?”

The answer rose from a place that didn’t belong to fear. “Yes,” she said. “As soon as I can.”

“Then Sicily will wait,” he said. He pulled to the curb, stepped out, and set her bag at her feet as if it mattered. “Buon viaggio, Signorina. Until next time.”

“Until next time,” Anna echoed. Her eyes were still wet, but the ground under them felt solid. She lifted the handle and walked inside.